diff options
Diffstat (limited to '37478-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 37478-h/37478-h.htm | 10816 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 37478-h/images/bar.png | bin | 0 -> 279 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 37478-h/images/ill_h.png | bin | 0 -> 2237 bytes |
3 files changed, 10816 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/37478-h/37478-h.htm b/37478-h/37478-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0dcf6ef --- /dev/null +++ b/37478-h/37478-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10816 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> + <head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Prose Writings of Heinrich Heine, by Havelock Ellis. +</title> +<style type="text/css"> + p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:2%;} + +.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + +.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} + +.eng {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;font-family:old english text mt;font-size:150%;} + +.letra {font-size:300%;vertical-align:-30%;} + +.nind {text-indent:0%;} + +.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} + +small {font-size: 70%;} + + h1 {text-align:center;font-weight:bold;clear:both;font-size:110%;} + + h2,h3,h4 {text-align:center;clear:both;} + + hr {width:90%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} + + hr.full {width: 50%;margin:5% auto 5% auto;border:4px double gray;} + + table {margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;text-align:left;} + + body{margin-left:2%;margin-right:2%;background:#fdfdfd;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} + +.ov {text-decoration:overline;} + +a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + + link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + +a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} + +a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} + +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:95%;} + + img {border:none;} + +.blockquot {margin:3% auto 3% auto;} + +.figcenter {margin:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + +.footnotes {border:dotted 3px gray;margin-top:15%;clear:both;} + +.footnote {width:95%;margin:auto 3% 1% auto;font-size:0.9em;position:relative;} + +.label {position:relative;left:-.5em;top:0;text-align:left;font-size:.8em;} + +.fnanchor {vertical-align:30%;font-size:.8em;} + +.poem {margin-left:25%;text-indent:0%;} + +.poemm {margin-left:20%;text-indent:0%;} +</style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Prose Writings of Heinrich Heine, by Heinrich Heine + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Prose Writings of Heinrich Heine + +Author: Heinrich Heine + +Editor: Havelock Ellis + +Release Date: September 19, 2011 [EBook #37478] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINE *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p class="eng">The Camelot Series.</p> + +<p class="cb">Edited by Ernest Rhys.</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<h1>HEINE'S PROSE WRITINGS.</h1> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" +style="font-size:150%;"> +<tr><td align="right" rowspan="2" valign="top"><span class="letra">T</span></td><td valign="bottom">HE PROSE WRITINGS OF</td></tr> +<tr><td>HEINRICH HEINE:</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2">EDITED, WITH AN INTRO-</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2">DUCTION, BY HAVELOCK</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2">ELLIS.</td></tr> +</table> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="cb">WALTER SCOTT<br /> +LONDON: 24 WARWICK LANE<br /> +<small>PATERNOSTER ROW</small><br /> +1887</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS"> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a><big><big><b>CONTENTS.</b></big></big></td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#REISEBILDER">REISEBILDER</a> </td><td align="right"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#LONDON">LONDON</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_047">47</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#WELLINGTON">WELLINGTON</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_052">52</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#THE_LIBERATION">THE LIBERATION</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_057">57</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#JAN_STEEN">JAN STEEN</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_065">65</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#THE_ROMANTIC_SCHOOL">THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_068">68</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#RELIGION_AND_PHILOSOPHY_IN_GERMANY">RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY</a> </td><td align="right"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#FLORENTINE_NIGHTS">FLORENTINE NIGHTS</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#DON_QUIXOTE">DON QUIXOTE</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#GODS_IN_EXILE">GODS IN EXILE</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_268">268</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#CONFESSIONS">CONFESSIONS</a></td><td align="right"><a href="#page_290">290</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii"></a></p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<h3><a name="HEINE" id="HEINE"></a>HEINE.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<h4>I.</h4> + +<p class="nind"><img +style="float:left;margin-top:.2%;" src="images/ill_h.png" width="80" height="81" alt="H" title="H" />EINE gathers up and focuses for us in one vivid point all those +influences of his own time which are the forces of to-day. He appears +before us, to put it in his own way, as a youthful and militant Knight +of the Holy Ghost, tilting against the spectres of the past and +liberating the imprisoned energies of the human spirit. His interest +from this point of view lies, largely, apart from his interest as a +supreme lyric poet, the brother of Catullus and Villon and Burns; we +here approach him on his prosaic—his relatively prosaic—side.</p> + +<p>One hemisphere of Heine's brain was Greek, the other Hebrew. He was born +when the genius of Goethe was at its height; his mother had absorbed the +frank earthliness, the sane and massive Paganism, of the Roman elegies, +and Heine's ideals in all things, whether he would or not, were always +Hellenic—using that word in the large sense in which Heine himself used +it—even while he was the first in rank and the last in time of the +Romantic poets of Germany. He sought, even consciously, to mould the +modern emotional spirit into classic forms. He wrought his art simply +and lucidly, the aspirations that pervade it are everywhere sensuous, +and yet it recalls oftener the turbulent temper of Catullus than any +serener ancient spirit.</p> + +<p>For Heine arose early in active rebellion against a merely passive +classicism; just as fiercer and more ardent cries, as from the Orient, +pierce through the songs of Catullus. The mischievous Hermes was +irritated by the calm and quiet<a name="page_viii" id="page_viii"></a> activities of the aged Zeus of Weimar. +And then the earnest Hebrew nature within him, liberated by Hegel's +favourite thought of the divinity of man, came into play with its large +revolutionary thirsts. Thus it was that he appeared before the world as +the most brilliant leader of a movement of national or even world-wide +emancipation. The greater part of his prose works, from the youthful +<i>Reisebilder</i> onwards, and a considerable portion of his poetic work, +record the energy with which he played this part.</p> + +<p>But whether the Greek or the Hebrew element happened to be most active +in Heine, the ideal that he set up for life generally was the equal +activity of both sides—in other words, the harmony of flesh and spirit. +It is this thought which dominates <i>The History of Religion and +Philosophy in Germany</i>, his finest achievement in this kind. That book +was written at the moment when Heine touched the highest point of his +enthusiasm for freedom and his faith in the possibility of human +progress. It is a sort of programme for the immediate future of the +human spirit, in the form of a brief and bold outline of the spiritual +history of Germany and Germany's great emancipators, Luther, Lessing, +Kant, and the rest. It sets forth in a fresh and fascinating shape that +Everlasting Gospel which, from the time of Joachim of Flora downwards, +has always gleamed in dreams before the minds of men as the successor of +Christianity. Heine's vision of a democracy of cakes and ale, founded on +the heights of religious, philosophical, and political freedom, still +spurs and thrills us—even now-a-days, when we have wearied of stately +bills of fare for a sulky humanity that will not feed at our bidding, +no, not on cakes and ale. Heine is wise enough to see, however +imperfectly, that it is unreasonable to expect the speedy erection of +any New Jerusalem; for, as he expresses it in his own way, the holy +vampires of the middle ages have sucked away so much of our life-blood +that the world has become a hospital. A sudden revolution of +fever-stricken or hysterical invalids can effect little of permanent +value; only a long and invigorating course of the tonics of life can +make <a name="page_ix" id="page_ix"></a>free from danger the open-air of nature. "Our first duty," he +asserted in this book, "is to become healthy."</p> + +<p>Heine confesses that he too was among the sick and decrepit souls. In +reality he was at no period so full of life and health, so harmoniously +inspired and upborne by a great enthusiasm. He laughs a little at +Goethe; he fails to see that the Phidian Zeus, at whose confined +position he jests, was the greatest liberator of them all; but for the +most part his mocking sarcasm is here silent. It was not until ten years +later, when the subtle seeds of disease had begun to appear, and when, +too, he had perhaps gained a clearer insight into the possibilities of +life, that Heine realised that the practical reforming movements of his +time were not those for which his early enthusiasm had been aroused. And +then he wrote <i>Atta Troll</i>.</p> + +<p>With the slow steps of that consuming disease, and after the revolution +of 1848, Heine ceased to recognise as of old any common root for his +various activities, or to insist on the fundamental importance of +religion. Everything in the world became the sport of his intelligence. +The brain still functioned brilliantly in the atrophied body; the +lightning-like wit still struck unerringly; it spared not even himself. +The <i>Confessions</i> are full of irony, covering all things with laughter +that is half reverence, or with reverence that is more than half +laughter—and woe to the reader who is not at every moment alert! In the +romantic, satirical poem of <i>Atta Troll</i>, written at the commencement of +this last period, this, his final altitude, is most completely revealed. +It needs a little study to-day, even for a German, but it is well worth +that study.</p> + +<p><i>Atta Troll</i>, the history of a dancing bear who escapes from servitude, +is a protest against the radical party, with their narrow conceptions of +progress, their tame ideal of <i>bourgeois</i> equality, their little +watchwords, their solemnity, their indignation at the human creatures +who smile "even in their enthusiasm." All these serious concerns of the +tribunes of the people are bathed in soft laughter as we listen to the +delicious childlike monotonous melody in which the old bear, surrounded +by his family, mumbles or mutters of the future. <i>Atta Troll</i><a name="page_x" id="page_x"></a> is not, +as many have thought, a sneer at the most sacred ideals of men. It is, +rather, the assertion of those ideals against the individuals who would +narrow them down to their own petty scope. There are certain mirrors, +Heine said, so constructed that they would present even Apollo as a +caricature. But we laugh at the caricature, not at the god. It is well +to show, even at the cost of some misunderstanding, that above and +beyond the little ideals of our political progress, there is built a yet +larger ideal city, of which also the human spirit claims citizenship. +The defence of the inalienable rights of the spirit, Heine declares, had +been the chief business of his life.</p> + +<p>In the history of Germany it was her two great intellectual liberators, +Luther and Lessing, to whom Heine looked up with the most unqualified +love and reverence. By his later vindication of the rights of the +spirit, not less than by his earlier fight for religious and political +progress, he may be said to have earned for himself a place below, +indeed, but not so very far below, those hearty and sound-cored +iconoclasts.</p> + +<h4>II.</h4> + +<p>To reach the root of the man's nature we must glance at the chief facts +of his life. He was born at Düsseldorf on the Rhine, then occupied by +the French, probably on the 13th of December 1799.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> He came, by both +parents, of that Jewish race which is, as he said once, the dough +whereof gods are kneaded. The family of his mother, Betty van Geldern, +had come from Holland a century earlier; Betty herself received an +excellent education; she shared the studies of her brother, who became +<a name="page_xi" id="page_xi"></a>a physician of repute; she spoke and read English and French; her +favourite books were Rousseau's <i>Emile</i> and Goethe's elegies. Some +letters written during her twenty-fourth year reveal a frank, brave and +sweet nature; she was a bright, attractive little person, and had many +wooers. In the summer of 1796 Samson Heine, bearing a letter of +introduction, entered the house of the Van Gelderns. He was the son of a +Jewish merchant settled in Hanover, and he had just made a campaign in +Flanders and Brabant, in the capacity of commissary with the rank of +officer, under Prince Ernest of Cumberland. He was a large and handsome +man, with soft blond hair and beautiful hands; there was something about +him, said his son, a little characterless and feminine. After a brief +courtship he married Betty and settled at Düsseldorf as an agent for +English velveteens. Harry (so he was named after an Englishman) was the +first child. While from his rather weak and romantic father came +whatever was loose and unbalanced in Heine's temperature, it was his +mother, with her strong and healthy nature, well developed both +intellectually and emotionally, who, as he himself said, played the +chief part in the history of his evolution.</p> + +<p>Harry was a quick child; his senses were keen, though he was not +physically strong; he loved reading, and his favourite books were <i>Don +Quixote</i> and <i>Gulliver's Travels</i>. He used to make rhymes with his only +and much-loved sister Lotte, and at the age of ten he wrote a ghost-poem +which his teachers considered a masterpiece. At the Lyceum he worked +well, at night as well as by day. Only once, at the public ceremony at +the end of a school year, he came to grief; he was reciting a poem, when +his eyes fell on a beautiful, fair-haired girl in the audience; he +hesitated, stammered, was silent, fell down fainting. So early he +revealed the extreme cerebral irritability of a nature absorbed in +dreams and taken captive by visions. It was not long after this, at the +age of seventeen, when his rich uncle at Hamburg was trying in vain to +set him forward on a commercial career, that Heine met the woman who +aroused his first and last profound passion, always unsatisfied except +in so far<a name="page_xii" id="page_xii"></a> as it found exquisite embodiment in his poems. He never +mentioned her name; it was not till after his death that the form +standing behind this Maria, Zuleima, Evelina of so many sweet, strange, +or melancholy songs was known to be that of his cousin, Amalie Heine.</p> + +<p>With his uncle's help he studied law at Bonn, Göttingen and Berlin. At +Berlin he fell under the dominant influence of Hegel, the vanquisher of +the romantic school of which Schelling was the philosophic +representative. Heine afterwards referred to this period as that in +which he "herded swine with the Hegelians;" it is certain that Hegel +exerted great and permanent influence over him. At Berlin, in 1821, +appeared his first volume of poems, and then he began to take his true +place.</p> + +<p>At this period Heine is described as a good-natured and gentle youth, +but reserved, not caring to show his emotions. He was of middle height +and slender, with rather long light brown hair (in childhood it was red, +and he was called "Rother Harry") framing the pale and beardless oval +face, the bright blue short-sighted eyes, the Greek nose, the high +cheek-bones, the large mouth, the full—half cynical, half +sensual—lips. He was not a typical German; like Goethe, he never +smoked; he disliked beer, and until he went to Paris he had never tasted +<i>sauerkraut</i>.</p> + +<p>For some years he continued, chiefly at Göttingen, to study law. But he +had no liking and no capacity for jurisprudence, and his spasmodic fits +of application at such moments as he realised that it was not good for +him to depend on the generosity of his rich and kind-hearted uncle +Solomon, failed to carry him far. A new idea, a sunny day, the opening +of some flower-like <i>lied</i>, a pretty girl—and the Pandects were +forgotten.</p> + +<p>Shortly after he had at last received his doctor's diploma he went +through the ceremony of baptism in hope of obtaining an appointment from +the Prussian Government. It was a step which he immediately regretted, +and which, far from placing him in a better position, excited the enmity +both of Christians and Jews, although the Heine family had no very +strong views<a name="page_xiii" id="page_xiii"></a> on the matter; Heine's mother, it should be said, was a +Deist, his father indifferent, but the Jewish rites were strictly kept +up. He still talked of becoming an advocate, until, in 1826, the +publication of the first volume of the <i>Reisebilder</i> gave him a +reputation throughout Germany by its audacity, its charming and +picturesque manner, its peculiarly original personality. The second +volume, bolder and better than the first, was received with delight very +much mixed with horror, and it was prohibited by Austria, Prussia, and +many minor states. At this period Heine visited England;<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> he was then +disgusted with Germany and full of enthusiasm for the "land of freedom," +an enthusiasm which naturally met with many rude shocks, and from that +time dates the bitterness with which he usually speaks of England. He +found London—although, owing to a clever abuse of uncle Solomon's +generosity, exceedingly well supplied with money—"frightfully damp and +uncomfortable;" only the political life of England attracted him, and +there were no bounds to his admiration of Canning. He then visited +Italy, to spend there the happiest days of his life; and having at +length realised that his efforts to obtain any government appointment in +Germany would be fruitless, he emigrated to Paris. There, save for brief +periods, he remained until his death.</p> + +<p>This entry into the city which he had called the New Jerusalem was an +important epoch in Heine's life. He was thirty-one years of age, still +youthful, and eager to receive new impressions; he was apparently in +robust health, notwithstanding constant headaches; Gautier describes him +as in appearance a sort of German Apollo. He was still developing, as he +continued to develop, even up to the end; the ethereal loveliness of the +early poems vanished, it is true, but only to give place to a closer +grasp of reality, a larger laughter, a keener cry of pain. He was now +heartily welcomed by the extraordinarily brilliant group then living and +working in Paris, including Victor Hugo, George Sand, Balzac, Michelet, +Alfred de Musset, Gautier, Chopin, Louis Blanc, Dumas, Sainte-Beuve, +Quinet, Berlioz, and many<a name="page_xiv" id="page_xiv"></a> others, and he entered with eager delight +into their manifold activities. For a time also he attached himself +rather closely to the school of Saint-Simon, then headed by Enfantin; he +was especially attracted by their religion of humanity, which seemed the +realisation of his own dreams. Heine's book on <i>Religion and Philosophy +in Germany</i> was written at Enfantin's suggestion, and the first edition +dedicated to him; Enfantin's name was, he said, a sort of Shibboleth, +indicating the most advanced party in the "liberation war of humanity." +In 1855 he withdrew the dedication; it had become an anachronism; +Enfantin was no longer ransacking the world in search of <i>la femme +libre</i>; the martyrs of yesterday no longer bore a cross—unless it were, +he added characteristically, the cross of the Legion of Honour.</p> + +<p>A few years after his arrival in Paris Heine entered on a relationship +which occupied a large place in his life. Mathilde Mirat, a lively +grisette of sixteen, was the illegitimate daughter of a man of wealth +and position in the provinces, and she had come up from Normandy to +serve in her aunt's shoe-shop. Heine often passed this shop, and an +acquaintance, at first carried on silently through the shop window, +gradually ripened into a more intimate relationship. Mathilde could +neither read nor write; it was decided that she should go to school for +a time; after that they established a little common household, one of +those <i>ménages parisiens</i>, recognised as almost legitimate, for which +Heine had always had a warm admiration, because, as he said, he meant by +"marriage" something quite other than the legal coupling effected by +parsons and bankers. As in the case of Goethe, it was not until some +years later that he went through the religious ceremony, as a +preliminary to a duel in which he had become involved by his remarks on +Börne's friend, Madame Strauss; he wished to give Mathilde an assured +position in case of his death. After the ceremony at St. Sulpice he +invited to dinner all those of his friends who had contracted similar +relations, in order that they might be influenced by his example. That +they were so influenced is not recorded.</p> + +<p>It is not difficult to understand the strong and permanent<a name="page_xv" id="page_xv"></a> attraction +that drew the poet, who had so many intellectual and aristocratic women +among his friends, to this pretty, laughter-loving grisette. It lay in +her bright and wild humour, her childlike impulsiveness, not least in +her charming ignorance. It was delightful to Heine that Mathilde had +never read a line of his books, did not even know what a poet was, and +loved him only for himself. He found in her a continual source of +refreshment.</p> + +<p>He had need of every source of refreshment. In the years that followed +his formal marriage in 1841, the dark shadows, within and without, began +to close round him. Although he was then producing his most mature work, +chiefly in poetry—<i>Atta Troll</i>, <i>Romancero</i>, <i>Deutschland</i>—his income +from literary sources remained small. Mathilde was not a good +housekeeper; and even with the aid of a considerable allowance from his +uncle Solomon, Heine was frequently in pecuniary difficulties, and was +consequently induced to accept a small pension from the French +government, which has sometimes been a matter of concern to those who +care for his fame. As years passed, the enmities that he suffered from +or cherished increased rather than diminished, and his bitterness found +expression in his work. Even Mathilde was not an unalloyed source of +joy; the charming child was becoming a middle-aged woman, and was still +like a child. She could not enter into Heine's interests; she delighted +in theatres and circuses, to which he could not always accompany her; +and he experienced the pangs of an unreasonable jealousy more keenly +than he cared to admit. Then uncle Solomon died, and his son refused, +until considerable pressure was brought to bear on him, to continue the +allowance which his father had intended Heine to receive. This was a +severe blow, and the excitement it produced developed the latent seeds +of his disease. It came on with alarming symptoms of paralysis, which +even in a few months gave him, he says, the appearance of a dying man. +During the next two years, although his brain remained clear, the long +pathological tragedy was unfolded.</p> + +<p>He went out for the last time in May 1848. Half blind and<a name="page_xvi" id="page_xvi"></a> half lame, he +slowly made his way out of the streets, filled with the noise of +revolution, into the silent Louvre, to the shrine dedicated to "the +goddess of beauty, our dear lady of Milo." There he sat long at her +feet; he was bidding farewell to his old gods; he had become reconciled +to the religion of sorrow; tears streamed from his eyes, and she looked +down at him, compassionate but helpless: "Dost thou not see, then, that +I have no arms, and cannot help thee?"</p> + +<p><i>On eût dit un Apollon germanique</i>—so Gautier said of the Heine of +1835; twenty years later an English visitor wrote of him—"He lay on a +pile of mattresses, his body wasted so that it seemed no bigger than a +child under the sheet which covered him—his eyes closed, and the face +altogether like the most painful and wasted 'Ecce Homo' ever painted by +some old German painter."</p> + +<p>His sufferings were only relieved by ever larger doses of morphia; but +although still more troubles came to him, and the failure of a bank +robbed him of his small savings, his spirit remained unconquered. "He is +a wonderful man," said one of his doctors; "he has only two +anxieties—to conceal his condition from his mother, and to assure his +wife's future." His literary work, though it decreased in amount, never +declined in power; only, in the words of his friend Berlioz, it seemed +as though the poet was standing at the window of his tomb, looking +around on the world in which he had no longer a part.</p> + +<p>He saw a few friends, of whom Ferdinand Lassalle, with his exuberant +power and enthusiasm, was the most interesting to him, as the +representative of a new age and a new social faith; and the most loved, +that girl-friend who sat for hours or days at a time by the +"mattress-grave" in the Rue d' Amsterdam, reading to him or writing his +letters or correcting proofs. To the last the loud, bright voice of +Mathilde, when he chanced to hear it, scolding the servants or in other +active exercise, often made him stop speaking, while a smile of delight +passed over his face. He died on the 16th of February 1856. He was +buried, silently, in Montmartre, according to his wish; for, as he said, +it is quiet there.<a name="page_xvii" id="page_xvii"></a></p> + +<h4>III.</h4> + +<p>Throughout and above all Heine was a poet. From first to last he was led +by three angels who danced for ever in his brain, and guided him, singly +or together, always. They were the same as in <i>Atta Troll</i> he saw in the +moonlight from the casement of Uraka's hut—the Greek Diana, grown +wanton, but with the noble marble limbs of old; Abunde, the blond and +gay fairy of France; Herodias, the dark Jewess, like a palm of the +oasis, and with all the fragrance of the East between her breasts: "O, +you dead Jewess, I love you most, more than the Greek goddess, more than +that fairy of the North."<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> + +<p>Those genii of three ideal lands danced for ever in his brain, and that +is but another way of indicating the opposition that lay at the root of +his nature. From one point of view, it may well be, he continued the +work of Luther and Lessing, though he was less great-hearted, less sound +at core, though he had not that element of sane Philistinism which marks +the Shakespeares and Goethes of the world. But he was, more than +anything else, a poet, an artist, a dreamer, a perpetual child. The +practical reformers among whom at one time he placed himself, the men of +one idea, were naturally irritated and suspicious; there was a flavour +of aristocracy in such idealism. In the poem called "Disputation" a +Capuchin and a Rabbi argued before the King and Queen at Toledo +concerning the respective merits of the Christian and Jewish religions. +Both spoke at great length and with great fervour, and in the end the +King appealed to the beautiful Queen by his side. She replied that she +could not tell which of them was right, but that she<a name="page_xviii" id="page_xviii"></a> did not like the +smell of either; and Heine was generally of the Queen's mind. He sighed +for the restoration of Barbarossa, the long-delayed German Empire, and +his latest biographer asserts that he would have greeted the discovery +of Barbarossa under the disguise of the King of Prussia, with +Bismarckian insignia of blood and iron, as the realisation of all his +dreams. It is doubtful, however, whether the meeting would be very +cordial on either side. It would probably be the painful duty of the +Emperor, as of the Emperor of the vision in <i>Deutschland</i>, to tell +Heine, in very practical language, that he was wanting in respect, +wanting in all sense of etiquette; and Heine would certainly reply to +the Emperor, as under the same circumstances he replied to the visionary +Barbarossa, that that venerable gentleman had better go home again, that +during his long absence Emperors had become unnecessary, and that, after +all, sceptres and crowns made admirable playthings for monkeys.</p> + +<p>"We are founding a democracy of gods," he wrote in 1834, "all equally +holy, blessed and glorious. You desire simple clothing, ascetic morals, +and unseasoned enjoyments; we, on the contrary, desire nectar and +ambrosia, purple mantles, costly perfumes, pleasure and splendour, +dances of laughing nymphs, music and plays.—Do not be angry, you +virtuous republicans; we answer all your reproaches in the words of one +of Shakespeare's fools: 'Dost thou think that because thou art virtuous +there shall be no more cakes and ale?'" What could an austere +republican, a Puritanic Liberal, who scorned the vision of roses and +myrtles and sugar-plums all round, say to this? Börne answered, "I can +be indulgent to the games of children, indulgent to the passions of a +youth, but when on the bloody day of battle a boy who is chasing +butterflies gets between my legs; when at the day of our greatest need, +and we are calling aloud on God, the young coxcomb beside us in the +church sees only the pretty girls, and winks and flirts—then, in spite +of all our philosophy and humanity, we may well grow angry.... Heine, +with his sybaritic nature, is so effeminate that the fall of a roseleaf +disturbs his sleep; how, then, should he[Pgxix] rest comfortably on the knotty +bed of freedom? Where is there any beauty without a fault? Where is +there any good thing without its ridiculous side? Nature is seldom a +poet and never rhymes; let him whom her rhymeless prose cannot please +turn to poetry!" Börne was right; Heine was not the man to plan a +successful revolution, or defend a barricade, or edit a popular +democratic newspaper, or represent adequately a radical +constituency—all this was true. Let us be thankful that it was true; +Börnes are ever with us, and we are grateful: there is but one Heine.</p> + +<p>The same complexity of nature that made Heine an artist made him a +humorist. But it was a more complicated complexity now, a cosmic game +between the real world and the ideal world; he could go no further. The +young Catullus of 1825, with his fiery passions crushed in the +wine-press of life and yielding such divine ambrosia, soon lost his +faith in passion. The militant soldier in the liberation-war of humanity +of 1835 soon ceased to flourish his sword. It was only with the full +development of his humour, when his spinal cord began to fail and he had +taken up his position as a spectator of life, that Heine attained the +only sort of unity possible to him—the unity that comes of a recognised +and accepted lack of unity. In the lambent flames of this unequalled +humour he bathed all the things he counted dearest; to its service he +brought the secret of his poet's nature, the secret of speaking with a +voice that every heart leaps up to answer. It is scarcely the humour of +Aristophanes, though it is a greater force, even in moulding our +political and social ideals, than Börne knew; it is oftener a modern +development of the humour of the mad king and the fool in <i>Lear</i>—that +humour which is the last concentrated word of the human organism under +the lash of Fate.</p> + +<p>And if it is still asked why Heine is so modern, it can only be said +that these discords out of which his humour exhaled are those which we +have nearly all of us known, and that he speaks with a voice that seems +to arise from the depth of our own souls. He represents our period of +transition; he gazed, from what[Pgxx] appeared the vulgar Pisgah of his day, +behind on an Eden that was for ever closed, before on a promised land he +should never enter. While with clear sight he announced things to come, +the music of the past floated up to him; he brooded wistfully over the +vision of the old Olympian gods, dying, amid faint music of cymbals and +flutes, forsaken, in the mediæval wilderness; he heard strange sounds of +psaltries and harps, the psalms of Israel, the voice of Princess +Sabbath, sounding across the remote waters of Babylon.—In a few years +this significance of Heine will be lost; that it is not yet lost the +eagerness with which his books are read and translated sufficiently +testifies.</p> + +<p class="r">HAVELOCK ELLIS.</p> + +<p><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a></p> + +<h2><a name="HEINES_PROSE_WORKS" id="HEINES_PROSE_WORKS"></a>HEINE'S PROSE WORKS.</h2> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<h3><a name="REISEBILDER" id="REISEBILDER"></a>REISEBILDER.<br /><br /> +IDEAS, OR THE BOOK LE GRAND.</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The <i>Ideas</i>, of which the chief portion is here presented, was +published in 1826 in the second volume of the <i>Reisebilder</i>, or +<i>Travel-Pictures</i>. The German title has been retained, as Heine +himself retained it in the French translation. The translation here +given is founded on Mr. Leland's; it has been carefully revised.]</p></div> + +<h4>CHAPTER I.</h4> + +<p class="c">She was lovable, and he loved her. But he was not lovable, and she<br /> +did not love him.—<i>Old Play.</i></p> + +<p class="nind">M<small>ADAME</small>, do you know the old play? It is quite an extraordinary play, +only a little too melancholy. I once played the leading part in it +myself, so that all the ladies wept; only one did not weep, not even a +single tear, and that was the point of the play, the whole catastrophe.</p> + +<p>Oh, that single tear! it still torments my thoughts. When Satan wishes +to ruin my soul, he hums in my ear a ballad of that unwept tear, a +deadly song with a more deadly tune. Ah! such a tune is only heard in +Hell!</p> + +<p>You can readily form an idea, Madame, of what life is like in Heaven, +the more readily as you are married. There people amuse themselves +altogether superbly, every sort of entertainment is provided, and one +lives in mere desire and delight. One eats from morning to night, and<a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a> +the cookery is as good as Jagor's; roast geese fly round with +gravy-boats in their bills, and feel flattered if any one eats them; +tarts gleaming with butter grow wild like sunflowers; everywhere there +are brooks of <i>bouillon</i> and champagne, everywhere trees on which +napkins flutter, and you eat and wipe your lips and eat again without +injury to your stomach; you sing psalms, or flirt and joke with the +dear, delicate little angels, or take a walk on the green +Hallelujah-Meadow, and your white flowing garments fit very comfortably, +and nothing disturbs the feeling of blessedness, no pain, no +vexation—even when one accidentally treads on another's corns and +exclaims, "<i>Excusez!</i>" he smiles as if enraptured, and assures, "Thy +foot, brother, did not hurt in the least, quite <i>au contraire</i>, a deeper +thrill of heavenly rapture shoots through my heart!"</p> + +<p>But of Hell, Madame, you have no idea. Of all the devils you know, +perhaps, only the little Amor, the pretty <i>Croupier</i> of Hell, Beelzebub, +and you know him only from <i>Don Juan</i>, and doubtless think that for such +a betrayer of innocence Hell can never be made hot enough, though our +praiseworthy theatre directors spend upon him as much flame, fiery rain, +powder, and colophonium as any Christian could desire in Hell.</p> + +<p>But things in Hell look much worse than our theatre directors know, or +they would not bring out so many bad plays. For in Hell it is infernally +hot, and when I was there, in the dog-days, it was past endurance. +Madame, you can have no idea of Hell! We have very few official returns +from that place. Still, it is rank calumny to say that down there all +the poor souls are compelled to read, the whole day long, all the dull +sermons that are printed on earth. Bad as Hell is, it has not come to +that; Satan will never invent such refinements of torture. On the other<a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a> +hand, Dante's description is too mild on the whole, too poetic. Hell +appeared to me like a great kitchen, with an endlessly long stove, on +which stood three rows of iron pots, and in these sat the damned, and +were cooked. In one row were placed Christian sinners, and, incredible +as it may seem, their number was anything but small, and the devils +poked the fire up under them with especial good-will. In the next row +were Jews, who continually screamed and cried, and were occasionally +mocked by the fiends, which sometimes seemed very amusing, as, for +instance, when a fat, wheezy old pawnbroker complained of the heat, and +a little devil poured several buckets of cold water on his head, that he +might realise what a refreshing benefit baptism was. In the third row +sat the heathen, who, like the Jews, could take no part in salvation, +and must burn forever. I heard one of these, as a burly devil put fresh +coals under his kettle, cry out from his pot, "Spare me! I was Socrates, +the wisest of mortals. I taught Truth and Justice, and sacrificed my +life for Virtue." But the stupid, burly devil went on with his work, and +grumbled, "Oh, shut up, there! All heathens must burn, and we can't make +an exception for the sake of a single man." I assure you, Madame, the +heat was terrible, with such a screaming, sighing, groaning, quacking, +grunting, squealing—and through all these terrible sounds rang +distinctly the deadly tune of the song of the unwept tear.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER II.</h4> + +<p class="c">"She was lovable, and he loved her. But he was not lovable, and she<br /> +did not love him."—<i>Old Play.</i></p> + +<p>Madame! that old play is a tragedy, though the hero in it is neither +killed nor commits suicide. The eyes of the<a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a> heroine are beautiful—very +beautiful—Madame, do you smell the perfume of violets?—very beautiful, +and yet so piercing that they struck like poignards of glass through my +heart and probably came out through my back—and yet I was not killed by +those treacherous, murderous eyes. The voice of the heroine was also +sweet—Madame, did you hear a nightingale just then?—a soft, silken +voice, a sweet web of the sunniest tones, and my soul was entangled in +it, and choked and tormented itself. I myself—it is the Count of Ganges +who now speaks, and the story goes on in Venice—I myself soon had +enough of these tortures, and had thoughts of putting an end to the play +in the first act, and of shooting myself through the head, fool's-cap +and all. I went to a fancy shop in the Via Burstah, where I saw a pair +of beautiful pistols in a case—I remember them perfectly well—near +them stood many pleasant playthings of mother-of-pearl and gold, steel +hearts on gilt chains, porcelain cups with delicate devices, and +snuff-boxes with pretty pictures, such as the divine history of +Susannah, the Swan Song of Leda, the Rape of the Sabines, Lucretia, a +fat, virtuous creature, with naked bosom, in which she was lazily +sticking a dagger; the late Bethmann, <i>la belle Ferronière</i>—all +enrapturing faces—but I bought the pistols without much ado, and then I +bought balls, then powder, and then I went to the restaurant of Signor +Somebody, and ordered oysters and a glass of Hock.</p> + +<p>I could eat nothing, and still less could I drink. The warm tears fell +in the glass, and in that glass I saw my dear home, the holy, blue +Ganges, the ever-gleaming Himalaya, the giant banyan woods, amid whose +broad arcades calmly wandered wise elephants and white-robed pilgrims, +strange dream-like flowers gazed on me with meaning glance, wondrous +golden birds sang wildly, flashing<a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a> sun-rays and the sweet, silly +chatter of monkeys pleasantly mocked me, from far pagodas sounded the +pious prayers of priests, and amid all rang the melting, wailing voice +of the Sultana of Delhi—she ran impetuously around in her carpeted +chamber, she tore her silver veil, with her peacock fan she struck the +black slave to the ground, she wept, she raged, she cried. I could not, +however, hear what she said; the restaurant of Signor Somebody is three +thousand miles distant from the Harem of Delhi, besides the fair Sultana +had been dead three thousand years—and I quickly drank up the wine, the +clear, joy-giving wine, and yet my soul grew darker and sadder—I was +condemned to death.</p> + +<p>As I left the restaurant I heard the "bell of poor sinners" ring, a +crowd of people swept by me; but I placed myself at the corner of the +Strada San Giovanni, and recited the following monologue:—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 0em;">"In ancient tales they tell of golden castles,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Where harps are sounding, lovely ladies dance,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And gay attendants gleam, and jessamine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Myrtle, and roses spread their soft perfume—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And yet a single word of sad enchantment</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Sweeps all the glory of the scene to naught,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And there remain but ruins old and grey,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And screaming birds of night and foul morass.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Even so have I, with but a single word,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Enchanted Nature's blooming loveliness.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">There lies she now, lifeless and cold and pale,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Just like a monarch's corse laid out in state,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">The royal deathly cheeks fresh stained with rouge,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And in his hand the kingly sceptre laid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Yet still his lips are yellow and most changed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">For they forgot to dye them, as they should,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And mice are jumping o'er the monarch's nose,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">And mock the golden sceptre in his grasp."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>It is everywhere agreed, Madame, that one should deliver<a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> a soliloquy +before shooting himself. Most men, on such occasions, use Hamlet's "To +be, or not to be." It is an excellent passage, and I would gladly have +quoted it—but charity begins at home, and when a man has written +tragedies himself, in which such farewell-to-life speeches occur, as, +for instance, in my immortal <i>Almansor</i>, it is very natural that one +should prefer his own words even to Shakespeare's. At any rate, the +delivery of such speeches is a very useful custom; one gains at least a +little time. And so it came to pass that I remained a rather long time +standing at the corner of the Strada San Giovanni—and as I stood there +like a condemned criminal awaiting death, I raised my eyes, and suddenly +beheld <i>her</i>.</p> + +<p>She wore her blue silk dress and rose-red hat, and her eyes looked at me +so mildly, so death-conqueringly, so life-givingly—Madame, you well +know, out of Roman history, that when the vestals in ancient Rome met on +their way a malefactor led to death, they had the right to pardon him, +and the poor rogue lived. With a single glance she saved me from death, +and I stood before her revived, and dazzled by the sunbeams of her +beauty, and she passed on—and left me alive.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER III.</h4> + +<p>And she left me alive, and I live, which is the main point.</p> + +<p>Others may, if they choose, enjoy the good fortune of having their +lady-love adorn their graves with garlands and water them with the tears +of fidelity. Oh, women! hate me, laugh at me, jilt me—but let me live! +Life is all too laughably sweet, and the world too delightfully +bewildered; it is the dream of an intoxicated god, who has taken French<a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a> +leave of the carousing multitude of immortals, and has laid himself down +to sleep in a solitary star, and knows not himself that he creates all +that he dreams—and the dream images form themselves in such a mad +variegated fashion, and often so harmoniously reasonable—the Iliad, +Plato, the battle of Marathon, Moses, Medician Venus, Strasburg +Cathedral, the French Revolution, Hegel, the steamboat, etc., etc., are +single good thoughts in this divine dream—but it will not last long, +and the god awakes and rubs his sleepy eyes, and smiles—and our world +has run to nothing—yes, has never been.</p> + +<p>No matter! I live. If I am but a shadowy image in a dream, still this is +better than the cold, black, void annihilation of Death. Life is the +greatest good and death the worst evil. Berlin lieutenants of the guard +may sneer and call it cowardice, because the Prince of Homburg shudders +when he beholds his open grave. Henry Kleist<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> had, however, as much +courage as his high-breasted, tightly-laced colleagues, and has, alas! +proved it. But all strong men love life. Goethe's Egmont does not part +willingly from "the cheerful wont of being and working." Immermann's +Edwin clings to life "like a little child to its mother's breast," and +though he finds it hard to live by stranger mercy, he still begs for +mercy: "For life and breath is still the highest."</p> + +<p>When Odysseus in the under-world sees Achilles as the leader of dead +heroes, and extols his renown among the living, and his glory even among +the dead, Achilles answers:—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 0em;">"No more discourse of death, consolingly, noble Odysseus!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Rather would I in the field as daily labourer be toiling,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Slave to the meanest of men, a pauper and lacking possessions,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Than mid the infinite host of long-vanished mortals be ruler."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a></p> + +<p>Yes, when Major Duvent challenged the great Israel Lyon to fight with +pistols and said to him, "If you do not meet me, Mr. Lyon, you are a +dog;" the latter replied, "I would rather be a live dog than a dead +lion!" and he was right. I have fought often enough, Madame, to dare to +say this—God be praised! I live! Red life pulses in my veins, earth +yields beneath my feet, in the glow of love I embrace trees and statues, +and they live in my embrace. Every woman is to me the gift of a world. I +revel in the melody of her countenance, and with a single glance of my +eye I can enjoy more than others with their every limb through all their +lives. Every instant is to me an eternity. I do not measure time with +the ell of Brabant or of Hamburg, and I need no priest to promise me a +second life, for I can live enough in this life, when I live backwards +in the life of those who have gone before me, and win myself an eternity +in the realm of the past.</p> + +<p>And I live! The great pulsation of nature beats too in my breast, and +when I carol aloud, I am answered by a thousand-fold echo. I hear a +thousand nightingales. Spring has sent them to awaken Earth from her +morning slumber, and Earth trembles with ecstasy; her flowers are hymns, +which she sings in inspiration to the sun—the sun moves far too slowly; +I would fain lash on his steeds that they might advance more rapidly. +But when he sinks hissing in the sea, and the night rises with her great +passionate eyes, oh! then true pleasure first thrills through me, the +evening breezes lie like flattering maidens on my wild heart, and the +stars wink to me, and I rise and sweep over the little earth and the +little thoughts of men.<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></p> + +<h4>CHAPTER IV.</h4> + +<p>But a day will come when the fire in my veins will be quenched, when +winter will dwell in my heart, when his snow flakes will whiten my +locks, and his mists will dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their +lonely graves, and I alone shall remain like a solitary stalk forgotten +by the reaper. A new race will have sprung up with new desires and new +ideas; full of wonder I shall hear new names and listen to new songs, +for the old names will be forgotten, and I myself forgotten, perhaps +still honoured by a few, scorned by many and loved by none! And then the +rosy-cheeked boys will spring around me and place the old harp in my +trembling hand, and say, laughing, "You have been long silent, you +greybeard; sing us again songs of your youthful dreams!"</p> + +<p>Then I will grasp the harp, and my old joys and sorrows will awake, +tears will again spring from my dead eyes; there will be Spring again in +my breast, sweet tones of sorrow will tremble on the harpstrings, I +shall see again the blue stream and the marble palaces and the lovely +faces of women and girls—and I will sing a song of the flowers of +Brenta.</p> + +<p>It will be my last song; the stars will gaze on me as in the nights of +my youth, the loving moonlight will once more kiss my cheeks, the spirit +chorus of nightingales long dead will sound from afar, my sleep-drunken +eyes will close, my soul will echo with the notes of my harp; I shall +smell the flowers of Brenta.</p> + +<p>A tree will shadow my grave. I would gladly have it a palm, but that +tree will not grow in the North. It will be a linden, and on summer +evenings lovers will sit there and caress; the green-finch, who rocks +himself on the branches,<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a> will be listening silently, and my linden will +rustle tenderly over the heads of the happy ones, who will be so happy +that they will have no time to read what is written on the white +tombstone. But when later the lover has lost his love, then he will come +again to the well-known linden, and sigh, and weep, and gaze long and +oft upon the stone, and read the inscription—"He loved the flowers of +Brenta."</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER V.</h4> + +<p>Madame! I have deceived you. I am not the Count of the Ganges. Never in +my life have I seen the holy stream, nor the lotus flowers which are +mirrored in its sacred waves. Never did I lie dreaming under Indian +palms, nor in prayer before the Diamond Deity Juggernaut, who with his +diamonds might have easily aided me out of my difficulties. I have no +more been in Calcutta than the turkey, of which I ate yesterday at +dinner, had ever been in the realms of the Grand Turk. Yet my ancestors +came from Hindostan, and therefore I feel so much at my ease in the +great forest of song of Valmiki. The heroic sorrows of the divine Ramo +move my heart like familiar griefs; from the flower lays of Kalidasa the +sweetest memories bloom; and when a few years ago a gentle lady in +Berlin showed me the beautiful pictures which her father, who had been +Governor in India, had brought from thence, the delicately-painted, +holy, calm faces seemed as familiar to me as though I were gazing at my +own family gallery.</p> + +<p>Franz Bopp—Madame, you have of course read his <i>Nalus</i> and his System +of Sanscrit Conjugations—gave me much information relative to my +ancestry, and I now know with certainty that I am descended from +Brahma's head,<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a> and not from his corns. I have also good reason to +believe that the entire <i>Mahabarata</i>, with its two hundred thousand +verses, is merely an allegorical love-letter which my first fore-father +wrote to my first fore-mother. Oh! they loved dearly, their souls +kissed, they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss.</p> + +<p>An enchanted nightingale sits on a red coral bough in the silent sea, +and sings a song of the love of my ancestors; the pearls gaze eagerly +from their shells, the wonderful water-flowers tremble with sorrow, the +cunning sea-snails, bearing on their backs many-coloured porcelain +towers, come creeping onwards, the ocean-roses blush with shame, the +yellow, sharp-pointed starfish, and the thousand-hued glassy jelly-fish +quiver and stretch, and all swarm and listen.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, Madame, this nightingale song is far too long to be set +down here; it is as long as the world itself, even its dedication to +Anangas, the God of Love, is as long as all Scott's novels, and there is +a passage referring to it in Aristophanes, which in German<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> reads +thus:—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Tiotio, tiotio, tiotinx,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Totototo totototo tototinx."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">(Voss's <i>Translation.</i>)</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>No, I was not born in India. I first beheld the light of the world on +the shores of that beautiful stream, in whose green hills folly grows +and is plucked in Autumn, laid away in cellars, poured into barrels, and +exported to foreign lands. In fact, only yesterday I heard some one +speaking a piece of folly which, in the year 1811, was imprisoned in a +bunch of grapes, which I myself then saw growing on the Johannisburg. +But much folly is also<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a> consumed at home, and men are the same there as +everywhere: they are born, eat, drink, sleep, laugh, cry, slander each +other, are greatly troubled about the propagation of their race, try to +seem what they are not and to do what they cannot, never shave until +they have a beard, and often have beards before they get discretion, and +when they at last have discretion, they drink it away in white and red +folly.</p> + +<p><i>Mon dieu!</i> if I had faith, so that I could remove mountains—the +Johannisburg would be just the mountain which I would carry with me +everywhere. But as my faith is not strong enough, imagination must aid +me, and she quickly sets me by the beautiful Rhine.</p> + +<p>Oh, that is a fair land, full of loveliness and sunshine. In the blue +stream are mirrored the mountain shores, with their ruined towers, and +woods, and ancient towns. There, before the house-door, sit the good +townspeople, of a summer evening, and drink out of great cans, and +gossip confidentially about how the wine—the Lord be praised!—thrives, +and how justice should be free from all secrecy, and how Marie +Antoinette's being guillotined is none of our business, and how dear the +tobacco tax makes tobacco, and how all mankind are equal, and what a +glorious fellow Gœrres is.</p> + +<p>I have never troubled myself about such conversation, and sat rather +with the maidens in the arched window, and laughed at their laughter, +and let them throw flowers in my face, and pretended to be ill-natured +until they told me their secrets, or some other important stories. Fair +Gertrude was half wild with delight when I sat by her. She was a girl +like a flaming rose, and once, as she fell on my neck, I thought that +she would burn away into perfume in my arms. Fair Katharine flamed into +sweet music when she talked with me, and her eyes were of a pure,<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a> +internal blue, which I have never seen in men or animals, and very +seldom in flowers—one gazed so gladly into them, and could then think +such sweet things. But the beautiful Hedwig loved me, for when I came to +her she bowed her head till her black curls fell down over her blushing +face, and her bright eyes shone like stars from the dark heaven. Her +bashful lips spoke not a word, and I too could say nothing to her. I +coughed and she trembled. She often begged me, through her sisters, not +to climb the rocks so rashly, or to bathe in the Rhine when I was hot +with running or drinking wine. Once I overheard her pious prayer before +the Virgin Mary, which she had adorned with gold leaf and illuminated +with a lamp, and which stood in a corner at the entrance. I plainly +heard her pray to the Mother of God to keep him from climbing, drinking, +and bathing. I should certainly have been desperately in love with her +if she had been indifferent to me, and I was indifferent to her because +I knew that she loved me.—Madame, to win my love, I must be treated <i>en +canaille</i>.</p> + +<p>Johanna was the cousin of the three sisters, and I was glad to be with +her. She knew the most beautiful old legends, and when she pointed with +her white hand through the window out to the mountains where all had +happened which she narrated, I became enchanted; the old knights rose +visibly from the ruined castles and hewed away at each other's iron +clothes, the Lorely sat again on the mountain summit, singing a-down her +sweet, seductive song, and the Rhine rippled so reasonably soothing—and +yet so mockingly horrible—and the fair Johanna looked at me so +strangely, with such enigmatic tenderness, that she seemed herself one +with the legend that she told. She was a slender, pale girl, sickly and +musing, her eyes were clear as<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a> truth itself, her lips piously arched, +in her face lay a great story—was it a love legend? I know not, and I +never had the courage to ask. When I looked at her long, I grew calm and +cheerful—it seemed to me as though it was Sunday in my heart and the +angels held service there.</p> + +<p>In such happy hours I told her tales of my childhood, and she listened +earnestly, and, strangely, when I could not think of the names she +remembered them. When I then asked her with wonder how she knew the +names, she would answer with a smile that she had learned it of the +birds that had built a nest on the sill of her window—and she tried to +make me believe that these were the same birds which I once bought with +my pocket-money from a hard-hearted peasant boy, and then let fly away. +But I believed that she knew everything because she was so pale, and +really soon died. She knew, too, when she would die, and wished that I +would leave Andernach the day before. When I bade her farewell she gave +me both her hands—they were white, sweet hands, and pure as the +Host—and she said, You are very good, and when you are not, think of +the little dead Veronica.</p> + +<p>Did the chattering birds also tell her this name? Often in hours of +remembrance I had wearied my brain in trying to think of that dear name, +but could not.</p> + +<p>And now that I have it again, my earliest infancy shall bloom into +memory again—and I am again a child, and play with other children in +the Castle Court at Düsseldorf on the Rhine.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER VI.</h4> + +<p>Yes, Madame, there was I born, and I am particular in calling attention +to the fact, lest after my death seven<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> cities—those of Schilda, +Krähwinkel, Polkwitz, Bockum, Dülken, Göttingen, and +Schöppenstadt<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>—should contend for the honour of being my birthplace. +Düsseldorf is a town on the Rhine; sixteen thousand people live there, +and many hundred thousands besides are buried there. And among them are +many of whom my mother says it were better if they were still alive—for +example, my grand-father and my uncle, the old Herr von Geldern, and the +young Herr von Geldern, who were both such celebrated doctors, and saved +the lives of so many men, and yet must both die themselves. And pious +Ursula, who carried me as a child in her arms, also lies buried there, +and a rose-bush grows over her grave—she loved rose-perfume so much in +her life, and her heart was all rose-perfume and goodness. And the +shrewd old Canonicus also lies there buried. Lord, how miserable he +looked when I last saw him! He consisted of nothing but soul and +plasters, and yet he studied night and day as though he feared lest the +worms might find a few ideas missing in his head. Little William also +lies there—and that is my fault. We were schoolmates in the Franciscan +cloister, and were one day playing on that side of the building where +the Düssel flows between stone walls, and I said, "William, do get the +kitten out, which has just fallen in!" and he cheerfully climbed out on +the board which stretched over the brook, and pulled the cat out of the +water, but fell in himself, and when they took him out he was cold and +dead. The kitten lived to a good old age.</p> + +<p>The town of Düsseldorf is very beautiful, and if you think of it when in +foreign lands, and happen at the same time to have been born there, +strange feelings come over<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a> the soul. I was born there, and feel as if I +must go directly home. And when I say <i>home</i>, I mean the Volkerstrasse +and the house where I was born. This house will be some day very +remarkable, and I have sent word to the old lady who owns it, that she +must not for her life sell it. For the whole house she would now hardly +get as much as the present which the green-veiled distinguished English +ladies will give the servant when she shows them the room where I was +born, and the hen-house wherein my father generally imprisoned me for +stealing grapes, and also the brown door on which my mother taught me to +write with chalk. Ah me! should I ever become a famous author, it has +cost my poor mother trouble enough.</p> + +<p>But my fame still slumbers in the marble quarries of Carrara; the waste +paper laurel with which they have bedecked my brow has not yet spread +its perfume through the wide world, and when the green-veiled +distinguished English ladies visit Düsseldorf, they leave the celebrated +house unvisited, and go direct to the Market Place, and there gaze on +the colossal black equestrian statue which stands in its midst. This +represents the Prince Elector, Jan Wilhelm. He wears black armour and a +long, hanging wig. When a boy, I was told that the artist who made this +statue observed with terror while it was being cast that he had not +metal enough, and then all the citizens of the town came running with +all their silver spoons, and threw them in to fill the mould; and I +often stood for hours before the statue puzzling my head as to how many +spoons were sticking in it, and how many apple-tarts all that silver +would buy. Apple-tarts were then my passion—now it is love, truth, +freedom, and crab-soup—and not far from the statue of the Prince +Elector, at the theatre corner, generally stood a curiously constructed +sabre-legged<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> rascal with a white apron, and a basket girt around him +full of smoking apple-tarts, which he knew how to praise with an +irresistible treble voice. "Apple tarts! quite fresh! so delicious!" +Truly, whenever in my later years the Evil One sought to win me, he +always cried in just such an enticing treble, and I should certainly +have never remained twelve hours by the Signora Giulietta, if she had +not thrilled me with her sweet, fragrant, apple-tart-tones. And, in +fact, the apple-tarts would never have so enticed me, if the crooked +Hermann had not covered them up so mysteriously with his white +apron—and it is aprons, you know, which—but I wander from the subject. +I was speaking of the equestrian statue which has so many silver spoons +in its body and no soup, and which represents the Prince Elector, Jan +Wilhelm.</p> + +<p>He must have been a brave gentleman, very fond of art, and skilful +himself. He founded the picture gallery in Düsseldorf, and in the +observatory there they show a very artistic piece of woodwork, which he, +himself, had carved in his leisure hours, of which latter he had every +day four-and-twenty.</p> + +<p>In those days princes were not the persecuted wretches which they now +are; the crowns grew firmly on their heads, and at night they drew their +night-caps over it and slept peacefully, and their people slumbered +peacefully at their feet, and when they awoke in the morning they said, +"Good morning, father!" and he replied, "Good morning, dear children!"</p> + +<p>But there came a sudden change over all this. One morning when we awoke +in Düsseldorf and would say, "Good morning, father!" the father had +travelled away, and in the whole town there was nothing but dumb sorrow. +Everywhere there was a funeral-like expression, and people<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a> slipped +silently to the market and read the long paper on the door of the Town +Hall. It was bad weather, yet the lean tailor Kilian stood in his +nankeen jacket, which he generally wore only at home, and his blue +woollen stockings hung down so that his little bare legs peeped out in a +troubled way, and his thin lips quivered as he murmured the placard. An +old invalid soldier from the Palatine read it rather louder, and at some +words a clear tear ran down his white honourable old moustache. I stood +near him, crying too, and asked why we were crying? And he replied "The +Prince Elector has abdicated." And then he read further, and at the +words, "for the long manifested fidelity of my subjects," "and hereby +release you from allegiance," he wept still more. It is a strange sight +to see, when an old man, in faded uniform, and scarred veteran's face, +suddenly bursts into tears. While we read, the Princely Electoral coat +of arms was being taken down from the Town Hall, and everything began to +appear as anxiously dreary as though we were waiting for an eclipse of +the sun. The town councillors went about at an abdicating, wearisome +gait; even the omnipotent beadle looked as though he had no more +commands to give, and stood calmly indifferent, although the crazy +Aloysius stood upon one leg and chattered the names of French generals +with foolish grimaces, while the tipsy, crooked Gumpertz rolled around +in the gutter, singing <i>ça ira! ça ira!</i></p> + +<p>But I went home crying and lamenting, "The Prince Elector has +abdicated." My mother might do what she would, I knew what I knew, and +went crying to bed, and in the night dreamed that the world had come to +an end—the fair flower gardens and green meadows of the world were +taken up and rolled away like carpets from the floor,<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a> the beadle +climbed up on a high ladder and took down the sun, and the tailor Kilian +stood by and said to himself, "I must go home and dress myself neatly, +for I am dead and am to be buried this afternoon." And it grew darker +and darker—a few stars glimmered on high, and even these fell down like +yellow leaves in autumn, men gradually vanished, and I, poor child, +wandered in anguish around, until before the willow fence of a deserted +farm-house I saw a man digging up the earth with a spade, and near him +an ugly, spiteful-looking woman, who held something in her apron like a +human head, but it was the moon, and she laid it carefully in the open +grave—and behind me stood the Palatine soldier sobbing, and spelling, +"The Prince Elector has abdicated."</p> + +<p>When I awoke the sun shone as usual through the window, there was a +sound of drums in the street, and as I entered our sitting-room and +wished my father—who sat in his white dressing-gown—good morning, I +heard the little light-footed barber, as he made up his hair, narrate +very minutely that homage would that morning be offered at the Town Hall +to the Arch Duke Joachim. I heard, too, that the new ruler was of +excellent family, that he had married the sister of the Emperor +Napoleon, and was really a very respectable man, that he wore his +beautiful black hair in curls, that he would shortly enter the town, and +would certainly please all the ladies. Meanwhile, the drumming in the +streets continued, and I stood before the house-door and looked at the +French troops marching, those joyous and famous people who swept over +the world, singing and playing, the merry, serious faces of the +grenadiers, the bearskin shakoes, the tri-coloured cockades, the +glittering bayonets, the <i>voltigeurs</i> full of vivacity and <i>point +d'honneur</i>, and the giant-like silver-laced Tambour Major, who cast his +<i>bâton</i><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a> with the gilded head as high as the first storey, and his eyes +to the second, where pretty girls gazed from the windows. I was so glad +that soldiers were to be quartered in our house—my mother was not +glad—and I hastened to the market-place. There everything looked +changed; it was as though the world had been new whitewashed. A new coat +of arms was placed on the Town Hall, its iron balconies were hung with +embroidered velvet drapery, French grenadiers stood as sentinels, the +old town councillors had put on new faces and Sunday coats, and looked +at each other French fashion, and said, <i>"Bon jour!"</i> ladies peeped from +every window, inquisitive citizens and soldiers filled the square, and +I, with other boys, climbed on the shining Prince Elector's great bronze +horse, and looked down on the motley crowd.</p> + +<p>Neighbour Peter and Long Conrad nearly broke their necks on this +occasion, and that would have been well, for the one afterwards ran away +from his parents, enlisted as a soldier, deserted, and was finally shot +in Mayence, while the other, having made geographical researches in +strange pockets, became a working member of a public tread-mill +institute. But having broken the iron bands which bound him to his +fatherland, he passed safely beyond sea, and eventually died in London, +in consequence of wearing a much too long cravat, one end of which +happened to be firmly attached to something, just as a royal official +removed a plank from beneath his feet.</p> + +<p>Long Conrad told us there was no school to-day on account of the homage. +We had to wait a long time till this was over. At last the balcony of +the Council House was filled with gay gentlemen, flags and trumpets, and +our burgomaster, in his celebrated red coat, delivered an oration, which +stretched out like India rubber, or like a night-cap<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a> into which one has +thrown a stone—only that it was not the stone of wisdom—and I could +distinctly understand many of his phrases, for instance, that "we are +now to be made happy"—and at the last words the trumpets and drums +sounded, and the flags waved, and the people cried Hurrah!—and as I +myself cried Hurrah! I held fast to the old Prince Elector. And that was +necessary, for I began to grow giddy; it seemed to me that the people +were standing on their heads while the world whizzed around, and the +Prince Elector, with his long wig, nodded and whispered, "Hold fast to +me!"—and not till the cannon re-echoed along the wall did I become +sobered, and climbed slowly down from the great bronze horse.</p> + +<p>As I went home I saw crazy Aloysius again dancing on one leg, while he +chattered the names of French generals, and crooked Gumpertz was rolling +in the gutter drunk, and growling <i>ça ira, ça ira</i>—and I said to my +mother that we were all to be made happy, and so there was no school +to-day.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER VII.</h4> + +<p>The next day the world was again all in order, and we had school as +before, and things were got by heart as before—the Roman kings, +chronology—the <i>nomina</i> in <i>im</i>, the <i>verba irregularia</i>—Greek, +Hebrew, geography, German, mental arithmetic—Lord! my head is still +giddy with it!—all must be learnt by heart. And much of it was +eventually to my advantage. For had I not learnt the Roman kings by +heart, it would subsequently have been a matter of perfect indifference +to me whether Niebuhr had or had not proved that they never really +existed. And had I not learnt chronology, how could I ever, in later +years, have<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> found out anyone in Berlin, where one house is as like +another as drops of water, or as grenadiers, and where it is impossible +to find a friend unless you have the number of his house in your head. +Therefore I associated with every friend some historical event which had +happened in a year corresponding to the number of his house, so that the +one recalled the other, and some curious point in history always +occurred to me whenever I met an acquaintance. For instance, when I met +my tailor I at once thought of the Battle of Marathon; if I saw the +well-dressed banker, Christian Gumpel, I remembered the destruction of +Jerusalem; if a Portuguese friend, deeply in debt, of the flight of +Mahomet; if the University Judge, a man whose probity is well known, of +the death of Haman; and if Wadzeck, I was at once reminded of +Cleopatra.—Ach, <i>lieber Himmel</i>! the poor creature is dead now, our +tears are dry, and we may say of her, with Hamlet, "Take her for all in +all, she was a hag—we oft shall look upon her like again!" As I said, +chronology is necessary. I know men who have nothing in their heads but +a few years, yet who know exactly where to look for the right houses, +and are, moreover, regular professors. But oh, the trouble I had at +school with dates!—and it went even worse with arithmetic. I understood +<i>subtraction</i> best, and for this I had a very practical rule—"Four from +three won't go, I must borrow one"—but I advise everyone, in such a +case, to borrow a few extra shillings, for one never knows.</p> + +<p>But as for the Latin, Madame, you can really have no idea how muddled it +is. The Romans would never have found time to conquer the world if they +had been obliged first to learn Latin. Those happy people knew in their +cradles the nouns with an accusative in <i>im</i>. I, on the contrary, had to +learn them by heart, in the sweat of my<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> brow, but still it is well that +I knew them. For if, for example, when I publicly disputed in Latin, in +the College Hall of Göttingen, on the 20th of July 1825—Madame, it was +well worth while to hear it—if, I say, I had said <i>sinapem</i> instead of +<i>sinapim</i>, the blunder would have been evident to the Freshmen, and an +endless shame for me. <i>Vis</i>, <i>buris</i>, <i>sitis</i>, <i>tussis</i>, <i>cucumis</i>, +<i>amussis</i>, <i>cannabis</i>, <i>sinapis</i>—these words, which have attracted so +much attention in the world, effected this, because they belonged to a +determined class, and yet were exceptions; on that account I value them +highly, and the fact that I have them ready at my finger's ends when I +perhaps need them in a hurry affords me in many dark hours of life much +internal tranquillity and consolation. But, Madame, the <i>verba +irregularia</i>—they are distinguished from the <i>verbis regularibus</i> by +the fact that in learning them one gets more whippings—are terribly +difficult. In the damp arches of the Franciscan cloister near our +school-room there hung a large crucified Christ of grey wood, a dismal +image, that even yet at times marches through my dreams and gazes +sorrowfully on me with fixed bleeding eyes—before this image I often +stood and prayed, "Oh thou poor and equally tormented God, if it be +possible for thee, see that I get by heart the irregular verbs!"</p> + +<p>I will say nothing of Greek; I should irritate myself too much. The +monks of the Middle Ages were not so very much in the wrong when they +asserted that Greek was an invention of the Devil. Lord knows what I +suffered through it. It went better with Hebrew, for I always had a +great predilection for the Jews, although they to this very hour have +crucified my good name; but I never could get so far in Hebrew as my +watch, which had an intimate intercourse with pawnbrokers, and in +consequence acquired<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> many Jewish habits—for instance, it would not go +on Saturday—and learned the holy language, and was subsequently +occupied with its grammar, for often when sleepless in the night I have +to my amazement heard it industriously repeating: <i>katal</i>, <i>katalta</i>, +<i>katalki</i>—<i>kittel</i>, <i>kittalta</i>, <i>kittalti</i>—<i>pokat</i>, +<i>pokadeti</i>—<i>pikat</i>—<i>pik</i>—<i>pik</i>.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile I learned much more German, and that is not such child's play. +For we poor Germans, who have already been sufficiently plagued with +soldiers quartered on us, military duties, poll-taxes, and a thousand +other exactions, must needs, over and above all this, torment each other +with accusatives and datives. I learned much German from the old Rector +Schallmeyer, a brave, clerical gentleman, whose protégé I was from +childhood. Something of the matter I also learned from Professor +Schramm, a man who had written a book on Eternal Peace, and in whose +class my school-fellows fought with especial vigour.</p> + +<p>And while thus dashing on in a breath, and thinking of everything, I +have unexpectedly found myself back among old school stories, and I +avail myself of this opportunity to show you, Madame, that it was not my +fault if I learned so little geography, that later in life I could not +make my way in the world. For in those days the French had deranged all +boundaries, every day countries were recoloured; those which were once +blue suddenly became green, many even blood-red; the old established +rules were so confused and confounded that no Devil would recognise +them. The products of the country also changed, chickory and beets now +grew where only hares and hunters running after them were once to be +seen; even the characters of different races changed—the Germans became +pliant, the French paid compliments no longer, the English ceased making +ducks and drakes of their money, and the Venetians<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a> were not subtle +enough; there was promotion among princes, old kings obtained new +uniforms, new kingdoms were cooked up and sold like hot cakes, many +potentates, on the other hand, were chased from house and home, and had +to find some new way of earning their bread, while others went at once +at a trade, and manufactured, for instance, sealing-wax, or—Madame, +this sentence must be brought to an end, or I shall be out of breath—in +short, it is impossible in such times to advance far in geography.</p> + +<p>I succeeded better in natural history, for there we find fewer changes, +and we always have standard engravings of apes, kangaroos, zebras, +rhinoceroses, etc. And having many such pictures in my memory, it often +happens that at first sight many mortals appear to me like old +acquaintances.</p> + +<p>I did well in mythology; I took real delight in the mob of gods and +goddesses who ruled the world in joyous nakedness. I do not believe that +there was a schoolboy in ancient Rome who knew the chief articles of his +catechism—that is, the loves of Venus—better than I. To tell the +truth, it seems to me that if we must learn all the heathen gods by +heart, we might as well have kept them from the first, and we have not +perhaps made so much out of our New Roman Trinity or even our Jewish +monotheism. Perhaps that mythology was not in reality so immoral as we +imagine, and it was, for example, a very decent thought of Homer's to +give the much-loved Venus a husband.</p> + +<p>But I succeeded best of all in the French class of the Abbé d'Aulnoi, a +French <i>emigré</i> who had written a number of grammars, and wore a red +wig, and jumped about very nervously when he recited his <i>Art poétique</i>, +and his <i>Histoire Allemande</i>. He was the only one in the whole +gymnasium<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a> who taught German history. Still French has its difficulties, +and to learn it there must be much quartering of troops, much drumming +in, much <i>apprendre par cœur</i>, and above all, no one should be a +<i>bête allemande</i>. Thus many bitter words came in. I remember still, as +though it happened yesterday, the scrapes I got into through <i>la +réligion</i>. Six times came the question:—"Henry, what is the French for +'the faith?'" And six times, ever more tearfully, I replied, "It is +called <i>le crédit</i>." And at the seventh question, with a deep cherry-red +face, my furious examiner cried, "It is called <i>la réligion</i>"—and there +was a rain of blows, and all my school-fellows laughed. Madame!—since +that day I can never hear the word <i>réligion</i> but my back turns pale +with terror, and my cheeks red with shame. And to speak truly, <i>le +crédit</i> has during my life stood me in better stead than <i>la réligion</i>. +It occurs to me at this moment that I still owe the landlord of the +Lion, in Bologna, five thalers. And I pledge you my word of honour that +I would owe him five thalers more if I could only be certain that I +should never again hear that unlucky word, <i>la réligion</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Parbleu</i>, Madame! I have succeeded well in French! I understand not +only <i>patois</i>, but even aristocratic nurse-maid French. Not long ago, +when in noble society, I understood full one-half of the conversation of +two German countesses, each of whom could count at least sixty-four +years, and as many ancestors. Yes, in the <i>Café Royal</i>, at Berlin, I +once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking French, and understood +every word, though there was no understanding in it. We must know the +spirit of a language, and this is best learned by drumming. <i>Parbleu!</i> +how much do I not owe to the French Drummer who was so long quartered in +our house, who looked like a Devil,<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a> and yet had the heart of an angel, +and who drummed so excellently.</p> + +<p>He was a little, nervous figure, with a terrible black moustache, +beneath which the red lips turned suddenly outwards, while his fiery +eyes glanced around.</p> + +<p>I, a youngster, stuck to him like a burr, and helped him to rub his +military buttons like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his vest—for Monsieur +Le Grand liked to look well—and I followed him to the watch, to the +roll-call, to the parade—in those times there was nothing but the gleam +of weapons and merriment—<i>les jours de fête sont passés</i>! Monsieur Le +Grand knew only a little broken German, only the chief +expressions—"Bread," "Kiss," "Honour"—but he could make himself very +intelligible with his drum. For instance, if I did not know what the +word <i>liberté</i> meant, he drummed the <i>Marseillaise</i>—and I understood +him. If I did not understand the word <i>egalité</i>, he drummed the march, +"<i>Ca ira</i>, ... <i>les aristocrats à la lanterne!</i>" and I understood him. +If I did not know what <i>bêtise</i> meant, he drummed the Dessauer March, +which we Germans, as Goethe also declares, have drummed in +Champagne—and I understood him. He once wanted to explain to me the +word <i>l'Allemagne</i>, and he drummed the all too simple primeval melody, +which on market days is played to dancing dogs—namely, +<i>dum—dum—dum</i>.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> I was vexed, but I understood him.</p> + +<p>In the same way he taught me modern history. I did not understand the +words, it is true, but as he constantly drummed while speaking, I knew +what he meant. At bottom this is the best method. The history of the +storming of the Bastille, of the Tuilleries, and the like, we understand +first when we know how the drumming was<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> done. In our school compendiums +of history we merely read: "Their excellencies, the Baron and Count, +with the most noble spouses of the aforesaid, were beheaded. Their +highnesses the Dukes, and Princes, with the most noble spouses of the +aforesaid, were beheaded. His Majesty the King, with his most sublime +spouse, the Queen, was beheaded." But when you hear the red guillotine +march drummed, you understand it correctly, for the first time, and you +know the how and the why. Madame, that is indeed a wonderful march! It +thrilled through marrow and bone when I first heard it, and I was glad +that I forgot it. One forgets so much as one grows older, and a young +man has now-a-days so much other knowledge to keep in his head—whist, +Boston, genealogical tables, parliamentary data, dramaturgy, the +liturgy, carving—and yet, notwithstanding all jogging up of my brain, I +could not for a long time recall that tremendous tune! But, only think, +Madame! not long ago I sat at table with a whole menagerie of Counts, +Princes, Princesses, Chamberlains, Court-marshallesses, Seneschals, +Upper Court Mistresses, Court-keepers-of-the-royal-plate, Court-hunters' +wives, and whatever else these aristocratic domestics are termed, and +their under-domestics ran about behind their chairs and shoved full +plates before their mouths—but I, who was passed by and neglected, sat +without the least occupation for my jaws, and I kneaded little +bread-balls, and drummed for <i>ennui</i> with my fingers—and, to my +astonishment, I suddenly drummed the red, long-forgotten guillotine +march!</p> + +<p>"And what happened?" Madame, the good people were not disturbed in their +eating, nor did they know that other people, when they have nothing to +eat, suddenly begin to drum, and that, too, very queer marches, which +people thought long forgotten.<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a></p> + +<p>Is drumming, now, an inborn talent, or was it early developed in +me?—enough, it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in my feet, and often +manifests itself involuntarily. I once sat at Berlin in the lecture-room +of the Privy Councillor Schmaltz, a man who had saved the state by his +book on the "Red and Black Coat Danger."—You remember, perhaps, Madame, +out of Pausanias, that by the braying of an ass an equally dangerous +plot was once discovered, and you also know from Livy, or from Becker's +<i>History of the World</i>, that geese once saved the capitol, and you must +certainly know from Sallust that a loquacious <i>putain</i>, the Lady Livia, +brought the terrible conspiracy of Cataline to light. But to return to +the mutton aforesaid. I listened to international law in the +lecture-room of the Herr Privy Councillor Schmaltz, and it was a sleepy +summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench and heard less and less—my +head had gone to sleep—when all at once I was wakened by the noise of +my own feet, which had stayed awake, and had probably observed that the +exact opposite of international law and constitutional tendencies was +being preached, and my feet which, with the little eyes of their corns, +had seen more of how things go in the world than the Privy Councillor +with his Juno-eyes—these poor dumb feet, incapable of expressing their +immeasurable meaning by words, strove to make themselves intelligible by +drumming, and they drummed so loudly, that I thereby nearly came to +grief.</p> + +<p>Cursed, unreflecting feet! They once played me a similar trick, when I +on a time in Göttengen sponged without subscribing on the lectures of +Professor Saalfeld, and as, with his angular activity, he jumped about +here and there in his pulpit, and heated himself in order to curse the +Emperor Napoleon in regular<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a> set style,—no, my poor feet, I cannot +blame you for drumming then; indeed, I would not have blamed you if in +your dumb naïveté you had expressed yourselves by still more energetic +movements. How could I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the Emperor +cursed? The Emperor! the Emperor! the great Emperor!</p> + +<p>When I think of the great Emperor, my thoughts again grow summer-green +and golden; a long avenue of lindens rises blooming around, on the leafy +twigs sit singing nightingales, the water-fall rustles, flowers are +growing from full round beds, dreamily nodding their fair heads—I was +once wondrously intimate with them; the rouged tulips, proud as beggars, +condescendingly greeted me, the nervous sick lilies nodded with +melancholy tenderness, the drunken red roses laughed at me from afar, +the night-violets sighed—with the myrtles and laurels I was not then +acquainted, for they did not entice with a shining bloom, but the +mignonette, with whom I now stand so badly, was very intimate. I am +speaking of the court garden of Düsseldorf, where I often lay upon the +bank, and piously listened while Monsieur Le Grand told of the warlike +feats of the great Emperor, beating meanwhile the marches which were +drummed during the deeds, so that I saw and heard all to the life. I saw +the passage over the Simplon—the Emperor in advance and his brave +grenadiers climbing on behind him, while the scream of frightened birds +of prey sounded around, and avalanches thundered in the distance—I saw +the Emperor with flag in hand on the bridge of Lodi—I saw the Emperor +in his grey cloak at Marengo—I saw the Emperor mounted in the battle of +the Pyramids—naught around save powder-smoke and Mamelukes—I saw the +Emperor in the battle of Austerlitz—ha! how the bullets whistled over +the smooth, icy road!—I saw, I heard<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a> the battle of Jena—<i>dum, dum, +dum</i>.—I saw, I heard the battles of Eylau, of Wagram—— ah, I could +hardly bear it! Monsieur Le Grand drummed so that the drums of my ears +nearly burst.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER VIII.</h4> + +<p>But what were my feelings when I saw with my own highly-graced eyes +himself? Hosannah! the Emperor!</p> + +<p>It was in that very avenue of the Court Garden at Düsseldorf. As I +pressed through the gaping crowd, thinking of the doughty deeds and +battles which Monsieur Le Grand had drummed to me, my heart beat the +"general march"—yet at the same time I thought of the police +regulation, that no one should dare ride through the avenue under +penalty of a fine of five thalers. And the Emperor with his retinue rode +directly down the avenue. The trembling trees bowed towards him as he +advanced, the sunbeams quivered, frightened, yet curious, through the +green leaves, and in the blue heaven above there swam visibly a golden +star. The Emperor wore his invisible-green uniform and the little +world-renowned hat. He rode a white steed, which stepped with such calm +pride, so confidently, so nobly—had I then been Crown Prince of Prussia +I would have envied that steed. Carelessly, almost lazily, sat the +Emperor, holding his rein with one hand, and with the other +good-naturedly patting the horse's neck. It was a sunny, marble hand, a +mighty hand—one of those two hands which bound fast the many-headed +monster of anarchy, and ordered the war of races—and it good-naturedly +patted the horse's neck. Even the face had that hue which we find in the +marble of Greek and Roman busts; the traits were as nobly cut as in the +antique,<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a> and on that face was written, "Thou shalt have no Gods before +me." A smile, which warmed and soothed every heart, flitted over the +lips—and yet all knew that those lips needed but to whistle—<i>et la +Prusse n'existait plus</i>—those lips needed but to whistle—and the +entire clergy would have stopped their ringing and singing—those lips +needed but to whistle—and the entire holy Roman empire would have +danced. And those lips smiled and the eye smiled too. It was an eye +clear as Heaven; it could read the hearts of men, it saw at a glance all +the things of this world, while we others see them only one by one and +by their coloured shadows. The brow was not so clear, the phantoms of +future battles were nestling there; there was a quiver which swept over +that brow, and those were the creative thoughts, the great +seven-mile-boot thoughts, wherewith the spirit of the Emperor strode +invisibly over the world—and I believe that every one of those thoughts +would have given to a German author full material wherewith to write, +all the days of his life.</p> + +<p>The Emperor rode quietly straight through the avenue. No policeman +opposed him; proudly, on snorting horses and laden with gold and jewels, +rode his retinue; the drums were beating, the trumpets were sounding; +close to me the wild Aloysius was muttering his general's name; not far +away the drunken Gumpertz was grumbling, and the people shouted with a +thousand voices, "Long live the Emperor!"</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER IX.</h4> + +<p>The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Atlantic ocean is his +lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too narrow lies quietly +under a little hillock, where five<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> weeping willows hang their green +heads, and a little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is +no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with a just pen, has written +thereon, invisible words, which will resound, like spirit-tones, through +thousands of years.</p> + +<p>Britannia! the sea is thine. But the sea has not water enough to wash +away the shame with which the death of that Mighty One has covered thee. +Not thy windy Sir Hudson—no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo with +whom perjured kings bargained, that they might revenge on the man of the +people that which the people had once inflicted on one of +themselves.—And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.</p> + +<p>Until far ages the boys of France will sing and tell of the terrible +hospitality of the <i>Bellerophon</i>, and when those songs of mockery and +tears resound across the Channel, the cheeks of every honourable Briton +will blush. Some day, however, this song will ring thither, and +Britannia will be no more; the people of pride will be humbled to the +earth, Westminster's monuments will be broken, and the royal dust which +they enclosed forgotten.—And St. Helena is the Holy Grave, whither the +races of the East and of the West will make their pilgrimage in ships +with flags of many a colour, and their hearts will grow strong with +great memories of the deeds of the worldly Saviour, who suffered and +died under Hudson Lowe, as it is written in the evangelists, Las Cases, +O'Meara, and Autommarchi.</p> + +<p>Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest +enemies of the Emperor. Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII. has +rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still Professor in +Göttingen.<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a></p> + +<h4>CHAPTER X.</h4> + +<p>On a clear, frosty autumn morning, a young man of student-like +appearance slowly loitered through the avenue of the Düsseldorf Court +Garden, often, with childlike pleasure, kicking aside the leaves which +covered the ground, and often sorrowfully gazing towards the bare trees, +on which a few golden-hued leaves still hung. As he thus gazed up, he +thought on the words of Glaucus—</p> + +<p class="poemm"> +<span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Like the leaves in the forests, so are the races of mortals;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Leaves are blown down to the earth by the wind, while others are shooting</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">Again in the green budding wood, when fresh up-liveth the spring-tide;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .25em;">So are the races of man—this grows and the other departeth."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>In earlier days the youth had gazed with far different eyes on the same +trees. He was then a boy, and sought birds' nests or summer insects, +which delighted him as they merrily hummed around, and were glad in the +beautiful world, and contented with a sap-green leaf and a drop of +water, with a warm sunbeam and the sweet perfumes of the grass. In those +times the boy's heart was as gay as the fluttering insects. But now his +heart had grown older, its little sunbeams were quenched, all its +flowers had faded, even its beautiful dream of love had grown dim; in +that poor heart was nothing but pride and care, and, saddest of all, it +was my heart.</p> + +<p>I had returned that day to my old father-town, but I would not remain +there over night, and I longed for Godesberg, that I might sit at the +feet of my girl-friend and tell of the little Veronica. I had visited +the dear graves. Of all my living friends I had found but an uncle and +an aunt. Even when I met once known forms in the street they knew me no +more, and the town itself gazed on me with<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a> strange glances. Many houses +were coloured anew, strange faces gazed on me through the window-panes, +worn-out old sparrows hopped on the old chimneys, everything looked dead +and yet fresh, like a salad growing in a graveyard; where French was +once spoken I now heard Prussian; even a little Prussian court had taken +up its retired dwelling there, and the people bore court titles. My +mother's old hair dresser had now become the Court Hair dresser, and +there were Court-Tailors, Court-Shoemakers, Court-Bed-Bug-Destroyers, +Court-Grog-Shops—the whole town seemed to be a Court-Asylum for +Court-lunatics. Only the old Prince Elector knew me, he still stood in +the same old place; but he seemed to have grown thinner. For just +because he stood in the Market Place, he had had a full view of all the +miseries of the time, and people seldom grow fat on such sights. I was +in a dream, and thought of the legend of the enchanted city, and +hastened out of the gate, lest I should awake too soon. I missed many a +tree in the Court Garden, and many had grown crooked with age, and the +four great poplars, which once seemed to me like green giants, had +become smaller. Pretty girls were walking here and there, dressed as +gaily as wandering tulips. And I had known these tulips when they were +but little buds; for ah! they were the neighbours' children with whom I +had once played "Princes in the Tower." But the fair maidens, whom I had +once known as blooming roses, were now faded roses, and in many a high +brow whose pride had once thrilled my heart, Saturn had cut deep +wrinkles with his scythe. And now for the first time, and alas! too +late, I understood what those glances meant, which they had once cast on +the adolescent boy; for I had meanwhile in other lands fathomed the +meaning of similar glances in other lovely eyes. I was deeply moved by +the<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> humble bow of a man whom I had once known as wealthy and +respectable, and who had since become a beggar. Everywhere in the world +we see that men when they once begin to fall, do so according to +Newton's law, ever faster and faster as they descend to misery. One, +however, who did not seem to be in the least changed was the little +baron, who tripped merrily as of old through the Court Garden, holding +with one hand his left coat-skirt on high, and with the other swinging +hither and thither his light cane;—he still had the same genial face as +of old, its rosy bloom now somewhat concentrated towards the nose, but +he had the same comical hat and the same old queue behind, only that the +hairs which peeped from it were now white instead of black. But merry as +the old baron seemed, it was still evident that he had suffered much +sorrow—his face would fain conceal it, but the white hairs of his queue +betrayed him behind his back. Yet the queue itself seemed striving to +lie, so merrily did it shake.</p> + +<p>I was not weary, but a fancy seized me to sit once more on the wooden +bench, on which I had once carved the name of my love. I could hardly +discover it there, so many new names were cut around. Ah! once I slept +upon this bench, and dreamed of happiness and love. "Dreams are foam." +And the old games of childhood came again to my memory, and with them +old and beautiful stories; but a new treacherous game, and a new +terrible tale ever resounded through them, and it was the story of two +poor souls who were untrue to each other, and went so far in their +untruth, that they were at last untrue to the dear God himself. It is a +sad story, and when one has nothing better to do, one can weep over it. +Oh, Lord! once the world was so beautiful, and the birds sang thy +eternal praise, and little Veronica looked at me with silent eyes, and +we sat by the<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a> marble statue before the castle court; on one side lies +an old ruined castle, wherein ghosts wander, and at night a headless +lady in long, trailing black-silken garments sweeps around, and on the +other side is a high, white dwelling, in whose upper rooms gay pictures +gleamed beautifully in their golden frames, while below stood thousands +of mighty books, which Veronica and I beheld with longing when the good +Ursula lifted us up to the window. In later years, when I had become a +great boy, I climbed every day to the very top of the library ladder, +and brought down the topmost books, and read in them so long, that +finally I feared nothing—least of all ladies without heads—and became +so wise that I forgot all the old games and stories and pictures and +little Veronica, even her name.</p> + +<p>But while I sat upon the old bench in the Court Garden, and dreamed my +way back into the past, there was a sound behind me of the confused +voices of men lamenting the ill-fortune of the poor French soldiers, +who, having been taken prisoners in the Russian war and sent to Siberia, +had there been kept prisoners for many a long year, though peace had +been re-established, and who now were returning home. As I looked up, I +beheld in reality these orphan children of Fame. Through their tattered +uniforms peeped naked misery, deep sorrowing eyes were couched in their +desolate faces, and though mangled, weary, and mostly lame, something of +the military manner was still visible in their mien. Singularly enough, +they were preceded by a drummer who tottered along with a drum, and I +shuddered as I recalled the old legend of soldiers, who had fallen in +battle, and who by night rising again from their graves on the +battle-field, and with the drummer at their head, marched back to their +native city. And of them the old ballad sings thus—<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a></p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"He beat on the drum with might and main,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> To their old night-quarters they go again;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"> Through the lighted street they come;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"> Trallerie—trallerei—trallera,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> They march before Sweetheart's home.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> And their bones lie there at break of day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> As white as tombstones in cold array,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"> And the drummer he goes before;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"> Trallerie—trallerei—trallera,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> And we see them come no more."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Truly the poor French drummer seemed to have risen but half repaired +from the grave. He was but a little shadow in a dirty patched grey +capote, a dead yellow countenance, with a great moustache which hung +down sorrowfully over his faded lips, his eyes were like burnt-out +tinder, in which but a few sparks still gleamed, and yet by one of those +sparks I recognised Monsieur Le Grand.</p> + +<p>He too recognised me and drew me to the turf, and we sat down together +as of old, when he taught me French and Modern History on the drum. He +had still the well-known old drum, and I could not sufficiently wonder +how he had preserved it from Russian plunderers. And he drummed again as +of old, but without speaking a word. But though his lips were firmly +pressed together, his eyes spoke all the more, flashing fiercely and +victoriously as he drummed the old marches. The poplars near us +trembled, as he again thundered forth the red guillotine march. And he +drummed as before the old war of freedom, the old battles, the deeds of +the Emperor, and it seemed as though the drum itself were a living +creature which rejoiced to speak out its inner soul. I heard once more +the thunder of cannon, the whistling of balls, the riot of battle; I saw +once more the death rage of the Guards,—the waving<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a> flags, again, the +Emperor on his steed—but little by little there fell a sad tone in amid +the most stirring confusion, sounds rang from the drum, in which the +wildest hurrahs and the most fearful grief were mysteriously mingled; it +seemed a march of victory and a march of death. Le Grand's eyes opened +spirit-like and wide, and I saw in them nothing but a broad white field +of ice covered with corpses—it was the battle of Moscow.</p> + +<p>I had never thought that the hard old drum could give forth such wailing +sounds as Monsieur Le Grand had drawn from it. They were tears which he +drummed, and they sounded ever softer and softer, and, like a troubled +echo, deep sighs broke from Le Grand's breast. And he became ever more +languid and ghost-like, his dry hands trembled, as if from frost, he sat +as in a dream, and stirred with his drum-stick nothing but the air, and +seemed listening to voices far away, and at last he gazed on me with a +deep, entreating glance—I understood him—and then his head sank down +on the drum.</p> + +<p>In this life Monsieur Le Grand never drummed more. And his drum never +gave forth another sound; it was not destined to serve the enemies of +liberty for their servile roll calls. I had well understood Le Grand's +last entreating glance, and at once drew the sword from my cane, and +pierced the drum.</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER XI.</h4> + +<p><i>Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas, Madame!</i></p> + +<p>But life is in reality so terribly serious, that it would be +insupportable without such union of the pathetic and the comic; as our +poets well know. The most harrowing<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a> forms of human madness Aristophanes +exhibits only in the laughing mirror of wit; Goethe only presumes to set +forth the fearful pain of thought comprehending its own nothingness in +the doggerel of a puppet show; and Shakespeare puts the most deadly +lamentation over the misery of the world into the mouth of a fool, who +rattles his cap and bells in agony.</p> + +<p>They have all learned from the great First Poet, who, in his World +Tragedy in thousands of acts, knows how to carry humour to the highest +point, as we see every day. After the departure of the heroes, the +clowns and <i>graciosos</i> enter with their baubles and wooden swords, and +after the bloody scenes of the Revolution there came waddling on the +stage the fat Bourbons, with their stale jokes and tender "legitimate" +<i>bon mots</i>, and the old noblesse with their starved laughter hopped +merrily before them, while behind all swept the pious Capuchins with +candles, cross, and banners of the Church. Yes, even in the highest +pathos of the World Tragedy, bits of fun slip in. The desperate +republican, who, like Brutus, plunged a knife to his heart, perhaps +smelt it first to see whether some one had not split a herring with +it—and on this great stage of the world all passes exactly the same as +on our beggarly boards. On it, too, there are tipsy heroes, kings who +forget their part, scenes which obstinately stay up in the air, +prompters' voices sounding above everything, danseuses who create +astonishing effects with the poetry of their legs, and costumes which +are the main thing. And high in Heaven, in the first row of the boxes, +sit the dear little angels, and keep their <i>lorgnettes</i> on us comedians +here down below, and the blessed Lord himself sits seriously in his +great box, and, perhaps, finds it dull, or calculates that this theatre +cannot be kept up much longer because<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a> this one gets too high a salary, +and that one too little, and that they all play much too badly.</p> + +<p><i>Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas, Madame!</i> As I ended the last +chapter, narrating to you how Monsieur Le Grand died, and how I +conscientiously executed the <i>testamentum militaire</i> which lay in his +last glance, some one knocked at my door, and there entered a poor old +lady, who asked if I were not a Doctor. And as I assented, she kindly +asked me to go home with her and cut her husband's corns.</p> + +<h4>LAST WORDS (<span class="smcap">Reisebilder</span>).<br /><br /> +Written 29th November 1830.</h4> + +<p>It was a depressed, an arrested time in Germany when I wrote the second +volume of the <i>Reisebilder</i>, and had it printed as I wrote. But before +it appeared something was whispered about it; it was said that my book +would awaken and encourage the cowed spirit of freedom, and that +measures were being taken to suppress it. When such rumours were afloat, +it was advisable to advance the book as quickly as possible, and drive +it through the press. As it was necessary, too, that it should contain a +certain number of leaves, to escape the requisitions of the estimable +censorship, I followed the example of Benvenuto Cellini, who, in +founding his Perseas, was short of bronze, and to fill up the mould +threw into the molten metal all the tin plates he could lay his hands +on. It was certainly easy to distinguish between the tin—especially the +tin termination of the book—and the better bronze; anyone, however, who +understands the craft will not betray the workman.</p> + +<p>But as everything in this world is liable to turn up again, so it came +to pass that, in this very volume, I found myself again in the same +scrape, and I have been obliged to again<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a> throw some tin into the +mould—let me hope that this renewed melting of baser metal will simply +be attributed to the pressure of the times.</p> + +<p>Alas! the whole book sprang from the pressure of the times, as well as +the earlier writings of similar tendency. The more intimate friends of +the writer, who are acquainted with his private circumstances, know well +how little his own vanity forced him to the tribune, and how great were +the sacrifices which he was obliged to make for every independent word +which he has spoken since then and—if God will!—which he still means +to speak. Now-a-days, a word is a deed whose consequences cannot be +measured, and no one knows whether he may not in the end appear as +witness to his words in blood.</p> + +<p>For many years I have waited in vain for the words of those bold +orators, who once in the meetings of the German Burschenschaft so often +claimed a hearing, who so often overwhelmed me with their rhetorical +talent, and spoke a language spoken so oft before; they were then so +forward in noise—they are now so backward in silence. How they then +reviled the French and the foreign Babel, and the un-German frivolous +betrayers of the Fatherland, who praised French-dom. That praise +verified itself in the great week!</p> + +<p>Ah, the great week of Paris! The spirit of freedom, which was wafted +thence over Germany, has certainly upset the night-lamps here and there, +so that the red curtains of several thrones took fire, and golden crowns +grew hot under blazing night-caps; but the old catch-polls, in whom the +royal police trusted, are already bringing out the fire-buckets, and now +scent around all the more suspiciously, and forge all the more firmly +their secret chains, and I mark well that a still thicker prison vault +is being invisibly arched over the German people.<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></p> + +<p>Poor imprisoned people! be not cast down in your need. Oh, that I could +speak catapults! Oh, that I could shoot falarica from my heart!</p> + +<p>The distinguished ice-rind of reserve melts from my heart, a strange +sorrow steals over me—is it love, and love for the German people? Or is +it sickness?—my soul quivers and my eyes burn, and that is an +unfortunate occurrence for a writer, who should command his material, +and remain charmingly objective, as the art school requires, and as +Goethe has done—he has grown to be eighty years old in so doing, and a +minister, and portly—poor German people! that is thy greatest man!</p> + +<p>I still have a few octavo pages to fill, and I will therefore tell a +story—it has been floating in my head since yesterday—a story from the +life of Charles the Fifth.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> But it is now a long time since I heard +it, and I no longer remember its details exactly. Such things are easily +forgotten, if one does not receive a regular salary for reading them +every half-year from his lecture books. But what does it matter if +places and dates are forgotten, so long as one holds their significance, +their moral meaning, in his memory. It is this which stirs my soul and +moves me even to tears. I fear I am getting ill.</p> + +<p>The poor emperor was taken prisoner by his enemies, and lay in stern +imprisonment. I believe it was in Tyrol. There he sat in solitary +sorrow, forsaken by all his knights and courtiers, and no one came to +his help. I know not if he had even in those days that cheese-yellow +complexion with which Holbein painted him. But the misanthropic +under-lip certainly protruded, even more then than in his portraits. He +must have despised the people who fawned<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a> around him in the sunshine of +prosperity, and who left him alone in his bitter need. Suddenly the +prison door opened, and there entered a man wrapped in a cloak, and as +he cast it aside, the emperor recognised his trusty Kunz von der Rosen, +the court-fool. One brought him consolation and counsel—and it was the +court-fool.</p> + +<p>O, German Fatherland! dear German people! I am thy Kunz von der Rosen. +The man whose real office was pastime, and who should only make thee +merry in happy days, forces his way into thy prison, in time of need; +here, beneath my mantle, I bring thee thy strong sceptre and the +beautiful crown—dost thou not remember me, my emperor? If I cannot free +thee, I will at least console thee, and thou shalt have some one by thee +who will talk with thee about thy most pressing oppressions, and will +speak courage to thee, and who loves thee, and whose best jokes and best +blood are ever at thy service. For thou, my people, art the true +emperor, the true lord of the land—thy will is sovereign and more +legitimate than that purple <i>Tel est notre plaisir</i>, which grounds +itself upon divine right, without any better guarantee than the quackery +of shaven jugglers—thy will, my people, is the only righteous source of +all power. Even though thou liest down there in fetters, thy good right +will arise in the end, the day of freedom draws near, a new time +begins—my emperor, the night is over, and the dawn shines outside.</p> + +<p>"Kunz von der Rosen, my Fool, thou errest. Thou hast perhaps mistaken a +bright axe for the sun, and the dawn is nothing but blood."</p> + +<p>"No, my Emperor, it is the sun, though it rises in the west—for six +thousand years men have always seen it rise in the east—it is high time +that it for once made a change in its course."<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a></p> + +<p>"Kunz von der Rosen, my Fool, thou hast lost the bells from thy red cap, +and it now has such a strange look, that red cap!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, my Emperor, I have shaken my head in such mad earnest over your +distress that the fool's bell fell from my cap; but it is none the worse +for that!"</p> + +<p>"Kunz von der Rosen, my Fool, what is that breaking and cracking outside +there?"</p> + +<p>"Hush! it is the saw and the carpenter's axe; the doors of your prison +will soon be broken in, and you will be free, my Emperor!"</p> + +<p>"Am I then really Emperor? Alas! it is only the Fool who tells me so!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, do not sigh, my dear lord, it is the air of the dungeon which so +dispirits you; when you have once regained your power, you will feel the +bold imperial blood in your veins, and you will be proud as an emperor, +and arrogant, and gracious, and unjust, and smiling, and ungrateful as +princes are."</p> + +<p>"Kunz von der Rosen, my Fool, when I am free again, what wilt thou be +doing?"</p> + +<p>"I will sew new bells on my cap."</p> + +<p>"And how shall I reward thy fidelity?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! dear master—do not let me be put to death!"<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a></p> + +<h3>ENGLISH FRAGMENTS.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The <i>English Fragments</i>, from which three chapters have been +selected for this volume, were published in 1828 in a German +magazine of which Heine was one of the editors. They were collected +and published with important additions (including the following +chapters) in 1831. Mr. Leland's translation, revised throughout, +has been here used.]</p></div> + +<h4><a name="LONDON" id="LONDON"></a>LONDON.</h4> + +<p>I H<small>AVE</small> seen the greatest wonder which the world can show to the +astonished spirit; I have seen it, and am more astonished then ever—and +still there remains fixed in my memory that stone forest of houses, and +amid them the rushing stream of faces, of living human faces, with all +their motley passions, all their terrible impulses of love, of hunger, +and of hate—I am speaking of London.</p> + +<p>Send a philosopher to London, but no poet! Send a philosopher there, and +stand him at a corner of Cheapside, he will learn more there than from +all the books of the last Leipzig fair; and as the human waves roar +around him, so will a sea of new thoughts rise before him, and the +Eternal Spirit which moves upon the face of the waters will breathe upon +him; the most hidden secrets of social harmony will be suddenly revealed +to him, he will hear the pulse of the world beat audibly, and see it +visibly—for, if London is the right hand of the world—its active, +mighty right hand—<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>then we may regard that that which leads from the +Exchange to Downing Street is the world's radial artery.</p> + +<p>But send no poet to London! This downright earnestness of all things, +this colossal uniformity, this machine-like movement, this moroseness +even in pleasure, this exaggerated London, smothers the imagination and +rends the heart. And should you ever send a German poet thither—a +dreamer, who stands staring at every single phenomenon, even a ragged +beggar-woman, or a shining jeweller's shop—why, then he will find +things going badly with him, and he will be hustled about on every side, +or even be knocked over with a mild "<i>God damn!</i>" <i>God damn!</i>—the +damned pushing! I soon saw that these people have much to do. They live +on a large scale, and though food and clothes are dearer with them than +with us, they must still be better fed and clothed than we are—as +gentility requires. Moreover, they have enormous debts, yet occasionally +in a vain-glorious mood they make ducks and drakes of their guineas, pay +other nations to fight for their pleasure, give their respective kings a +handsome <i>douceur</i> into the bargain—and, therefore, John Bull must work +day and night to get the money for such expenses; by day and by night he +must tax his brain to discover new machines, and he sits and reckons in +the sweat of his brow, and runs and rushes without looking about much +from the Docks to the Exchange, and from the Exchange to the Strand, +and, therefore, it is quite pardonable if, when a poor German poet, +gazing into a print-shop window, stands in his way at the corner of +Cheapside, he should knock him aside with a rather rough "God damn!"</p> + +<p>But the picture at which I was gazing as I stood at the corner of +Cheapside, was that of the passage of the French across the Beresina.<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a></p> + +<p>And when, jolted out of my gazing, I looked again on the raging street, +where a parti-coloured coil of men, women, and children, horses, +stage-coaches, and with them a funeral, whirled groaning and creaking +along, it seemed to me as though all London were such a Beresina Bridge, +where every one presses on in mad haste to save his scrap of life, where +the daring rider stamps down the poor pedestrian, where every one who +falls is lost forever; where the best friends rush, without feeling, +over each other's corpses, and where thousands, weak and bleeding, grasp +in vain at the planks of the bridge, and slide down into the ice-pit of +death.</p> + +<p>How much more pleasant and homelike it is in our dear Germany! How +dreamily comfortable, how Sabbatically quiet all things glide along +here! Calmly the sentinels are changed, uniforms and houses shine in the +quiet sunshine, swallows flit over the flag-stones, fat +court-councilloresses smile from the windows, while along the echoing +streets there is room enough for the dogs to sniff at each other, and +for men to stand at ease and chat about the theatre, and bow low—oh, +how low!—when some small aristocratic scamp or vice-scamp, with +coloured ribbons on his shabby coat, or some powdered and gilded +court-marshal struts by, graciously returning salutations!</p> + +<p>I had made up my mind not to be astonished at that immensity of London +of which I had heard so much. But it happened to me as to the poor +school-boy, who had made up his mind not to feel the whipping he was to +receive. The facts of the case were, that he expected to get the usual +blows with the usual stick in the usual way on the back, whereas he +received a most unusually severe thrashing on an unusual place with a +slender switch. I anticipated great palaces, and saw nothing but mere +small houses. But<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a> their very uniformity and their limitless extent are +wonderfully impressive.</p> + +<p>These houses of brick, owing to the damp atmosphere and coal smoke, +become uniform in colour, that is to say, of a brown olive green; they +are all of the same style of building, generally two or three windows +wide, three storeys high, and adorned above with small red tiles, which +remind one of newly-extracted bleeding teeth; so that the broad and +accurately-squared streets seem to be bordered by endlessly long +barracks. This has its reason in the fact that every English family, +though it consist of only two persons, must still have a house to itself +for its own castle, and rich speculators, to meet the demand, build +wholesale entire streets of these dwellings, which they retail singly. +In the principal streets of the city, where the business of London is +most at home, where old-fashioned buildings are mingled with the new, +and where the fronts of the houses are covered with names and signs, +yards in length, generally gilt, and in relief, this characteristic +uniformity is less striking—the less so, indeed, because the eye of the +stranger is incessantly caught by the new and brilliant articles exposed +for sale in the windows. And these articles do not merely produce an +effect because the Englishman completes so perfectly everything which he +manufactures, and because every article of luxury, every astral lamp and +every boot, every tea kettle and every woman's dress, shines out so +invitingly and so "finished;" there is a peculiar charm in the art of +arrangement, in the contrast of colours, and in the variety of the +English shops; even the most commonplace necessaries of life appear in a +startling magic light through this artistic power of setting forth +everything to advantage. Ordinary articles of food attract us by the new +light in which they are placed, even uncooked fish lie<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> so delightfully +dressed that the rainbow gleam of their scales attracts us; raw meat +lies, as if painted, on neat and many-coloured porcelain plates, +garlanded about with parsley—yes, everything seems painted, reminding +us of the brilliant, yet modest pictures of Franz Mieris. Only the +people are not so cheerful as in the Dutch paintings; they sell the most +delightful playthings with the most serious faces, and the cut and +colour of their clothes is as uniform as that of their houses.</p> + +<p>At the opposite side of the town, which they call the West End, where +the more aristocratic and less-occupied world lives, this uniformity is +still more dominant; yet here there are very long and very broad +streets, where all the houses are large as palaces, though outwardly +anything but distinguished, unless we except the fact that in these, as +in all the better class of houses in London, the windows of the first +storey are adorned with iron-barred balconies, and also on the ground +floor there is a black railing protecting the entrance to certain cellar +apartments buried in the earth. In this part of the city there are also +great squares, where rows of houses, like those already described, form +a quadrangle, in whose centre there is a garden enclosed by a black iron +railing, and containing some statue or other. In all of these squares +and streets the eye is never shocked by the dilapidated huts of misery. +Everywhere we are stared down on by wealth and respectability, while +crammed away in retired lanes and dark, damp alleys poverty dwells with +her rags and her tears.</p> + +<p>The stranger who wanders through the great streets of London, and does +not chance right into the regular quarters of the people, sees little or +nothing of the misery there. Only here and there, at the mouth of some +dark alley, stands a ragged woman with a suckling babe at her<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a> wasted +breast, and begs with her eyes. Perhaps if those eyes are still +beautiful, one glances into them and shrinks back at the world of +wretchedness within them. The common beggars are old people, generally +blacks, who stand at the corners of the streets cleaning pathways—a +very necessary thing in muddy London—and ask for "coppers" in reward. +It is in the dusky twilight that Poverty with her mates, Vice and Crime, +glide forth from their lairs. They shun daylight the more anxiously, the +more cruelly their wretchedness contrasts with the pride of wealth which +glitters everywhere; only Hunger sometimes drives them at noonday from +their dens, and then they stand with silent, speaking eyes, staring +beseechingly at the rich merchant who hurries along, busy and jingling +gold, or at the lazy lord who, like a surfeited god, rides by on his +high horse, casting now and then an aristocratically indifferent glance +at the mob below, as though they were swarming ants, or, at all events, +a mass of baser beings, whose joys and sorrows have nothing in common +with his feelings. Yes, over the vulgar multitude which sticks fast to +the soil, soar, like beings of a higher nature, England's nobility, who +regard their little island as only a temporary resting-place, Italy as +their summer garden, Paris as their social saloon, and the whole world +as their inheritance. They sweep along, knowing nothing of sorrow or +suffering, and their gold is a talisman which conjures into fulfilment +their wildest wish.</p> + +<p>Poor Poverty! how agonising must thy hunger be where others swell in +scornful superfluity! And when some one casts with indifferent hand a +crust into thy lap, how bitter must the tears be wherewith thou +moistenest it! Thou poisonest thyself with thine own tears. Well art +thou in the right when thou alliest thyself to Vice and Crime.<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a> Outlawed +criminals often bear more humanity in their hearts than those cold, +blameless citizens of virtue, in whose white hearts the power of evil is +quenched; but also the power of good. I have seen women on whose cheeks +red vice was painted, and in whose hearts dwelt heavenly purity. I have +seen women—I would I saw them again!——</p> + +<h4><a name="WELLINGTON" id="WELLINGTON"></a>WELLINGTON.</h4> + +<p>This man has the bad fortune to meet with good fortune wherever the +greatest men in the world were unfortunate, and that angers us, and +makes him hateful. We see in him only the victory of stupidity over +genius—Arthur Wellington triumphant where Napoleon Bonaparte was +overwhelmed! Never was a man more ironically gifted by Fortune, and it +seems as though she would exhibit his empty littleness by raising him +high on the shield of victory. Fortune is a woman, and perhaps, in +womanly wise, she cherishes a secret grudge against the man who +overthrew her former darling, though the very overthrow came from her +own will. Now she lets him conquer again on the Catholic Emancipation +question—yes, in the very fight in which George Canning was +overwhelmed. It is possible that he might have been loved had the +wretched Londonderry been his predecessor in the ministry; but he is the +successor of the noble Canning, of the much-wept, adored, great +Canning—and he conquers where Canning was overwhelmed. Without so +unlucky a luck, Wellington would perhaps pass for a great man; people +would not hate him, would not measure him too accurately, at least not +with the heroic measure with which a Napoleon and a Canning is<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a> +measured, and consequently it would never have been discovered how small +a man he is.</p> + +<p>He is a small man, and less than small. The French could say nothing +more sarcastic of Polignac than that he was a Wellington without +celebrity. In fact, what remains when we strip from a Wellington the +field-marshal's uniform of celebrity?</p> + +<p>I have here given the best apology for Lord Wellington—in the English +sense of the word. My readers will be astonished, however, when I +honourably confess that I once clapped on all sail in praise of this +hero. It is a good story, and I will tell it here.</p> + +<p>My barber in London was a radical named Mr. White, a poor little man in +a shabby black dress, worn until it almost shone white; he was so lean +that even his full face looked like a profile, and the sighs in his +bosom were visible before they rose. These sighs were caused by the +misfortunes of Old England, and by the impossibility of paying the +National Debt.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" I often heard him sigh, "why need the English people trouble +themselves as to who reigns in France, and what the French are doing at +home? But the nobility, sir, and the Church were afraid of the +principles of liberty of the French Revolution, and, to keep down these +principles, John Bull must give his gold and his blood, and make debts +into the bargain. We've got all we wanted out of the war—the revolution +has been put down, the French eagles of liberty have had their wings +cut, and the Church may be quite sure that none of them will come flying +over the Channel; and now the nobility and the Church ought to pay for +the debts which were made for their own good, and not for any good of +the poor people. Ah!—the poor people!"<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a></p> + +<p>Whenever Mr. White came to the "poor people," he always sighed more +deeply than ever, and the refrain then was, that bread and beer were so +dear that the poor people must starve to feed fat lords, stag-hounds, +and priests, and that there was only one remedy. At these words he was +wont to whet his razor, and as he drew it murderously up and down the +strop, he muttered grimly to himself, "Lords, priests, hounds."</p> + +<p>But his radical rage boiled most fiercely against the Duke of +Wellington; he spat gall and poison whenever he alluded to him, and as +he lathered me, he himself foamed with rage. Once I was fairly +frightened, when he, while barbering just at my neck, burst out against +Wellington, murmuring all the while, "If I only had him so under my +razor, I'd save him the trouble of cutting his own throat, as his +brother in office and fellow-countryman, Londonderry, did, who killed +himself that way at North Cray, in Kent—God damn him!"</p> + +<p>I felt already that the man's hand trembled, and fearing lest he might +imagine in his excitement that I really was the Duke of Wellington, I +endeavoured to allay his violence, and in an underhanded manner, to +soothe him, I called up his national pride, I represented to him that +the Duke of Wellington had advanced the glory of the English, that he +had always been an innocent tool in the hands of others, that he was +fond of beefsteak, and that he—but the Lord only knows what fine things +I said of Wellington as that razor tickled my throat.</p> + +<p>What vexes me most is the reflection that Arthur Wellington will be as +immortal as Napoleon Bonaparte. It is true that in like manner the name +of Pontius Pilate is as little likely to be forgotten as that of Christ. +Wellington and Napoleon! It is a wonderful phenomenon that the human<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a> +mind can at the same time think of both these names. There can be no +greater contrast than these two, even in their external appearance. +Wellington, the dull ghost, with an ashy grey soul in a buckram body, a +wooden smile on his freezing face—and by the side one thinks of the +figure of Napoleon, every inch a god!</p> + +<p>That figure never disappears from my memory. I still see him, high on +his horse, with eternal eyes in his marble, imperial face, gazing down +calm as destiny on the Guards defiling past—he was then sending them to +Russia, and the old grenadiers glanced up at him, so terribly devoted, +so consciously serious, so proud in death—</p> + +<p class="c">"Te, Cæsar, morituri salutant!"</p> + +<p>There often steals over me a secret doubt whether I ever really saw him, +if we were really his contemporaries, and then it seems to me as if his +portrait, torn from the little frame of the present, vanished away more +proudly and imperiously in the twilight of the past. His name even now +sounds to us like a word of the early world, as antique and heroic as +those of Alexander and Cæsar. It has become a rallying word among races, +and when the East and the West meet, they fraternise through that single +name.</p> + +<p>How significant and magical that name can sound I once felt in the +deepest manner in the harbour of London, at the India Docks, as I stood +on board an East Indiaman just arrived from Bengal. It was a giant-like +ship, fully manned with Hindoos. The grotesque forms and groups, the +singularly variegated dresses, the enigmatical expressions, the strange +gestures, the wild and foreign ring of their language, their shouts of +joy and their laughter, and the seriousness ever rising and falling on +certain soft,<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> yellow faces, their eyes like black flowers which looked +at me as with melancholy woe—all this awoke in me a feeling like that +of enchantment; I was suddenly as if transported into Scheherezade's +story, and I thought that broad-leaved palms, and long-necked camels, +and gold-covered elephants, and other fable-like trees and animals, must +forthwith appear. The supercargo who was on the vessel, and who +understood as little of the language as I myself, could not, in his +genuine English narrowness, narrate to me enough of what a ridiculous +race they were, nearly all Mahometans collected from every land of Asia, +from the limits of China to the Arabian sea, even jet black, +woolly-haired Africans.</p> + +<p>To one whose whole soul was weary of the spiritless West, and who was as +sick of Europe as I then was, this fragment of the East which moved +cheerfully and changingly before my eyes was a refreshing solace, my +heart enjoyed at least a few drops of that draught which I had so often +longed for in gloomy Hanoverian or Prussian winter nights, and it is +very possible that the foreigners saw how agreeable the sight of them +was to me, and how gladly I would have spoken a kind word to them. It +was also plain from the depths of their eyes that I pleased them well, +and they would also have willingly said something pleasant to me, and it +was a vexation that neither understood the other's language. At length a +means occurred to me of expressing to them with a single word my +friendly feelings, and stretching forth my hands reverently, as if in +loving greeting, I cried the name, "Mahomed!" Joy suddenly flashed over +the dark faces of the foreigners; they folded their arms reverently in +turn, and greeted me back with the exclamation, "Bonaparte!"<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="THE_LIBERATION" id="THE_LIBERATION"></a>THE LIBERATION.</h3> + +<p class="nind">S<small>HOULD</small> the time for leisurely research ever return to me, I will prove +in the most tiresomely fundamental manner that it was not India, but +Egypt which originated that system of castes which has for two thousand +years disguised itself in the garb of every country, and has deceived +every age in its own language, which is now perhaps dead, yet which, +counterfeiting the appearance of life, wanders about among us evil-eyed +and mischief-making, poisoning our blooming life with its corpse +vapour—yes, like a vampire of the Middle Ages, sucking the blood and +the light from the heart of nations. From the mud of the Nile sprang not +merely crocodiles which well could weep, but also priests who understand +it far better, and that privileged hereditary race of warriors, who in +their lust of murder and ravenous appetites far surpass any crocodiles.</p> + +<p>Two deeply-thinking men of the German nation discovered the soundest +counter-charm to the worst of all Egyptian plagues, and by the black +art—by gunpowder and the art of printing—they broke the force of that +spiritual and worldly hierarchy which had formed itself from the union +of the priesthood and the warrior caste—that is to say, from the +so-called Catholic Church, and from the feudal nobility, which enslaved +all Europe, body and spirit. The printing-press burst asunder the +dogma-structure in which the archpriest of Rome had imprisoned souls, +and Northern Europe again breathed free, delivered from the nightmare of +that clergy which had indeed abandoned the form of Egyptian inheritance +of rank, but which remained all the truer to the Egyptian priestly +spirit, since it presented itself, with greater sternness and asperity, +as a corporation of old<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a> bachelors, continued not by natural +propagation, but unnaturally by a Mameluke system of recruiting. In like +manner we see how the warlike caste has lost its power since the old +routine of the business is worth nothing in the modern methods of war. +For the strongest castles are now thrown down by the trumpet-tones of +the cannon as of old the walls of Jericho; the iron harness of the +knight is no better protection against the leaden rain than the linen +blouse of the peasant; powder makes men equal; a citizen's musket goes +off just as well as a nobleman's—the people rise.</p> + +<p>The earlier efforts of which we read in the history of the Lombard and +Tuscan republics, of the Spanish communes, and of the free cities in +Germany and other countries, do not deserve the honour of being classed +as movements on the part of the people; they were not efforts to attain +liberty, but merely liberties; not battles for right, but for municipal +rights; corporations fought for privileges, and all remained fixed in +the bonds of gilds and trades unions.</p> + +<p>Not until the days of the Reformation did the battle assume general and +spiritual proportions, and then liberty was demanded, not as an +imported, but as an aboriginal right; not as inherited, but as inborn. +Principles were brought forward instead of old parchments; and the +peasants in Germany, and the Puritans in England, fell back on the +gospel whose texts then were of as high authority as the reason, even +higher, since they were regarded as the revealed reason of God. There it +stood legibly written that men are of equal birth, that the pride which +exalts itself will be damned, that wealth is a sin, and that the poor +are summoned to enjoyment in the beautiful garden of God, the common +Father.</p> + +<p>With the Bible in one hand and the sword in the other, the peasants +swept over South Germany, and announced to<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a> the insolent burghers of +high-towered Nuremberg, that in future no house should be left standing +which was not a peasant's house. So truly and so deeply had they +comprehended equality. Even at the present day in Franconia and in +Suabia we see traces of this doctrine of equality, and a shuddering +reverence of the Holy Spirit creeps over the wanderer when he sees in +the moonshine the dark ruins of the days of the Peasant's War. It is +well for him, who, in sober, waking mood, sees naught besides; but if +one is a "Sunday child"—and every one familiar with history is that—he +will also see the high hunt in which the German nobility, the rudest and +sternest in the world, pursued their victims. He will see how unarmed +men were slaughtered by thousands: racked, speared, and martyred; and +from the waving corn-fields one will see the bloody peasant-heads +nodding mysteriously, and above one hears a terrible lark whistling, +piping revenge, like the Piper of Helfenstein.</p> + +<p>The brothers in England and Scotland were rather more fortunate; their +defeat was not so disgraceful and so unproductive, and even now we see +there the results of their rule. But they did not obtain a firm +foundation for their principles, the dainty cavaliers ruled again just +as before, and amused themselves with merry tales of the stiff old +Roundheads, which a friendly bard had written so prettily to entertain +their leisure hours. No social overthrow took place in Great Britain, +the framework of civil and political institutions remained undisturbed, +the tyranny of castes and of corporations has remained there till the +present day, and though drunken with the light and warmth of modern +civilisation, England is still congealed in a mediæval condition, or +rather in the condition of a fashionable Middle Age. The concessions +which have there been made to liberal ideas, have been with difficulty<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> +wrested from this mediæval rigidity, and all modern improvements have +there proceeded, not from a principle, but from actual necessity, and +they all bear the curse of that halfness system which inevitably makes +necessary new exertion and new conflicts to the death, with all their +attendant dangers. The religious reformation in England is consequently +but half completed, and one finds himself much worse off between the +four bare prison walls of the Episcopal Anglican Church than in the +large, beautifully-painted, and softly-cushioned spiritual dungeon of +Catholicism. Nor has the political reformation succeeded much better; +popular representation is in England as faulty as possible, and if ranks +are no longer distinguished by their coats, they are at least divided by +differences in legal standing, patronage, rights of court presentation, +prerogatives, customary privileges, and similar misfortunes; and if the +rights of person and property depend no longer upon aristocratic +caprice, but upon laws, still these laws are nothing but another sort of +teeth with which the aristocratic brood seizes its prey, and another +sort of daggers wherewith it assassinates people. For in reality, no +tyrant upon the Continent squeezes, by his own arbitrary will, so many +taxes out of his subjects as the English people are obliged to pay by +law; and no tyrant was ever so cruel as England's Criminal Law, which +daily commits murder for the amount of one shilling, and that with the +coldest formality. Although many improvements have recently been made in +this melancholy state of affairs in England; although limits have been +placed to temporal and clerical avarice, and though the great falsehood +of a popular representation is, to a certain degree, occasionally +modified by transferring the perverted electoral voice of a rotten +borough to a great manufacturing town; and<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a> although the harshest +intolerance is here and there softened by giving certain rights to other +sects, still it is all a miserable patching up which cannot last long, +and the stupidest tailor in England can foresee that, sooner or later, +the old garment of state will be rent asunder into wretched rags.</p> + +<p>"No man seweth a piece of new cloth on an old garment; else the new +piece that filled it up taketh away from the old, and the rent is made +worse. And no man putteth new wine into old bottles; else the new wine +doth burst the bottles, and the wine is spilled, and the bottles will be +marred; but new wine must be put into new bottles."</p> + +<p>The deepest truth blooms only out of the deepest love, and hence comes +the harmony of the views of the elder Preacher in the Mount, who spoke +against the aristocracy of Jerusalem; and those later preachers of the +mountain, who, from the summit of the Convention in Paris, preached a +tri-coloured gospel, according to which, not merely the form of the +State, but all social life should be, not patched, but formed anew, +newly founded; yes, born again.</p> + +<p>I speak of the French Revolution, that epoch of the world in which the +doctrines of freedom and of equality rose so triumphantly from those +universal sources of knowledge which we call reason, and which must, as +an unceasing revelation which repeats itself in every human head, and +founds a distinct branch of knowledge, be far preferable to that +transmitted revelation which makes itself known only in a few elect, and +which, by the multitude, can only be <i>believed</i>. The privileged +aristocracy, the caste-system with their peculiar rights, were never +able to combat this last-mentioned sort of revelation (which is itself +of an aristocratic nature) so safely and surely as reason, which is +democratic by nature, now does. The history of the<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a> Revolution is the +military history of this strife, in which we have all taken a greater or +lesser part; it is the death-struggle with Egyptianism.</p> + +<p>Though the swords of the enemies grow duller day by day, and though we +have already conquered the best positions, still we cannot raise the +song of victory until the work is perfected. We can only during the +night, when there are armistices, go forth with the lantern on the field +of death to bury the dead. Little avails the short burial service! +Calumny, the vile insolent spectre, sits upon the noblest graves.</p> + +<p>Oh, that the battle were only with those hereditary foes of truth who so +treacherously poison the good name of their enemies, and who even +humiliated that first Preacher of the Mount, the purest hero of freedom; +for as they could no longer deny that he was the greatest of men, they +made of him the least of gods. He who fights with priests may make up +his mind to have his poor good name torn and befouled by the most +infamous lies and the most cutting slanders. But as those flags which +are most rent by shot, or blackened by powder-smoke, are more highly +honoured than the whitest and soundest recruiting banners, and as they +are at last laid up as national relics in cathedrals, so at some future +day the names of our heroes, the more they are torn and blackened, will +be all the more enthusiastically honoured in the holy St. Geneviève of +Freedom.</p> + +<p>The Revolution itself has been slandered, like its heroes, and +represented as a terror to princes, and as a popular scare-crow, in +libels of every description. All the so-called "horrors of the +Revolution" have been learned by heart by children in the schools, and +at one time nothing was seen in the public fairs but harshly-coloured +pictures of the guillotine. It cannot be denied that this machine, +which<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a> was invented by a French physician, a great world orthopædist, +Monsieur Guillotin, and with which stupid heads are easily separated +from evil hearts, this wholesome machine has indeed been applied rather +frequently, but still only in incurable diseases, in such cases, for +example, as treachery, falsehood, and weakness, and the patients were +not long tortured, not racked and broken on the wheel as thousands upon +thousands of <i>roturiers</i> and <i>vilains</i>, citizens and peasants were +tortured, racked, and broken on the wheel in the good old time. It is, +of course, terrible that the French, with this machine, once even +amputated the head of their State, and no one knows whether they ought +to be accused, on that account, of parricide or of suicide; but on more +thorough reflection, we find that Louis of France was less a sacrifice +to passion than to circumstances, and that those men who forced the +people on to such a sacrifice, and who have themselves, in every age, +poured forth princely blood far more abundantly, should not appear +solely as accusers. Only two kings, both of them rather kings of the +nobility than of the people, were sacrificed by the people, and that not +in a time of peace, or to subserve petty interests, but in the extremest +needs of war, when they saw themselves betrayed, and when they least +spared their own blood. But certainly more than a thousand princes were +treacherously slain, on account of avarice or frivolous interests, by +the dagger, by the sword, and by the poison of nobility and priests. It +really seems as though these castes regarded regicide as one of their +privileges, and therefore bewail the more selfishly the death of Louis +the XVI. and of Charles I. Oh! that kings at last would perceive that +they could live more safely as kings of the people, and protected by the +law, than under the guard of their noble body-murderers.<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a></p> + +<p>But not only have the heroes of our revolution and the revolution itself +been slandered, but even our entire age has been parodied with +unheard-of wickedness; and if one hears or reads our vile traducers and +scorners, then he will learn that the people are the <i>canaille</i>—the +vile mob—that freedom is insolence, and with heaven-bent eyes and pious +sighs, our enemies complain and bewail that we were frivolous and had, +alas! no religion. Hypocritical, sneaking souls, who creep about bent +down beneath the burden of their secret vices, dare to vilify an age +which is, perhaps, holier than any of its predecessors or successors, an +age that sacrifices itself for the sins of the past and for the +happiness of the future, a Messiah among centuries, which could hardly +endure its bloody crown of thorns and heavy cross, did it not now and +then trill a merry vaudeville, and crack a joke at the modern Pharisees +and Sadducees. Its colossal pains would be intolerable without such +jesting and persiflage! Seriousness shows itself more majestically when +laughter leads the way. And the age in this shows itself exactly like +its children among the French, who have written very terribly wanton +books, and yet have been very strong and serious when strength and +seriousness were necessary, as, for instance, Laclos, and even Louvet de +Couvray, who both fought for freedom with the self-sacrifice and +boldness of martyrs, and yet who wrote in a very frivolous and indecent +way, and, alas! had no religion!</p> + +<p>As if freedom were not as good a religion as any other! And since it is +ours, we may, meeting with the same measure, declare its contemners to +be themselves frivolous and irreligious.</p> + +<p>Yes, I repeat the words with which I began these pages: freedom is a new +religion, the religion of our age. If Christ is not the God of this +religion, he is still one of its<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a> high-priests, and his name shines +consolingly in the hearts of its children. But the French are the chosen +people of the new religion, the first gospels and dogmas were penned in +their language. Paris is the New Jerusalem, and the Rhine is the Jordan +which separates the land of Freedom from the land of the Philistines.</p> + +<h3><a name="JAN_STEEN" id="JAN_STEEN"></a>JAN STEEN.</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[This fragment—newly translated—is taken from the <i>Memoiren des +Herrn von Schnabelwopski</i>, which was written in 1831, and published +in 1834, in the first volume of the <i>Salon</i>. The <i>Memoirs of +Schnabelwopski</i> consist simply of the hero's light sketches of +Hamburg, Amsterdam, and Leyden, and his experiences in those towns; +they have generally excited the anger of Heine's German critics and +biographers, who appear to detect a tone of irreverent levity about +them, which they attribute to Parisian influences. Wagner obtained +the story of his <i>Flying Dutchman</i> from a chapter of +<i>Schnabelwopski's Memoirs</i>.]</p></div> + +<p class="nind">I<small>N</small> the house I lodged at in Leyden there once lived Jan Steen, the great +Jan Steen, whom I hold to be as great as Raphael. Even as a sacred +painter Jan was as great, and that will be clearly seen when the +religion of sorrow has passed away, and the religion of joy has torn off +the thick veil that covers the rose-bushes of the earth, and the +nightingales dare at last to sing joyously out their long-concealed +raptures.</p> + +<p>But no nightingale will ever sing so joyously as Jan Steen painted. No +one has understood so profoundly as he that there shall be an eternal +festival on the earth; he comprehended that our life is only the +pictured kiss of God, and he felt that the Holy Ghost is revealed most +gloriously in light and in laughter.<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a></p> + +<p>His eye laughed into the light, and the light mirrored itself in his +laughing eye. And Jan remained always a dear, good child. The stern old +Pastor of Leyden sat near him by the hearth, and delivered a lengthy +discourse concerning his jovial life, his laughing, unchristian conduct, +his love of drinking, his disorderly domestic affairs, his obdurate +gaiety; and Jan listened quietly for two long hours, and betrayed not +the slightest impatience at the lengthy sermon; only once he broke in +with the words—"Yes, Domine, that light is far better; yes, Domine, I +beg of you to draw your stool a little nearer to the fire, so that the +flame may cast its red gleam over your whole face, and leave the rest of +the figure in shade——"</p> + +<p>The Domine stood up wrathful and departed. But Jan seized his palate and +painted the stern old man, just as in that sermon on vice he had +unconsciously furnished a model. The picture is excellent, and hung in +my bed-room at Leyden.</p> + +<p>Now that I have seen so many of Jan Steen's pictures in Holland, I seem +to know the whole life of the man. I know all his relations, his wife, +his children, his mother, all his cousins, his enemies, his various +connections—yes, I know them all by sight. These faces greet us out of +all his pictures, and a collection of them would be a biography of the +painter. He has often with a single stroke revealed the deepest secrets +of his soul. As I think, his wife reproached him far too often about +drinking too much. For in the picture which represents the bean-feast, +where Jan and his family are sitting at table, we see his wife with a +large jug of wine in her hand, and eyes beaming like a Bacchante's. I am +convinced, however, that the good lady never indulged in too much wine; +only the rogue wanted us to believe that it was his wife, and not he, +who<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a> was too fond of drinking. That is why he laughs so joyously out of +the picture. He is happy; he sits in the midst of his family; his little +son is bean-king, and, with his tinsel crown, stands upon a stool; his +old mother, with the happiest smirk of satisfaction in the wrinkles of +her countenance, carries the youngest grandchild upon her arm; the +musicians play their maddest dance melodies; and the frugal, sulky +housewife is painted in, an object of suspicion to all posterity, as +though she were inebriated.</p> + +<p>How often, during my stay at Leyden, did I think myself back for whole +hours into the household scenes in which the excellent Jan must have +lived and suffered. Many a time I thought I saw him bodily, sitting at +his easel, now and then grasping the great jug, "reflecting and +therewith drinking, and then again drinking without reflecting." It was +no gloomy Catholic spectre that I saw, but a modern bright spirit of +joy, who after death still visited his old work-room to paint merry +pictures and to drink. Only such ghosts will our children sometimes see, +in the light of day, while the sun shines through the windows, and from +the spire no black, hollow bells, but red, exulting trumpet tones, +announce the pleasant hour of noon.<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="THE_ROMANTIC_SCHOOL" id="THE_ROMANTIC_SCHOOL"></a>THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>The Romantic School</i>, one of Heine's chief works, of which the +most interesting portions are here given, was published in 1833. It +was first written in French, as a counterblast to Madame de Staël's +<i>De l'Allemagne</i>, forming a series of articles in the <i>Europe +Littéraire</i>. Notwithstanding many errors of detail, and some +occasional injustice, it remains by far the best account of the +most important aspect of German literature. Indirectly Heine wished +to lay down the programme of the future, for he regarded himself as +the last of the Romantic poets, and the inaugurator of a new +school. The following translation is Mr. Fleishman's; it has been +carefully revised.]</p></div> + +<p class="nind">M<small>ADAME</small> de Staël's work, <i>De l'Allemagne</i>, is the only comprehensive +account of the intellectual life of Germany which has been accessible to +the French; and yet since her book appeared a considerable period has +elapsed, and an entirely new school of literature has arisen in Germany. +Is it only a transitional literature? Has it already reached its zenith? +Has it already begun to decline? Opinions are divided concerning it. The +majority believe that with the death of Goethe a new literary era begins +in Germany; that with him the old Germany also descended to its grave; +that the aristocratic period of literature was ended, and the democratic +just beginning; or, as a French journal recently<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a> phrased it, "The +intellectual dominion of the individual has ceased,—the intellectual +rule of the many has commenced."</p> + +<p>So far as I am concerned, I do not venture to pass so decided an opinion +as to the future evolutions of German intellect. I had already +prophesied many years in advance the end of the Goethean art-period, by +which name I was the first to designate that era. I could safely venture +the prophecy, for I knew very well the ways and the means of those +malcontents who sought to overthrow the Goethean art-empire, and it is +even claimed that I took part in those seditious outbreaks against +Goethe. Now that Goethe is dead, the thought of it fills me with an +overpowering sorrow.</p> + +<p>While I announce this book as a sequel to Madame de Staël's <i>De +l'Allemagne</i>, and extol her work very highly as being replete with +information, I must yet recommend a certain caution in the acceptance of +the views enunciated in that book, which I am compelled to characterise +as a coterie-book. Madame de Staël, of glorious memory, here opened, in +the form of a book, a salon in which she received German authors and +gave them an opportunity to make themselves known to the civilised world +of France. But above the din of the most diverse voices, confusedly +discoursing therein, the most audible is the delicate treble of Herr A. +W. Schlegel. Where the large-hearted woman is wholly herself,—where she +is uninfluenced by others, and expresses the thoughts of her own radiant +soul, displaying all her intellectual fireworks and brilliant +follies,—there the book is good, even excellent. But as soon as she +yields to foreign influences, as soon as she begins to glorify a school +whose spirit is wholly unfamiliar and incomprehensible to her, as soon +as through the commendation of<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> this school she furthers certain +Ultramontane tendencies which are in direct opposition to her own +Protestant clearness, just so soon her book becomes wretched and +unenjoyable. To this unconscious partisanship she adds the evident +purpose, through praise of the intellectual activity, the idealism, of +Germany, to rebuke the realism then existing among the French, and the +materialistic splendours of the Empire. Her book <i>De l'Allemagne</i> +resembles in this respect the <i>Germania</i> of Tacitus, who perhaps +likewise designed his eulogy of the Germans as an indirect satire +against his countrymen. In referring to the school which Madame de Staël +glorified, and whose tendencies she furthered, I mean the Romantic +School. That this was in Germany something quite different from that +which was designated by the same name in France, that its tendencies +were totally diverse from those of the French Romanticists, will be made +clear in the following pages.</p> + +<p>But what was the Romantic School in Germany?</p> + +<p>It was nothing else than the reawakening of the poetry of the middle +ages as it manifested itself in the poems, paintings, and sculptures, in +the art and life of those times. This poetry, however, had been +developed out of Christianity; it was a passion-flower which had +blossomed from the blood of Christ. I know not if the melancholy flower +which in Germany we call the passion-flower is known by the same name in +France, and if the popular tradition has ascribed to it the same +mystical origin. It is that motley-hued, melancholic flower in whose +calyx one may behold a counterfeit presentment of the tools used at the +crucifixion of Christ—namely, hammer, pincers, and nails. This flower +is by no means unsightly, but only spectral: its aspect fills our souls +with a dread pleasure,<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a> like those convulsive, sweet emotions that arise +from grief. In this respect the passion-flower would be the fittest +symbol of Christianity itself, whose most awe-inspiring charm consists +in the voluptuousness of pain.</p> + +<p>Although in France Christianity and Roman Catholicism are synonymous +terms, yet I desire to emphasise the fact, that I here refer to the +latter only. I refer to that religion whose earliest dogmas contained a +condemnation of all flesh, and not only admitted the supremacy of the +spirit over the flesh, but sought to mortify the latter in order thereby +to glorify the former. I refer to that religion through whose unnatural +mission vice and hypocrisy came into the world, for through the odium +which it cast on the flesh the most innocent gratification of the senses +were accounted sins; and, as it was impossible to be entirely spiritual, +the growth of hypocrisy was inevitable. I refer to that religion which, +by teaching the renunciation of all earthly pleasures, and by +inculcating abject humility and angelic patience, became the most +efficacious support of despotism. Men now recognise the nature of that +religion, and will no longer be put off with promises of a Heaven +hereafter; they know that the material world has also its good, and is +not wholly given over to Satan, and now they vindicate the pleasures of +the world, this beautiful garden of the gods, our inalienable heritage. +Just because we now comprehend so fully all the consequences of that +absolute spirituality, we are warranted in believing that the +Christian-Catholic theories of the universe are at an end; for every +epoch is a sphinx which plunges into the abyss as soon as its problem is +solved.</p> + +<p>We by no means deny the benefits which the Christian-Catholic theories +effected in Europe. They were needed<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a> as a wholesome reaction against +the terrible colossal materialism which was developed in the Roman +Empire, and threatened the annihilation of all the intellectual grandeur +of mankind. Just as the licentious memoirs of the last century form the +<i>pièces justificatives</i> of the French Revolution; just as the reign of +terror seems a necessary medicine when one is familiar with the +confessions of the French nobility since the regency; so the +wholesomeness of ascetic spirituality becomes manifest when we read +Petronius or Apuleius, books which may be considered as <i>pièces +justificatives</i> of Christianity. The flesh had become so insolent in +this Roman world that Christian discipline was needed to chasten it. +After the banquet of a Trimalkion, a hunger-cure, such as Christianity, +was required.</p> + +<p>Or did, perhaps, the hoary sensualists seek by scourgings to stimulate +the cloyed flesh to renewed capacity for enjoyment? Did aging Rome +submit to monkish flagellations in order to discover exquisite pleasure +in torture itself, voluptuous bliss in pain?</p> + +<p>Unfortunate excess! it robbed the Roman body-politic of its last +energies. Rome was not destroyed by the division into two empires. On +the Bosphorus as on the Tiber, Rome was eaten up by the same Judaic +spiritualism, and in both Roman history became the record of a slow +dying-away, a death agony that lasted for centuries. Did perhaps +murdered Judea, by bequeathing its spiritualism to the Romans, seek to +avenge itself on the victorious foe, as did the dying centaur, who so +cunningly wheedled the son of Jupiter into wearing the deadly vestment +poisoned with his own blood? In truth, Rome, the Hercules among nations, +was so effectually consumed by the Judaic poison that helm and armour +fell from its decaying limbs, and its<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a> imperious battle tones +degenerated into the prayers of snivelling priests and the trilling of +eunuchs.</p> + +<p>But that which enfeebles the aged strengthens the young. That +spiritualism had a wholesome effect on the over-robust races of the +north; the ruddy barbarians became spiritualised through Christianity; +European civilisation began. This is a praiseworthy and sacred phase of +Christianity. The Catholic Church earned in this regard the highest +title to our respect and admiration. Through grand, genial institutions +it controlled the bestiality of the barbarian hordes of the North, and +tamed their brutal materialism.</p> + +<p>The works of art in the middle ages give evidence of this mastery of +matter by the spirit; and that is often their whole purpose. The epic +poems of that time may be easily classified according to the degree in +which they show that mastery. Of lyric and dramatic poems nothing is +here to be said; for the latter do not exist, and the former are +comparatively as much alike in all ages as are the songs of the +nightingales in each succeeding spring.</p> + +<p>Although the epic poetry of the middle ages was divided into sacred and +secular, yet both classes were purely Christian in their nature; for if +the sacred poetry related exclusively to the Jewish people and its +history, which alone was considered sacred; if its themes were the +heroes of the Old and the New Testaments, and their legends—in brief, +the Church—still all the Christian views and aims of that period were +mirrored in the secular poetry. The flower of the German sacred poetry +of the middle ages is, perhaps, <i>Barlaam and Josaphat</i>, a poem in which +the dogma of self-denial, of continence, of renunciation, of the scorn +of all worldly pleasures, is most consistently expressed. Next in order +of merit I would rank <i>Lobgesang auf den Heiligen Anno</i>, but the latter +poem already evinces a<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a> marked tendency towards secular themes. It +differs in general from the former somewhat as a Byzantine image of a +saint differs from an old German representation. Just as in these +Byzantine pictures, so also do we find in <i>Barlaam and Josaphat</i> the +greatest simplicity; there is no perspective, and the long, lean, +statue-like forms, and the grave, ideal countenances, stand severely +outlined, as though in bold relief against a background of pale gold. In +the <i>Lobgesang auf den Heiligen Anno</i>, as in the old German pictures, +the accessories seem almost more prominent than the subject; and, +notwithstanding the bold outlines, every detail is most minutely +executed, and one knows not which to admire most, the giant-like +conception or the dwarf-like patience of execution. Ottfried's +<i>Evangeliengedicht</i>, which is generally praised as the masterpiece of +this sacred poetry, is far inferior to both of these poems.</p> + +<p>In the secular poetry we find, as intimated above, first, the cycle of +legends called the <i>Nibelungenlied</i>, and the <i>Book of Heroes</i>. In these +poems all the ante-Christian modes of thought and feelings are dominant; +brute force is not yet moderated into chivalry; the sturdy warriors of +the North stand like statues of stone, and the soft light and moral +atmosphere of Christianity have not yet penetrated their iron armour. +But dawn is gradually breaking over the old German forests, the ancient +Druid oaks are being felled, and in the open arena Christianity and +Paganism are battling: all this is portrayed in the cycle of traditions +of Charlemagne; even the Crusades with their religious tendencies are +mirrored therein. But now from this Christianised, spiritualised brute +force is developed the peculiar feature of the middle ages, chivalry, +which finally becomes exalted into a religious knighthood. The earlier<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> +knighthood is most felicitously portrayed in the legends of King Arthur, +which are full of the most charming gallantry, the most finished +courtesy, and the most daring bravery. From the midst of the pleasing, +though bizarre, arabesques, and the fantastic, flowery mazes of these +tales, we are greeted by the gentle Gawain, the worthy Lancelot of the +Lake, by the valiant, gallant, and honest, but somewhat tedious, +Wigalois. By the side of this cycle of legends we find the kindred and +connected legends of the Holy Grail, in which the religious knighthood +is glorified, and in which are to be found the three grandest poems of +the middle ages, <i>Titurel</i>, <i>Parcival</i>, and <i>Lohengrin</i>. In these poems +we stand face to face, as it were, with the muse of romantic poetry; we +look deep into her large, sad eyes, and ere we are aware she has +ensnared us in her network of scholasticism, and drawn us down into the +weird depths of mediæval mysticism. But further on in this period we +find poems which do not unconditionally bow down to Christian +spirituality; poems in which it is even attacked, and in which the poet, +breaking loose from the fetters of an abstract Christian morality, +complacently plunges into the delightful realm of glorious sensuousness. +Nor is it an inferior poet who has left us <i>Tristan and Isolde</i>, the +masterpiece of this class. Verily, I must confess that Gottfried von +Strasburg, the author of this, the most exquisite poem of the middle +ages, is perhaps also the loftiest poet of that period. He surpasses +even the grandeur of Wolfram von Eschilbach, whose <i>Parcival</i>, and +fragments of <i>Titurel</i>, are so much admired. At present, it is perhaps +permissible to praise Meister Gottfried without stint, but in his own +time his book and similar poems, to which even <i>Lancelot</i> belonged, were +considered Godless and dangerous. Francesca da Polenta and her handsome +friend paid dearly<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a> for reading together such a book;—the greater +danger, it is true, lay in the fact that they suddenly stopped reading.</p> + +<p>All the poetry of the middle ages has a certain definite character, +through which it differs from the poetry of the Greeks and Romans. In +reference to this difference the former is called Romantic, the latter +Classic. These names, however, are misleading, and have hitherto caused +the most vexatious confusion, which is even increased when we call the +antique poetry plastic as well as classic. In this, particularly, lay +the germ of misunderstandings; for artists ought always to treat their +subject-matter plastically. Whether it be Christian or pagan, the +subject ought to be portrayed in clear contours. In short, plastic +configuration should be the main requisite in the modern romantic as +well as in antique art. And, in fact, are not the figures in Dante's +<i>Divine Comedy</i> or in the paintings of Raphael just as plastic as those +in Virgil or on the walls of Herculaneum?</p> + +<p>The difference consists in this,—that the plastic figures in antique +art are identical with the thing represented, with the idea which the +artist seeks to communicate. Thus, for example, the wanderings of the +Odyssey mean nothing else than the wanderings of the man who was a son +of Laertes and the husband of Penelope, and was called Ulysses. Thus, +again, the Bacchus which is to be seen in the Louvre is nothing more +than the charming son of Semele, with a daring melancholy look in his +eyes, and an inspired voluptuousness on the soft arched lips. It is +otherwise in romantic art: here the wanderings of a knight have an +esoteric signification; they typify, perhaps, the mazes of life in +general. The dragon that is vanquished is sin; the almond-tree, that +from afar so encouragingly wafts its fragrance to the hero, is the +Trinity, the God-Father, God-<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>Son, and God-Holy-Ghost, who together +constitute one, just as shell, fibre, and kernel together constitute the +almond. When Homer describes the armour of a hero, it is naught else +than a good armour, which is worth so many oxen; but when a monk of the +middle ages describes in his poem the garments of the Mother of God, you +may depend upon it, that by each fold of those garments he typifies some +special virtue, and that a peculiar meaning lies hidden in the sacred +robes of the immaculate Virgin Mary; as her Son is the kernel of the +almond, she is quite appropriately described in the poem as an +almond-blossom. Such is the character of that poesy of the middle ages +which we designate <i>romantic</i>.</p> + +<p>Classic art had to portray only the finite, and its forms could be +identical with the artist's idea. Romantic art had to represent, or +rather to typify, the infinite and the spiritual, and therefore was +compelled to have recourse to a system of traditional, or rather +parabolic, symbols, just as Christ himself had endeavoured to explain +and make clear his spiritual meaning through beautiful parables. Hence +the mystic, enigmatical, miraculous, and transcendental character of the +art-productions of the middle ages. Fancy strives frantically to portray +through concrete images that which is purely spiritual, and in the vain +endeavour invents the most colossal absurdities; it piles Ossa on +Pelion, Parcival on Titurel, to reach heaven.</p> + +<p>Similar monstrous abortions of imagination have been produced by the +Scandinavians, the Hindoos, and the other races which likewise strive +through poetry to represent the infinite; among them also do we find +poems which may be regarded as romantic.</p> + +<p>Concerning the music of the middle ages little can be said. All records +are wanting. It was not until late in<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> the sixteenth century that the +masterpieces of Catholic Church music came into existence, and, of their +kind, they cannot be too highly prized, for they are the purest +expression of Christian spirituality. The recitative arts, being +spiritual in their nature, quite appropriately flourished in +Christendom. But this religion was less propitious for the plastic arts, +for as the latter were to represent the victory of spirit over matter, +and were nevertheless compelled to use matter as a means to carry out +this representation, they had to accomplish an unnatural task. Hence +sculpture and painting abounded with such revolting subjects as +martyrdoms, crucifixions, dying saints, and physical sufferings in +general. The treatment of such subjects must have been torture for the +artists themselves; and when I look at those distorted images, with +pious heads awry, long, thin arms, meagre legs, and graceless drapery, +which are intended to represent Christian abstinence and ethereality, I +am filled with an unspeakable compassion for the artists of that period. +It is true the painters were somewhat more favoured, for colour, the +material of their representation, in its intangibility, in its varied +lights and shades, was not so completely at variance with spirituality +as the material of the sculptors; But even they, the painters, were +compelled to disfigure the patient canvas with the most revolting +representations of physical suffering. In truth, when we view certain +picture galleries, and behold nothing but scenes of blood, scourgings, +and executions, we are fain to believe that the old masters painted +these pictures for the gallery of an executioner.</p> + +<p>But human genius can transfigure deformity itself, and many painters +succeeded in accomplishing the unnatural task beautifully and sublimely. +The Italians, in particular, glorified beauty,—it is true, somewhat at +the expense of<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a> spirituality,—and raised themselves aloft to an +ideality which reached its perfection in the many representations of the +Madonna. Where it concerned the Madonna, the Catholic clergy always made +some concessions to sensuality. This image of an immaculate beauty, +transfigured by motherly love and sorrow, was privileged to receive the +homage of poet and painter, and to be decked with all the charms that +could allure the senses. For this image was a magnet, which was to draw +the great masses into the pale of Christianity. Madonna Maria was the +pretty <i>dame du comptoir</i> of the Catholic Church, whose customers, +especially the barbarians of the North, she attracted and held fast by +her celestial smiles.</p> + +<p>During the middle ages architecture was of the same character as the +other arts; for, indeed, at that period all manifestations of life +harmonised most wonderfully. In architecture, as in poetry, this +parabolising tendency was evident. Now, when we enter an old cathedral, +we have scarcely a hint of the esoteric meaning of its stony symbolism. +Only the general impression forces itself on our mind. We feel the +exaltation of the spirit and the abasement of the flesh. The interior of +the cathedral is a hollow cross, and we walk here amid the instruments +of martyrdom itself. The variegated windows cast on us their red and +green lights, like drops of blood and ichor; requiems for the dead +resound through the aisles; under our feet are gravestones and decay; in +harmony with the colossal pillars, the soul soars aloft, painfully +tearing itself away from the body, which sinks to the ground like a +cast-off garment. When one views from without these Gothic cathedrals, +these immense structures, that are built so airily, so delicately, so +daintily, as transparent as if carved, like Brabant laces made of +marble, then only does one<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a> realise the might of that art which could +achieve a mastery over stone, so that even this stubborn substance +should appear spectrally etherealised, and be an exponent of Christian +spiritualism.</p> + +<p>But the arts are only the mirror of life; and when Catholicism +disappeared from daily life, so also it faded and vanished out of the +arts. At the time of the Reformation Catholic poetry was gradually dying +out in Europe, and in its place we behold the long-buried Grecian style +of poetry again reviving. It was, in sooth, only an artificial spring, +the work of the gardener and not of the sun; the trees and flowers were +stuck in narrow pots, and a glass sky protected them from the wind and +cold weather.</p> + +<p>In the world's history every event is not the direct consequence of +another, but all events mutually act and react on one another. It was +not alone through the Greek scholars who, after the conquest of +Constantinople, immigrated over to us, that the love for Grecian art, +and the striving to imitate it, became universal among us; but in art as +in life, there was stirring a contemporary Protestantism. Leo X., the +magnificent Medici, was just as zealous a Protestant as Luther; and as +in Wittenburg protest was offered in Latin prose, so in Rome the protest +was made in stone, colours, and <i>ottava rime</i>. For do not the vigorous +marble statues of Michael Angelo, Giulio Romano's laughing nymph-faces, +and the life-intoxicated merriment in the verses of Master Ludovico,<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> +offer a protesting contrast to the old, gloomy, withered Catholicism? +The painters of Italy combated priestdom more effectively, perhaps, than +did the Saxon theologians. The glowing flesh in the paintings of +Titian,—all that is simple Protestantism. The<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a> limbs of his Venus are +much more fundamental theses than those which the German monk nailed to +the church door of Wittenburg. Mankind felt itself suddenly liberated, +as it were, from the thraldom of a thousand years; the artists, in +particular, breathed freely again when the Alp-like burden of +Christianity was rolled from off their breasts; they plunged +enthusiastically into the sea of Grecian mirthfulness, from whose foam +the goddess of beauty again rose to meet them; again did the painters +depict the ambrosial joys of Olympus; again did the sculptors, with the +olden love, chisel the heroes of antiquity from out the marble blocks; +again did the poets sing of the house of Atreus and of Laios; a new era +of classic poetry arose.</p> + +<p>In France, under Louis XIV., this neo-classic poetry exhibited a +polished perfection, and, to a certain extent, even originality. Through +the political influence of the <i>grand monarque</i> this new classic poetry +spread over the rest of Europe. In Italy, where it was already at home, +it received a French colouring; the Anjous brought with them to Spain +the heroes of French tragedy; it accompanied Madame Henriette to +England; and, as a matter of course, we Germans modelled our clumsy +temple of art after the bepowdered Olympus of Versailles. The most +famous high priest of this temple was Gottsched, that old periwigged +pate, whom our dear Goethe has so felicitously described in his memoirs.</p> + +<p>Lessing was the literary Arminius who emancipated our theatre from that +foreign rule. He showed us the vapidness, the ridiculousness, the +tastelessness, of those apings of the French stage, which itself was but +an imitation of the Greek. But not only by his criticism, but also +through his own works of art, did he become the founder<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> of modern +German original literature. All the paths of the intellect, all the +phases of life, did this man pursue with disinterested enthusiasm. Art, +theology, antiquarianism, poetry, dramatic criticism, history,—he +studied these all with the same zeal and with the same aim. In all his +works breathes the same grand social idea, the same progressive +humanity, the same religion of reason, whose John he was, and whose +Messiah we still await. This religion he preached always, but alas! +often quite alone and in the desert. Moreover, he lacked the skill to +transmute stones into bread. The greater portion of his life was spent +in poverty and misery—a curse which rests on almost all the great minds +of Germany, and which probably will only be overcome by the political +emancipation. Lessing was more deeply interested in political questions +than was imagined,—a characteristic which we entirely miss in his +contemporaries. Only now do we comprehend what he had in view by his +description of the petty despotisms in <i>Emilia Galotti</i>. At that time he +was considered merely a champion of intellectual liberty and an opponent +of clerical intolerance; his theological writings were better +understood. The fragments "Concerning the Education of the Human race," +which have been translated into French by Eugene Rodrigue, will perhaps +suffice to give the French an idea of the wide scope of Lessing's +genius. His two critical works which have had the most influence on art +are his <i>Hamburger Dramaturgie</i> and his <i>Laocoön, or Concerning the +Limits of Painting and Poetry</i>. His best dramatic works are <i>Emilia +Galotti</i>, <i>Minna von Barnhelm</i>, and <i>Nathan the Wise</i>.</p> + +<p>Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was born January 22nd, 1729, at Kamenz, in +Upper Lusatia, and died February 15th, 1781, at Brunswick. He was a +whole man, who;<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a> while with his polemics waging destructive battle +against the old, at the same time created something newer and better. +"He resembled," says a German author, "those pious Jews, who, at the +second building of the temple, were often disturbed by the attacks of +their enemies, and with one hand would fight against the foe, while with +the other hand they continued to work at the house of God." This is not +the place to discuss Lessing more fully, but I cannot refrain from +saying that, in the whole range of literary history, he is the author +whom I most love.</p> + +<p>I desire here to call attention to another author, who worked in the +same spirit and with the same aim, and who may be regarded as Lessing's +most legitimate successor. It is true, a criticism of this author would +be out of place here, for he occupies a peculiarly isolated place in the +history of literature, and his relation to his epoch and contemporaries +cannot even now be definitely pronounced. I refer to Johann Gottfried +Herder, born in 1744, at Morungen, in East Prussia; died in 1803, at +Weimar, in Saxony.</p> + +<p>The history of literature is a great morgue, wherein each seeks the dead +who are near or dear to him. And when, among the corpses of so many +petty men, I behold the noble features of a Lessing or a Herder, my +heart throbs with emotion. How could I pass you without pressing a hasty +kiss on your pale lips?</p> + +<p>But if Lessing effectually put an end to the servile apings of +Franco-Grecian art, yet, by directing attention to the true art-works of +Grecian antiquity, to a certain extent he gave an impetus to a new and +equally silly species of imitation. Through his warfare against +religious superstition he even advanced a certain narrow-minded <i>jejune</i> +enlightenment, which at that time vaunted itself in Berlin;<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a> the sainted +Nicolai was its principal mouthpiece, and the German Encyclopædia its +arsenal. The most wretched mediocrity began again to raise its head, +more disgustingly than ever. Imbecility, vapidity, and the commonplace +distended themselves like the frog in the fable.</p> + +<p>It is an error to believe that Goethe, who at that time had already +appeared upon the scene, had met with general recognition. His <i>Goetz +von Berlichingen</i> and his <i>Werther</i> were received with enthusiasm, but +the works of the most ordinary bungler not less so, and Goethe occupied +but a small niche in the temple of literature. It is true, as said +before, that the public welcomed Goetz and Werther with delight, but +more on account of the subject matter than their artistic merits, which +few were able to appreciate. Of these masterpieces, <i>Goetz von +Berlichingen</i> was a dramatised romance of chivalry, which was the +popular style at that time. In <i>Werther</i> the public saw only an +embellished account of an episode in real life—namely, the story of +young Jerusalem, a youth who shot himself from disappointed love, +thereby creating quite a commotion in that dead-calm period. Tears were +shed over his pathetic letters, and it was shrewdly observed that the +manner in which Werther had been ostracised from the society of the +nobility must have increased his weariness of life. The discussion +concerning suicide brought the book still more into notice; a few fools +hit upon the idea of shooting themselves in imitation of Werther, and +thus the book made a marked sensation. But the romances of August +Lafontaine were in equal demand, and as the latter was a voluminous +writer, it followed that he was more famous than Wolfgang Goethe. +Wieland was the great poet of that period, and his only rival was Herr +Ramler of Berlin. Wieland was worshipped idolatrously, more than Goethe<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> +ever was. Iffland, with his lachrymose domestic dramas, and Kotzebue's +farces, with their stale witticisms, ruled the stage.</p> + +<p>It was against this literature that, in the closing years of the last +century, there arose in Germany a new school, which we have designated +the Romantic School. At the head of this school stand the brothers +August William and Frederic Schlegel. Jena, where these two brothers, +together with many kindred spirits, were wont to come and go, was the +central point from which the new æsthetic dogma radiated. I advisedly +say dogma, for this school began with a criticism of the art productions +of the past, and with recipes for the art works of the future. In both +of these fields the Schlegelian school has rendered good service to +æsthetic criticism. In criticising the art works of the past, either +their defects and imperfections were set forth, or their merits and +beauties illustrated. In their polemics, in their exposure of artistic +shortcomings and imperfections, the Schlegels were entirely imitators of +Lessing; they seized upon his great battle-sword, but the arm of August +William Schlegel was far too feeble, and the sight of his brother +Frederic too much obscured by mystic clouds; the former could not strike +so strong, nor the latter so sure and telling a blow as Lessing. In +reproductive criticism, however, where the beauties of a work of art +were to be brought out clearly; where a delicate perception of +individualities was required; and where these were to be made +intelligible, the Schlegels are far superior to Lessing. But what shall +I say concerning their recipes for producing masterpieces? Here the +Schlegels reveal the same impotency that we seem to discover in Lessing. +The latter also, strong as he is in negation, is equally weak in +affirmation; seldom can he lay<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a> down any fundamental principle, and even +more rarely, a correct one. He lacks the firm foundation of a +philosophy, or a synthetic system. In this respect the Schlegels are +still more woefully lacking. Many fables are rife concerning the +influence of Fichtean idealism and Schelling's philosophy of nature upon +the romantic school, and it is even asserted that the latter is entirely +the result of the former. I can, however, at the most discover the +traces of only a few stray thoughts of Fichte and Schelling, but by no +means the impress of a system of philosophy. It is true that Schelling, +who at that time was delivering lectures at Jena, had personally a great +influence upon the romantic school. Schelling is also somewhat of a +poet, a fact not generally known in France, and it is said that he is +still in doubt whether he shall not publish his entire philosophical +works in poetical, yes, even in metrical form. This doubt is +characteristic of the man.</p> + +<p>But if the Schlegels could give no definite, reliable theory for the +masterpieces which they bespoke of the poets of their school, they +atoned for these shortcomings by commending as models the best works of +art of the past, and by making them accessible to their disciples. These +were chiefly the Christian-Catholic productions of the middle ages. The +translation of Shakespeare, who stands at the frontier of this art and +with Protestant clearness smiles over into our modern era, was solely +intended for polemical purposes, the present discussion of which space +forbids. It was undertaken by A. W. Schlegel at a time when the +enthusiasm for the middle ages had not yet reached its most extravagant +height. Later, when this did occur, Calderon was translated and ranked +far above Shakespeare. For the works of Calderon bear most distinctly +the impress of the poetry of the middle ages—particularly of the two<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a> +principal epochs of knight-errantry and monasticism. The pious comedies +of the Castilian priest-poet, whose poetical flowers had been +besprinkled with holy water and canonical perfumes, with all their pious +<i>grandezza</i>, with all their sacerdotal splendour, with all their +sanctimonious balderdash, were now set up as models, and Germany swarmed +with fantastically-pious, insanely-profound poems, over which it was the +fashion to work one's self into a mystic ecstasy of admiration, as in +<i>The Devotion to the Cross</i>, or to fight in honour of the Madonna, as in +<i>The Constant Prince</i>. Zacharias Werner carried the nonsense as far as +it might be safely done without being imprisoned by the authorities in a +lunatic asylum.</p> + +<p>Our poetry, said the Schlegels, is superannuated; our muse is an old and +wrinkled hag; our Cupid is no fair youth, but a shrunken, grey-haired +dwarf. Our emotions are withered; our imagination is dried up: we must +re-invigorate ourselves. We must seek again the choked-up springs of the +naïve, simple poetry of the middle ages, where bubbles the elixir of +youth. When the parched, thirsty multitude heard this, they did not long +delay. They were eager to be again young and blooming, and, hastening to +those miraculous waters, quaffed and gulped with intemperate greediness. +But the same fate befell them as happened to the aged waiting-maid who +noticed that her mistress possessed a magic elixir which restored youth. +During her lady's absence she took from the toilet drawer the small +flagon which contained the elixir, but, instead of drinking only a few +drops, she took a long deep draught, so that through the power of the +rejuvenating beverage she became not only young again, but even a puny, +puling babe. In sooth, so was it with our excellent Ludwig Tieck, one of +the best poets of this school; he drank so<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a> deeply of the mediæval folk +tales and ballads that he became almost as a child again, and dropped +into that childlike lisping which it cost Madame de Staël so much +painstaking to admire. She confesses that she found it rather strange to +have one of the characters in a drama make his <i>début</i> with a monologue, +which begins with the words:—"I am the brave Bonifacius, and I come to +tell you," etc.</p> + +<p>By his romance, <i>Sternbald's Wanderungen</i>, and through his publication +of the <i>Herzensergies sungen eines Kunstliebenden Klosterbruders</i>, +written by a certain Wackenroder, Ludwig Tieck sought to set up the +naïve, crude beginnings of art as models. The piety and childishness of +these works, which are revealed in their technical awkwardness, were +recommended for imitation. Raphael was to be ignored entirely; his +teacher, Perugino, fared almost as badly, although rated somewhat +higher, for it was claimed that he showed some traces of those beauties +which were to be found in their full bloom in the immortal masterpieces +of Fra Giovanno Angelico da Fiesole, and were so devoutly admired. If +the reader wishes to form an idea of the taste of the art-enthusiasts of +that period, let him go to the Louvre, where the best pictures of those +masters, who were then worshipped without bounds, are still on +exhibition; and if the reader wishes to form an idea of the great mass +of poets who at that time, in all possible varieties of verse, imitated +the poetry of the middle ages, let him visit the lunatic asylum at +Charenton.</p> + +<p>I believe, however, that those pictures in the first salon of the Louvre +are still too graceful to give the observer a correct idea of the art +ideals of that period. The pictures of the old Italian school must be +imagined translated into the old German, for the works of the old German +painters<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a> were considered more artless and childlike, and therefore more +worthy of imitation than the old Italian. It was claimed that we +Germans, with our <i>Gemüth</i>, a word for which the French language has no +equivalent, have been able to form a more profound conception of +Christianity than other nations, and Frederic Schlegel, and his friend, +Joseph Görres, rummaged among the ancient Rhine cities for the remains +of old German pictures and statuary, which were superstitiously +worshipped as holy relics.</p> + +<p>I have just likened the German Parnassus of that period to Charenton. +Even that, however, is too mild a comparison. A French madness falls far +short of a German lunacy in violence, for in the latter, as Polonius +would say, there is method. With a pedantry without its equal, with an +intense conscientiousness, with a profundity of which a superficial +French fool can form no conception, this German folly was pursued.</p> + +<p>The political condition of Germany was particularly favourable to those +Christian old German tendencies. "Need teaches prayer," says the +proverb; and truly never was the need greater in Germany. Hence the +masses were more than ever inclined to prayer, to religion, to +Christianity. No people is more loyally attached to its rulers than are +the Germans. And more even than the sorrowful condition to which the +country was reduced through war and foreign rule did the mournful +spectacle of their vanquished princes, creeping at the feet of Napoleon, +afflict and grieve the Germans. The whole nation resembled those +faithful old servants in once great but now reduced families, who feel +more keenly than even their masters all the humiliations to which the +latter are exposed, and who in secret weep most bitterly when the family +silver is to be<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> sold, and who clandestinely contribute their pitiful +savings, so that patrician wax candles and not plebeian tallow dips +shall grace the family table—just as we see it so touchingly depicted +in the old plays. The universal sadness found consolation in religion, +and there ensued a pious resignation to the will of God, from whom alone +help could come. And, in fact, against Napoleon none could help but God +Himself. No reliance could be placed on the earthly legions; hence all +eyes were religiously turned to Heaven.</p> + +<p>We would have submitted to Napoleon quietly enough, but our princes, +while they hoped for deliverance through Heaven, were at the same time +not unfriendly to the thought, that the united strength of their +subjects might be very useful in effecting their purpose. Hence they +sought to awaken in the German people a sense of homogeneity, and even +the most exalted personages now spoke of a German nationality, of a +common German fatherland, of a union of the Christian-Germanic races, of +the unity of Germany. We were commanded to be patriotic, and straightway +we became patriots,—for we always obey when our princes command.</p> + +<p>But it must not be supposed that the word "patriotism" means the same in +Germany as in France. The patriotism of the French consists in this: the +heart warms; through this warmth it expands; it enlarges so as to +encompass, with its all-embracing love, not only the nearest and +dearest, but all France, all civilisation. The patriotism of the +Germans, on the contrary, consists in narrowing and contracting the +heart, just as leather contracts in the cold; in hating foreigners; in +ceasing to be European and cosmopolitan, and in adopting a narrow-minded +and exclusive Germanism. We beheld this ideal empire of<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a> churlishness +organised into a system by Herr Jahn; with it began the crusade of the +vulgar, the coarse, the great unwashed—against the grandest and holiest +idea ever brought forth in Germany, the idea of humanitarianism; the +idea of the universal brotherhood of mankind, of cosmopolitanism—an +idea to which our great minds, Lessing, Herder, Schiller, Goethe, Jean +Paul, and all people of culture in Germany, have ever paid homage.</p> + +<p>With the events that speedily followed you are only too familiar. After +God, the snow, and the Cossacks had destroyed the best portion of +Napoleon's forces, we Germans received the command from those highest in +authority to free ourselves from the foreign yoke, and we straightway +flamed with manly wrath at the bondage too long endured; and we let +ourselves be excited to enthusiasm by the fine melodies, but bad verses, +of Köerner's ballads, and we fought until we won our freedom—for we +always do what our princes command.</p> + +<p>At a period when the crusade against Napoleon was forming, a school +which was inimical to everything French, and which exalted everything in +art and life that was Teutonic, could not help achieving great +popularity. The Romantic School at that time went hand in hand with the +machinations of the government and the secret societies, and A. W. +Schlegel conspired against Racine with the same aim that Minister Stein +plotted against Napoleon. This school of literature floated with the +stream of the times; that is to say, with the stream that flowed +backwards to its source. When finally German patriotism and nationality +were victorious, the popular Teutonic-Christian-romantic school, "the +new-German-religious-patriotic art-school," triumphed also. Napoleon, +the great classic, who was as classic as Alexander or Cæsar, was +overthrown, and<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a> August William and Frederic Schlegel, the petty +romanticists, who were as romantic as Tom Thumb and Puss in Boots, +strutted about as victors.</p> + +<p>But the reaction which always follows excess was in this case not long +in coming. As the spiritualism of Christianity was a reaction against +the brutal rule of imperial Roman materialism; as the revival of the +love for Grecian art and science was a reaction against the +extravagances of Christian spiritualism; as the romanticism of the +middle ages may also be considered as a reaction against the vapid +apings of antique classic art; so also do we now behold a reaction +against the re-introduction of that catholic, feudal mode of thought, of +that knight-errantry and priestdom, which were being inculcated through +literature and the pictorial arts, under bewildering circumstances. For +when the artists of the middle ages were recommended as models, and were +so highly praised and admired, the only explanation of their superiority +that could be given was that these men believed in that which they +depicted, and that, therefore, with their artless conceptions they could +accomplish more than the later sceptical artists, notwithstanding that +the latter excelled in technical skill. In short, it was claimed that +faith worked wonders, and, in truth, how else could the transcendent +merits of a Fra Angelico da Fiesole or the poems of Brother Ottfried be +explained? Hence the artists who were honest in their devotion to art, +and who sought to imitate the pious distortions of those miraculous +pictures, the sacred uncouthness of those marvel-abounding poems, and +the inexplicable mysticisms of those olden works—these artists +determined to wander to the same hippocrene whence the old masters had +derived their supernatural inspiration. They made a pilgrimage to Rome, +where the vicegerent of Christ was<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a> to re-invigorate consumptive German +art with asses' milk. In brief, they betook themselves to the lap of the +Roman-Catholic-Apostolic Church, where alone, according to their +doctrine, salvation was to be secured. Many of the adherents of the +romantic school—for instance, Joseph Görres and Clemens Brentano—were +Catholics by birth, and required no formal ceremony to mark their +re-adhesion to the Catholic faith; they merely renounced their former +free-thinking views. Others, however, such as Frederic Schlegel, Ludwig +Tieck, Novalis, Werner, Schütz, Carové, Adam Müller, etc., were born and +bred Protestants, and their conversion to Catholicism required a public +ceremony. The above list of names includes only authors; the number of +painters, who in swarms simultaneously abjured Protestantism and reason, +was much larger.</p> + +<p>When it was seen how these young people made obeisance, as it were, to +the Roman Catholic Church, and pressed their way into ancient prisons of +the mind, from which their fathers had so valiantly liberated +themselves, much misgiving was felt in Germany. But when it was +discovered that this propaganda was the work of priests and aristocrats, +who had conspired against the religious and political liberties of +Europe; when it was seen that it was Jesuitism itself which was seeking, +with the dulcet tones of Romanticism, to lure the youth of Germany to +their ruin, after the manner of the mythical rat-catcher of Hamelin; +when all this became known, there was great excitement and indignation +in Germany among the friends of Protestantism and intellectual freedom.</p> + +<p>I have mentioned intellectual freedom and Protestantism together; +although, in Germany, I profess the Protestant religion, yet I trust no +one will accuse me of a prejudice in its favour. It is entirely without +partiality that I have<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> named Protestantism and free-thought together, +for in Germany they really stand on a friendly footing towards one +another. At all events they are akin, and that as mother and daughter. +Even if the Protestant Church may be charged with a certain odious +narrow-mindedness, yet to its immortal honour be it said, that by +allowing the right of free investigation in the Christian religion, and +by liberating the minds of men from the yoke of authority, it made it +possible for free-thought to strike root in Germany, and for science to +develop an independent existence. Although German philosophy now proudly +takes its stand by the side of the Protestant Church; yes, even assumes +an air of superiority; yet it is only the daughter of the latter, and as +such owes her filial respect and consideration; and when threatened by +Jesuitism, the common foe of them both, the bonds of kindred demanded +that they should combine for mutual defence. All the friends of +intellectual freedom and the Protestant Church, sceptics as well as +orthodox, simultaneously arose against the restoration of Catholicism, +and, as a matter of course, the Liberals, who were not specially +concerned either for the welfare of the Protestant Church or of +philosophy, but for the interests of civil liberty, also joined the +ranks of this opposition. In Germany, however, the Liberals had always, +up to the present time, been students both of philosophy and theology, +and the idea of liberty for which they fought was always the same, +whether the subject under discussion was exclusively political, +philosophical, or theological. This is most clearly manifest in the life +of the man, who, at the very outset of the romantic school in Germany, +undermined its foundation, and contributed the most to its overthrow. I +refer to Johann Heinrich Voss.</p> + +<p>This writer is altogether unknown in France, and yet<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> there are few to +whom the German people are more indebted for their intellectual +development. After Lessing, he is probably the greatest citizen in +German literature. He certainly was a great man, and deserves more than +a mere passing mention.</p> + +<p>The biography of this man is that of nearly all German authors of the +old school. He was the son of poor parents, and was born at Mecklenberg +in 1751. He studied theology, but did not pursue it as a career. When, +however, he became acquainted with poetry and Greek, he devoted himself +zealously to both. In order not to starve he took to teaching, and +became schoolmaster at Otterndorf, in Hadeln. He translated the +ancients, and lived to the age of seventy-five, poor, frugal, and +industrious. He enjoyed an excellent reputation among the poets of the +old school, but the poets of the new romantic school were continually +plucking at his laurels, and they scoffed not a little at the honest, +old-fashioned Voss, who, however, went on in his straight-forward way, +picturing the life on the lower Elbe, sometimes even writing in the +Platt-Deutsch dialect. He selected no mediæval knights or madonnas as +the heroes and heroines of his works, but chose for his theme the life +of a simple Protestant parson and his virtuous family. Voss was so +thoroughly wholesome, so bourgeois, so natural; while they, the new +troubadours, were so morbid and somnambulistic, so high-flown and +aristocratic, and altogether so unnatural. To Frederic Schlegel, the +intoxicated poet of the dissolute, romantic Lucinde, the staid and sober +Voss, with his "chaste Louise" and his "aged and venerable parson of +Grunau," must have been very obnoxious. August Wilhelm Schlegel, who +never was so sincere as his brother in his glorification of profligacy +and of Catholicism, harmonised much better with old Voss,<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a> and between +the two there existed only the rivalry of translators, a rivalry which +has been very beneficial for German literature. Even before the rise of +the new school, Voss had translated Homer; now, with an unprecedented +industry, he translated the other heathen poets of antiquity, while +August Wilhelm Schlegel translated the Christian poets of the +romantic-Catholic period. Secret polemical motives inspired them both. +Voss aimed to advance classic poetry and modes of thought through his +translations, while A. W. Schlegel sought, through good translations, to +make the Christian-romantic poets accessible to the public for imitation +and culture. In sooth, this antagonism manifested itself even in the +forms of speech used by the two translators. While Schlegel became ever +more fastidious and finical in his style, Voss grew more brusque and +rugged. The language in the latter's later translations is as rough as a +file, and at times almost unpronounceable. If one is liable to slip on +the smooth, highly-polished, mahogany-like surface of Schlegel's poems, +there is equal danger of stumbling over Voss's versified blocks of +granite. In a spirit of rivalry, Voss finally attempted a translation of +Shakespeare, a work which Schlegel had accomplished so successfully in +his earlier years. In this undertaking Voss fared very badly, and his +publisher still worse; the translation was a total failure. If +Schlegel's translation, perhaps, reads too smoothly; if his verses +sometimes give the impression of whipped cream, and leave the reader in +doubt whether it is to be eaten or be drunk;—Voss's, on the other hand, +is as hard as stone, and reading his verses aloud makes one fear a +dislocation of the jaw-bone. But that which especially distinguished +Voss was the energy with which he battled against all difficulties; he +not only wrestled with the<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> German language, but also with that +aristocratic Jesuitic monster, which at that period raised its unsightly +head from amidst the dark forest depths of German literature: and Voss +dealt the monster a telling blow.</p> + +<p>Herr Wolfgang Menzel, a German author, who is known as one of the +bitterest opponents of Voss, dubs him "a Saxon boor." Notwithstanding +the unfriendly sense in which this epithet is applied, it is +nevertheless very fitting. In truth, Voss is "a Saxon boor," just as +Luther was one: he lacks all that is chivalrous, courteous, and +gracious; he was every inch one of that rude, rough, sturdy race, to +whom Christianity could be preached only by fire and sword, and who only +submitted to that religion after losing three battles, but who in their +customs and ways still retain much of the old Norse pagan doggedness, +and in their material and intellectual combats show themselves as +valiant and as stubborn as their ancient gods. When I contemplate Johann +Heinrich Voss in his polemics and in his whole manner, I seem to see +before me the ancient one-eyed Odin himself, who has left Asgard and has +become a school-teacher in the province of Hadeln, and there teaches +Latin declination and the Christian catechism to the little +flaxen-haired Holsteiners; in his leisure hours he translates the Greek +poets into German, and borrows from Thor his great hammer to beat the +verses into shape; but after a while, becoming tired of the tedious +work, he takes the hammer and cracks poor Fritz Stolberg on the head.</p> + +<p>That was a famous affair. Frederick, Count of Stolberg, was a poet of +the old school, and was remarkably popular in Germany, not, perhaps, so +much on account of his poetic talents as for his title of count, which +at that time counted for more in German literature than it does now. +Fritz Stolberg, however, was a liberal man and had a noble<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a> heart, and +he was a friend of those less patrician youths, who in Göttingen were +seeking to found a poetic school. I recommend French literary men to +read the preface to the poems of Hölty, in which Johann Heinrich Voss +describes the idyllic life of the band of poets of which he and Fritz +Stolberg were members. Time passed, and these two only were left of all +that galaxy of youthful poets. When Fritz Stolberg, with great <i>éclat</i>, +joined the Catholic Church, abjuring reason and the love of freedom, +becoming a promoter of intellectual darkness, and by his aristocratic +example drawing many weaklings after him—then Johann Heinrich Voss, the +venerable man of three-score and ten, publicly entered the lists against +the friend of his youth, and wrote the little book, <i>Wie Ward Fritz +Stolberg ein Unfreier?</i> In it he analysed Stolberg's whole life, and +showed how the aristocratic tendency in the nature of his old comrade +had always existed, and that after the events of the French Revolution +that tendency had steadily become more pronounced; that Stolberg had +secretly joined an association of the nobility, which had for its +purpose to counteract the French ideas of liberty; that these nobles +entered into a league with the Jesuits; that they sought, through the +re-establishment of Catholicism, to advance also the interests of the +nobility: he exposed in general the ways and means by which the +reactionists were seeking to bring about the restoration of the +Christian-Catholic-feudal middle ages, and the destruction of Protestant +intellectual freedom and the political rights of the commonalty. Once, +ere the era of revolutions, good fellowship existed between German +democracy and German aristocracy; the former hoped for nothing, the +latter feared nothing; but now as grey-beards, they faced each other, +and fought a duel for life or death.</p> + +<p>That portion of the German public which did not<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> comprehend the +significance and terrible necessity of this struggle blamed poor Voss +for the ruthless revelation of confidential relations and private +affairs, which, however, taken as a whole, conclusively proved the +correctness of his charges. Then certain so-called æsthetic souls, far +too exalted and refined for such petty gossip, raised an outcry, and +accused poor Voss of being a scandal-monger. Other good citizens, who +feared that the curtain might be drawn from them, and their own +miserable shortcomings be exposed, waxed indignant over the violation of +the established rules of literary polemics, which strictly forbid all +personalities and disclosures of private affairs. It so happened that +Fritz Stolberg died soon after, and his death was attributed to grief; +and when, immediately after his death, his <i>Liebesbüchlein</i> was +published, in which he assumes the true Jesuitic tone, and speaks of his +poor deluded friend in terms of pious Christian forgiveness—then the +tears of German compassion fell thick and fast, and the German +Michel<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> assumed his most lugubrious expression, and all this flood of +sentimentality was turned into wrath against poor Voss; and most of the +abuse heaped upon him came from the very ones for whose intellectual and +material welfare he had battled.</p> + +<p>When one gets soundly thrashed in Germany one can always count on the +pity and tears of the multitude. In this respect the Germans resemble +those old crones who never miss an opportunity of witnessing an +execution, and who eagerly press to the front of the curious spectators, +setting up a bitter lamentation at sight of the poor wretch, and even +taking his part. The snivelling old women who attend literary +executions, and put on such grief-stricken airs, would nevertheless be +very much<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> disappointed if the poor sinner was suddenly to receive a +pardon, and they be sent trudging homeward without beholding the +anticipated flogging. Their worst fury would then be directed against +the one who had balked their expectation.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Voss's polemical writings exerted a powerful influence upon +the masses, and turned the current of public opinion against that +predilection for mediævalism which had been all the fashion. His +writings aroused Germany; many declared for Voss personally; a greater +portion supported his cause alone. The controversy waxed fiercer and +fiercer; attacks and rejoinders followed in quick succession, and the +last days of the old man were embittered by these quarrels. He had to +deal with the most dangerous opponents, the priesthood, who attacked him +under the most-varied guises. Not only the Crypto-Catholic, but also the +Pietists, the Quietists, the Lutheran Mystics; in brief, all the +supernaturalistic sects of the Protestant church, no matter how +decidedly they differed from one another in their creeds, yet they all +agreed in their great hatred of Johann Heinrich Voss, the rationalist. +This name is in Germany applied to those who hold that the claims of +reason should not be put aside in matters of religion, in opposition to +the supernaturalists, who to a greater or less degree discard reason in +religion. The latter, in their furious hate of the poor rationalists, +resemble the inmates of a lunatic asylum, who, although they will not +believe in each other's hallucinations, yet in a measure tolerate one +another. But with all the fiercer hate do they turn against the man whom +they consider their common enemy, who is no other than the physician who +seeks to restore their reason.</p> + +<p>While the romantic school was severely damaged in<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> public opinion by the +discovery of its Catholic tendencies, about the same time it received an +utterly crushing blow in its own temple, and that, too, from one of +those gods whom itself had enshrined there. For it was Wolfgang Goethe +who descended from his pedestal to pronounce the doom of the Schlegels, +the same high-priests who had offered him so much incense. That voice +annihilated the whole pack of hobgoblins; the spectres of the middle +ages fled; the owls crept again into their obscure castle-ruins, and the +ravens fluttered back to their old church-steeples. Frederic Schlegel +went to Vienna, where he attended mass daily and ate broiled fowl; A. W. +Schlegel withdrew into the pagoda of Brahma.</p> + +<p>Frankly confessed, Goethe at that time played a very ambiguous rôle, and +cannot be unconditionally praised. It is true, the Schlegels never were +sincere with him; perhaps they built him an altar, and offered him +incense, and taught the multitude to kneel before him, only because, in +their warfare against the old school, they needed a living poet to set +up as a model, and found none more suited for their purpose than Goethe; +and, perhaps, also, because they expected some literary favours from +him. Moreover, he was at such an easy distance from them. The road from +Jena to Weimar leads through an avenue of fine plum trees, and the +luscious fruit is very acceptable to the wayfarer when parched with the +summer heat. The Schlegels often travelled this road, and in Weimar they +had many an interview with Herr Geheimrath von Goethe, who was always a +finished diplomat. He listened quietly to what the Schlegels had to say, +smiled approvingly, occasionally dined them, showed them various +favours, etc. They also approached Schiller, but the latter was an +honest, straight-forward man, and would have nothing to do with them.<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> +The correspondence between Schiller and Goethe, which was published +three years ago, throws considerable light on the relations between +these two poets and the Schlegels. Goethe, haughtily and contemptuously, +mocks at them; Schiller is angry at their impertinent scandal-mongering, +and at their passion for notoriety, and he calls them "puppies."</p> + +<p>But although Goethe assumed such haughty airs towards them, it is +nevertheless true that he was indebted to the Schlegels for the greater +portion of his fame, for it was they who introduced and promoted the +study of his writings. The contemptuous and insulting manner with which +he eventually cast them off has a very strong flavour of ingratitude. +Perhaps Goethe, with his clear insight, was vexed that the Schlegels +should seek to use him as an instrument to accomplish their projects. +Perhaps those projects threatened to compromise him as the minister of a +Protestant state. Perhaps it was the ancient pagan godlike wrath that +awoke in him at sight of the mouldy Catholic follies. For as Voss +resembled the stalwart one-eyed Odin, so did Goethe, in form and figure, +resemble great Jupiter. The former was compelled to pound long and +vigorously with his Thor's hammer; the latter needed but angrily to +shake his majestic head, with its ambrosial locks, and the Schlegels +trembled and crept out of sight. A public statement of Goethe's +opposition to the romantic school appeared in his journal, <i>Kunst und +Alterthum</i>, and bore the title, <i>Concerning the +Christian-Patriotic-New-German School of Art</i>. With this article Goethe +made his eighteenth brumaire in German literature, for by chasing the +Schlegels so summarily out of the temple, and attaching to himself so +many of their young and zealous disciples, and being hailed with +acclamations by the public, to whom<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> the Schlegelian directory had long +been obnoxious, he established his autocratic sovereignty in German +literature. From that hour nothing more was heard of the Schlegels. Only +now and then their names were mentioned, just as one sometimes casually +speaks of Barras or of Gohier. Neither romantic nor classic poetry was +henceforth spoken of; everywhere it was nothing but Goethe. It is true +that several other poets arose in the meantime, who, in power and +imagination, were but little inferior to Goethe. But out of courtesy +they acknowledged him as their chief; they paid homage to him, they +kissed his hand, they knelt before him. These grandees of Parnassus +differed from the common multitude in being permitted to wear their +laurel-wreaths in Goethe's presence. Sometimes they even attacked him; +but they were always vexed when one of the lesser ones ventured to +assail him. No matter how angry aristocrats are with their sovereign, +they are always displeased when plebeians also dare to revolt. And, in +truth, the aristocrats of intellect had, during the last twenty years, +very good reasons to be irritated against Goethe. As I myself +unreservedly remarked at the time, not without bitterness, "Goethe +resembled Louis XI. of France, who abased the powerful nobility and +exalted the <i>tiers état</i>."</p> + +<p>That was despicable. Goethe feared every writer of independence and +originality, but glorified and praised all the petty authorlings. He +carried this so far, that to be praised by Goethe came at last to be +considered a brevet of mediocrity.</p> + +<p>Later I shall speak of the new poets who grew up during the Goethean +imperialism. They constitute a forest of young trees, whose true +magnitude has become perceptible only since the fall of that century-old +oak by whose<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> branches they had been so completely overtopped and +overshadowed. As already stated, there was not lacking a bitter and +zealous opposition against Goethe, that giant oak. Men of the most +diverse opinions were banded together in this opposition. The orthodox +were vexed that in the trunk of this great tree there was no niche +provided for the statuettes of the saints, but that, on the contrary, +even the nude dryads of heathendom were permitted to carry on their +witchery beneath it. The pietists would gladly have imitated Saint +Boniface, and with consecrated axe have felled this magic oak. The +liberals, on the other hand, were indignant that they could not use it +as a liberty tree and as a barricade. But, in truth, the tree was too +lofty to have a red cap placed on its top, or a carmagnole danced +beneath it. But the public at large honoured it just because it was so +stately and independent; because it filled the whole world with its +delicious fragrance; because its branches towered majestically to the +heavens, so that the stars seemed to be merely the golden fruit of the +great and wonderful tree.</p> + +<p>It is true, the opposition against Goethe began with the appearance of +the so-called pseudo <i>Wanderjahre</i>, which was published by Gottfried +Basse of Quedlinburg, under the title of <i>Wilhelm Meister's +Wanderjahre</i>, in 1821; that is, soon after the downfall of the +Schlegels. Goethe had announced a sequel to his Wilhelm <i>Meister's +Lehrjahre</i>, under this title, and very strangely it appeared +simultaneously with its literary double, in which not only was Goethe's +style imitated, but the hero of Goethe's original novel was represented +as the leading personage. This parody evinced much talent, and still +greater tact, for as the author managed to maintain his anonymity for a +considerable period, baffling all endeavours to discover his<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> +personality, public interest was artificially stimulated. Finally it +transpired that the author was a hitherto unknown village parson, by the +name of Pustkuchen, which translated into French would be <i>omelette +soufflée</i>, a name which aptly describes the very essence of his book. It +was nothing else than the old, stale, sour dough of the pietists, +æsthetically kneaded over. In this book it was cast up to Goethe, as a +reproach, that his poems had no moral aim; that he could create no lofty +characters, but only low, vulgar creatures; that Schiller, on the +contrary, had produced the most ideal and exalted conceptions, and that +therefore the latter was a greater poet.</p> + +<p>That Schiller was a greater poet than Goethe was the special point which +Pustkuchen's book sought to establish, and for which it was written. It +became the fashion to institute comparisons between the writings of the +two poets, and the public divided into partisan camps. The admirers of +Schiller enthusiastically praised the purity and nobility of a Max +Piccolomini, of a Thekla, of Posa, and other of Schiller's dramatic +heroes; on the other hand, they stigmatised Goethe's Philine, Käthchen, +Clärchen, and the like pretty creatures, as immoral jades. Goethe's +adherents would smilingly admit that neither Goethe's heroes nor his +heroines could be called moral, but they claimed that the promotion of +morality in nowise came within the province of art. In art, asserted +they, as in the universe itself, there is no ulterior purpose; it is +only man who introduces the conceptions of end and means. Art, like the +universe, said they, exists for itself alone. Although the opinions of +mankind concerning the universe are continually changing, the universe +itself remains ever the same; so also must art remain uninfluenced by +the temporary views of mankind. Art must be kept especially independent +of<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> systems of morality, for these change on earth as often as a new +religion arises, and supersedes an older faith. In fact, as after the +lapse of a number of centuries a new religion always makes its +appearance, influences the customs, and thus makes itself felt as a new +system of morality, so in every period the art works of the past would +be branded as heretical and immoral, were they to be judged by the +temporary standard of morality. We have, in truth, lived to see good +Christians, who condemn the flesh as of Satan, experience a feeling of +anger at sight of the Greek mythological statues. Chaste monks have put +an apron on the antique Venus; the ridiculous custom of bestowing a fig +leaf on nude figures has continued even up to the present. A pious +Quaker went so far as to sacrifice his whole fortune in buying up and +burning Giulo Romano's most beautiful mythological paintings; truly he +deserves for his pains to reach heaven, and there to be flogged daily. A +religion which should recognise God in matter only, and should regard +the flesh only as divine, would, when it had impressed itself upon the +customs of men, give rise to a system of morality, according to which +those works of art which glorify the flesh would be alone deemed worthy +of praise; and on the contrary, those Christian art works which depict +the nothingness of the flesh would be considered as immoral. The works +of art which are accepted as moral in one land would be considered +immoral in another country, where a different religion had generated +different customs. Thus, our pictorial arts awaken the disgust of a +strict Mahometan, while much that in the harems of the Orient is +regarded as quite innocent would be an abomination in the eyes of +Christians. In India the occupation of a Bayadere is not regarded as +dishonourable; hence, the drama of "Vasantasena," the heroine of which +is a<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a> courtesan, is there not at all considered immoral. If, however, +the Théâtre Français ventured to produce this play, the whole pit would +raise the cry of "immorality"—the same pit that witnesses with delight +plays whose plots are amorous intrigues, and whose heroines are young +widows who remarry at the end of the play, instead of having themselves +burned to death on their deceased husband's funeral pyre, as required by +Hindoo morality.</p> + +<p>Starting with this idea, the Goetheans viewed art as a separate, +independent world, which they would rank so high, that all the changing +and changeable doings of mankind, their religions and systems of +morality, should surge far below it. I cannot unconditionally endorse +this view; but the Goetheans were led so far astray by it as to proclaim +art in and of itself as the highest good. Thus they were induced to hold +themselves aloof from the claims of the world of reality, which, after +all, is entitled to precedence.</p> + +<p>Schiller united himself to the world of reality much more decidedly than +did Goethe; and he deserves praise for this. The living spirit of the +times thrilled through Frederic Schiller; it wrestled with him; it +vanquished him; he followed it to battle; he bore its banner, and, lo! +it was the same banner under which the conflict was being +enthusiastically waged across the Rhine, and for which we are always +ready to shed our heart's best blood. Schiller wrote for the grand ideas +of the Revolution; he razed the bastilles of the intellect; he helped to +erect the temple of freedom, that colossal temple which shelters all +nations like a single congregation of brothers: in brief, he was a +cosmopolitan. He began his career with that hate of the past which we +behold in <i>The Robbers</i>. In this work he resembles a diminutive Titan +who has run away from<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> school, got tipsy with schnapps, and throws +stones at Jupiter's windows. He ended with that love for the future +which already in his <i>Don Carlos</i> blossoms forth like a field of +flowers. Schiller is himself that Marquis Posa who is simultaneously +prophet and soldier, and battles for that which he foretells. Under that +Spanish cloak throbs the noblest heart that ever loved and suffered in +Germany.</p> + +<p>The poet is, on a small scale, but the imitator of the Creator, and also +resembles God in creating his characters after his own image. If, +therefore, Carl Moor and the Marquis Posa are wholly Schiller himself, +so in like manner does Goethe resemble his Werther, his Wilhelm Meister, +and his Faust, in whom the different phases of his intellect can be +studied. While Schiller devotes himself to the history of the race, and +becomes an enthusiast for the social progress of mankind, Goethe, on the +other hand, applies himself to the study of the individual, to nature +and to art. The physical sciences must of necessity have finally become +a leading branch of study with Goethe, the pantheist, and in his poems, +as well as in his scientific works, he gave us the result of his +researches. His indifferentism was to a certain extent the result of his +pantheistic views. Alas! we must confess that pantheism has often led +men into indifferentism. They reasoned thus: if everything is God; if +everything is divine, then it is indifferent whether man occupies +himself with clouds or ancient gems; with folk-songs or the anatomy of +apes; with real human beings or play-actors. But that is just the +mistake. Everything is not God, but God is everything. He does not +manifest himself equally in all things, but He shows himself in +different degrees according to the various matters. Everything bears +within itself an impulse<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> to strive after a higher degree of divinity, +and that is the great law of progress throughout all nature. The +recognition of this law, which has been most profoundly revealed by the +disciples of St. Simon, now makes pantheism a cosmic, universal theory, +which not only does not lead to indifferentism, but, on the contrary, +induces the most self-sacrificing endeavours. No, God does not manifest +himself in all things equally, as Wolfgang Goethe believed, who through +such a belief became an indifferentist, and, instead of devoting himself +to the highest interests of humanity, occupied himself with art, +anatomy, theories of colour, botanical studies, and observations of the +clouds. No, God is manifest in some things to a greater degree than in +others. He lives in motion, in action, in time. His holy breath is +wafted through the pages of history, which is God's true book of record. +Frederic Schiller felt this, and became an historian, a "prophet of the +past," and wrote the <i>Revolt of the Netherlands</i>, the <i>Thirty Years' +War</i>, the <i>Maid of Orleans</i>, and <i>William Tell</i>.</p> + +<p>It is true Goethe also depicted a few of the great struggles of freedom, +but he portrayed them as an artist. Christian zeal was odious to him, +and he angrily turned from it; and the enthusiasm for philosophy, which +is characteristic of our epoch, he either could not understand or +purposely avoided understanding, for fear of ruffling his customary +tranquillity of mind; so he treated all enthusiasm objectively and +historically; as a datum, as a subject to be written about. In his hands +the living spirit became dead matter, and he invested it with a lovely +and pleasing form. He became thus the greatest artist of our literature, +and all that he wrote was a finished work of art.</p> + +<p>The example of the master misled the disciples, and there arose in +Germany that literary epoch which I once<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> designated as the "art +period," and which, as I then showed, had a most disastrous influence on +the political development of the German people. At the same time, I by +no means deny the intrinsic worth of the Goethean masterpieces. They +adorn our beloved fatherland just as beautiful statues embellish a +garden; but they are only statues after all. One may fall in love with +them, but they are barren. Goethe's poems do not, like Schiller's, beget +deeds. Deeds are the offspring of words; but Goethe's pretty words are +childless. That is the curse of all that which has originated in mere +art. The statue which Pygmalion wrought was a beautiful woman, and even +the sculptor himself fell in love with her. His kisses warmed her into +life, but, so far as we know, she never bore children. I believe a +similar idea has been suggested by Charles Nodier, and this thought came +into my mind while wandering through the Louvre, as my glance alighted +on the statues of the ancient gods. There they stood, with their white, +expressionless eyes, a mysterious melancholy in their stony smiles. +Perhaps they are haunted by sad memories of Egypt, that land of the dead +from which they came; or perhaps it is a mournful longing for the life +from which other divinities have expelled them, or a grieving over their +immortality of death. They seem to be awaiting the word that shall +liberate them from their cold, motionless rigidity and bring them back +to life. How strange that these antique statues should remind me of the +Goethean creations, which are likewise so perfect, so beautiful, so +motionless, and which also seem oppressed with a dumb grieving that +their rigidity and coldness separate them from our present warm, +restless life—that they cannot speak and rejoice with us, and that they +are not human beings, but unhappy mixtures of divinity and stone.<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a></p> + +<p>These few hints will explain the publicly-expressed opposition of the +various parties in Germany to Goethe. The orthodox were highly incensed +against the great heathen, as Goethe was generally called in Germany; +they feared his influence upon the people, whom he indoctrinated with +his manner of viewing the world through merry verses, even through the +simplest and most unpretentious ballads. They saw in him the most +dangerous foe of the Cross, which, as he expressed himself, was as +odious to him as vermin, garlic, and tobacco; at least, that is about +the purport of the Xenie which Goethe dared to publish in Germany, the +very country where vermin, garlic, tobacco, and the Cross form a holy +alliance, and are supreme over all. But it was not this that displeased +us, the party of action. As previously stated, we found fault with +Goethe for the barrenness of his writings; for the engrossing devotion +to art, which through him was diffused over Germany; for his influence +in creating among the German youth an apathy which was a hindrance to +the political regeneration of our fatherland. Hence the indifferentist +and pantheist was assailed from the most diverse sides. To use an +illustration from French parliamentary life, the extreme right and the +extreme left formed an alliance against him. While the cassocked priests +brandished the crucifix over him, furious <i>sans-culottes</i> simultaneously +assaulted him with the pike.</p> + +<p>Wolfgang Menzel, who had carried on the war against Goethe with a +display of talent worthy of a better cause, evinced in his polemics that +he was not merely a one-sided spiritualistic Christian, or a +discontented patriot; he rather based a portion of his attacks on the +latest remark of Frederic Schlegel, who, after his fall, from the +recesses of his Catholic cathedral, gave utterance to his woe<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> +concerning Goethe; Goethe, "whose poetry lacked a central point." Menzel +went still further, and showed that Goethe was not a man of genius, but +only of talent; Schiller, however, was a genius, etc. This was some time +before the July Revolution; Menzel was at that time a great admirer of +the middle ages, of mediæval art as well as of institutions; he was +incessantly attacking Johann Heinrich Voss, and praising Joseph Görres +with an enthusiasm hitherto unheard of. These facts prove that Menzel +was sincere in his hatred of Goethe, and that he did not write against +him merely to make himself conspicuous, as many thought. Although I, +myself, was at that time an opponent of Goethe, yet I was displeased at +the harshness with which Menzel criticised him, and I complained of this +want of respect. I said, Goethe is nevertheless the king of our +literature, and in applying the knife of criticism to such a one, it +always behoves us to show a proper courtesy, just as the executioner who +was to behead Charles I., before performing the duties of his office, +knelt before the king and begged his royal forgiveness.</p> + +<p>Among the opponents of Goethe was the famous Hofrath Müllner, and his +only remaining friend, Professor Schütz. There were several others of +less celebrity—Herr Spann, for instance, who had been imprisoned for a +long time on account of political offences—belonged to the public +adversaries of Goethe. In confidence, dear reader, it was a very motley +crowd. The ostensible reasons I have sufficiently indicated, but it is +more difficult to guess what special motive influenced each individual +to give publicity to his anti-Goethean sentiments. I know the secret +motives of only one of these persons, and as that one is myself, I will +frankly confess that I was envious of Goethe. To my credit I must say +that I assailed in Goethe only the<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> man, never the poet. Unlike those +critics who, with their finely-polished glasses, claim to have also +detected spots upon the moon, I could never discern blemishes in +Goethe's works. What these sharp-sighted people consider spots are +blooming forests, silvery streams, lofty mountains, and smiling valleys.</p> + +<p>Nothing is more foolish than to depreciate Goethe in order thereby to +exalt Schiller, whom it was always customary to praise in order to +disparage Goethe. Do such critics really not know that those +highly-extolled, highly-idealised figures, those sacred pictures of +virtue and morality which Schiller produced, were much easier to +construct than those frail, worldly beings of whom Goethe gives us a +glimpse in his works? Do they not know that mediocre painters generally +select sacred subjects, which they daub in life-size on the canvas? But +it requires a great master to paint with lifelike fidelity and technical +perfection a Spanish beggar-boy scratching himself, or a Netherlandish +peasant having a tooth extracted, or some hideous old woman such as we +see in Dutch cabinet pictures. In art it is much easier to picture large +tragic subjects than those which are small and droll. The Egyptian +sorcerers could imitate Moses in many of his tragic feats: they could +make serpents, and blood, and frogs; but when Moses created vermin, +which would seemingly be less difficult to copy, then they confessed +their impotence, and said, "It is the finger of God." Rail as you will +at the coarseness of certain portions of Faust, at the scenes on the +Brocken and in Auerbach's cellar, inveigh against the licentiousness in +<i>Wilhelm Meister</i>, it is nevertheless more than you can do; it is the +finger of Goethe! But I hear you say, with disgust, "We do not wish to +create such things. We are no sorcerers; we are good Christians." I know +quite well that you are no sorcerers.<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a></p> + +<p>Goethe's greatest merit consists in the perfection of all his works. +Here are no portions that are strong while others are weak; here no one +part is painted in detail while another is merely sketched; here is no +confusion, nor any of the customary padding, nor any undue partiality +for certain special characters. Goethe treats every person that appears +in his romances and dramas as if he or she were the leading character. +So it is with Homer, so with Shakespeare. In the works of all great +poets there are, in fact, no minor characters at all; every character in +its place is the chief personage. Such poets are absolute monarchs, and +resemble the Emperor Paul of Russia, who, when the French ambassador +remarked that a man of importance in his empire was interested in a +certain matter, sharply interrupted the speaker with the memorable +words—"In my empire there is no man of importance except he to whom I +may happen to be speaking; and he is of importance only so long as I +address him." An absolute poet, who also holds power by the grace of +God, in like manner views that person in his intellectual realm as the +most important who at that particular moment is speaking through his +pen. From this art-despotism arises that wonderful perfection of the +most trivial and unimportant figures which we find in the works of +Homer, Shakespeare, and Goethe.</p> + +<p>If I have spoken rather harshly of Goethe's adversaries, I should have +cause to criticise his defenders still more severely, for most of the +latter, in their zeal, have been guilty of even greater follies. At the +head of those who have made themselves ridiculous in this respect is one +by the name of Eckermann, a writer not generally lacking in talent. In +the campaign against Pustkuchen, Carl Immermann, who is now our greatest +dramatic poet, won his spurs<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a> as a critic by publishing an excellent +<i>brochure</i>. Berlin chiefly distinguished itself on this occasion. +Goethe's leading champion, at all times, was Varnhagen von Ense, a man +whose heart is filled with thoughts grand as the universe, and who +expresses them in words as precious and as dainty as cut jewels. He is +the noble-minded man in whose judgment Goethe ever placed the most +reliance. Perhaps it may be well to mention here that Wilhem von +Humboldt once wrote an excellent book concerning Goethe. During the last +ten years every Leipsic Fair has brought to light a large number of +works on Goethe. Herr Schubart's studies of Goethe are among the marvels +of fine criticism. Herr Häring, whose <i>nom de plume</i> is Willibald +Alexis, has written for various periodicals clever and valuable articles +on Goethe. Herr Zimmermann, professor at Hamburg, has, in his oral +lectures, given some most excellent criticisms of Goethe; in his +writings on dramaturgy we find similar thoughts, more briefly expressed, +perhaps, but more profound. At various German universities there were +courses of lectures on Goethe, and of all his works the public chiefly +devoted itself to the study of <i>Faust</i>. It was the theme of endless +dissertations and commentaries, and became the secular Bible of the +Germans.</p> + +<p>I would be no true German if I wrote of <i>Faust</i> without giving +expression to some explanatory thoughts concerning it, for from the +greatest thinker down to the most insignificant penny-a-liner, from +philosophers down to professors of philosophy, every one tries his wit +on this book. It is, in fact, as wide in its compass as the Bible; like +the latter, it embraces heaven and earth, mankind and its exegesis. The +subject matter of <i>Faust</i> is the chief reason of its popularity, and its +selection from among the many folk-legends is a proof of Goethe's +profound judgment and<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> genius, which ever seized on that which was +nearest and best. I may assume that the story of <i>Faust</i> is familiar to +my readers, for the book has recently become celebrated in France also; +but I know not if the original legend itself is known here. I know not +if at your annual rustic fairs there is hawked for sale a little book of +grey, fleecy paper, badly printed, with rude woodcuts, containing a +circumstantial account of how the arch-sorcerer, Johannes Faustus, a +learned scholar who had studied all the sciences, finally threw away his +books and made a compact with the devil, by which he was enabled to +enjoy all the material pleasures of the earth, but in return for which +his soul was to be given up to the powers of hell. During the middle +ages the populace attributed all extraordinary intellectual powers to a +compact with the devil, and Albertus Magnus, Raimond Lullus, +Theophrastus Paracelsus, Agrippa von Nettesheim, and Roger Bacon in +England, were held to be magicians, sorcerers, and conjurers. But the +ballads and romances tell much stranger stories concerning Doctor +Faustus, who is reputed to have demanded from the devil not only a +knowledge of the profoundest secrets of nature, but also the most +realistic physical pleasures. This is the self-same Faust who invented +printing,<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> and who lived at a time when people began to inveigh +against the strictness of church authority, and to make independent +researches. With Faust the mediæval epoch of faith ends, and the modern +era of critical, scientific investigation begins. It is, in fact, of the +greatest significance that Faust should have lived, according to popular +tradition, at the very beginning of the Reformation, and that he himself +should have invented printing, the art which gave science the victory<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> +over faith; an art, however, which has also robbed us of the catholic +peace of mind, and plunged us into doubts and revolutions, and had +finally delivered us into the power of Satan. But no! knowledge, +science, the comprehension of nature through reason, eventually gives us +the enjoyments of which faith, that is, Catholic Christianity, has so +long defrauded us; we now recognise the truth that mankind is destined +to an earthly, as well as to a heavenly equality. The political +brotherhood which philosophy inculcates is more beneficial to us than +the purely spiritual brotherhood, for which we are indebted to +Christianity. The thought becomes transformed into words, the words +become deeds, and we may yet be happy during our life on this earth. If +in addition to this, we also attain after death that heavenly felicity +which Christianity promises so assuredly, so much the better.</p> + +<p>The German people had, for a long time, felt a profound presentiment of +this, for the Germans themselves are that learned Doctor Faust; they +themselves are that spiritualist, who, having at last comprehended the +inadequateness of the spiritual life alone, reinstates the flesh in its +rights. But still biassed by the symbolism of Catholic poetry, in which +God is pictured as the representative of the spirit, and the devil as +that of the flesh, the rehabilitation of the flesh was characterised as +an apostasy from God, and a compact with the devil.</p> + +<p>But some time must yet elapse ere the deeply-significant prophecy of +that poem will be fulfilled as regards the German people, and the spirit +itself, comprehending the usurpation of spiritualism, become the +champion of the rights of the flesh. That will be the Revolution, the +great daughter of the Reformation.</p> + +<p>Less known in France than <i>Faust</i> is Goethe's <i>West-Ostlichen<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> Divan</i>, a +later work with which Madame de Staël was unacquainted, and which +demands especial notice. It reveals the peculiar thoughts and feelings +of the Orient in graceful ballads and pithy proverbs, which exhale an +atmosphere of fragrance and passion, like a harem of love-sick +odalisques, with the dark eyes of gazelles, and amorous white arms. The +reader is filled with a mixed sensation of shuddering and desire, like +lucky Caspar Debureau, when he stood at the top of a ladder in +Constantinople, and beheld <i>de haut en bas</i> what the Commander of the +Faithful is wont to see only <i>de bas en haut</i>. At times a feeling steals +o'er the reader as if he lay comfortably stretched upon a Persian +carpet, smoking a long Turkish pipe, filled with the yellow tobacco of +Turkestan, while a negress slave gently waves over him a variegated fan +of peacock feathers, and a handsome boy serves a cup of Mocha +coffee—the sweetest and most blissful sense of life and its pleasures +has Goethe expressed in these verses—in verses so dainty, so +felicitous, so airy, so ethereal, that one is lost in astonishment that +such things are possible in the German language. In addition to all +this, the book contains the most beautiful prose descriptions and +explanations of the customs and manners of the Orient, the patriarchal +life of the Arabs; and withal Goethe is as easy, merry, and harmless as +a child, and yet as full of wisdom as a greybeard. Goethe's prose in +this work is as translucent as the green sea, when, on a bright, calm +summer afternoon, we can look far down into the depths below, and catch +glimpses of ancient drowned cities, and all their fabulous splendours. +Then, at times, that prose is as magical and as mysterious as the +firmament, when the darkness of twilight has lifted, and the grand +Goethean thoughts appear, pure and golden, like the stars. The charm of +this book is indescribable; it is a salaam sent by<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> the Occident to the +Orient, and many a quaint and curious flower is gathered there; +passionate red roses, snowdrops white as a maiden's bosom, comical +dandelions, purple digitalis like long human fingers, contorted +crocuses, and peeping slyly forth, in the midst, modest German violets. +The meaning of this salaam is that the Occident, grown weary of its +frigid, meagre spiritualism, seeks again to refresh itself amid the +wholesome physical pleasures of the Orient. After Goethe had expressed +in <i>Faust</i> his aversion to abstract spiritualism, and his desire for +realistic enjoyments, in writing the <i>West-Ostlichen Divan</i> he threw +himself with his whole soul, as it were, into the arms of sensualism.</p> + +<p>Hence it is of the utmost significance that this work appeared soon +after <i>Faust</i>. It was the last phase of Goethe's genius, and his example +was of the greatest influence upon literature. The Orient was now the +theme of our lyric poets. It may be worthy of mention, that while Goethe +so rapturously celebrated Persia and Arabia in his verses, he expressed +the most decided aversion to India. The bizarre and confused +characteristics of that country were repugnant to him, and perhaps this +dislike originated in the suspicion that some Catholic stratagem was at +the bottom of the Sanscrit studies of the Schlegels and their friends. +These men regarded Hindostan as the cradle of Catholicism; they claimed +to have discovered there the model of the Catholic hierarchy, the +doctrine of the trinity, of the incarnation, of penance, of atonement, +of the maceration of the flesh, and all their other favourite crotchets. +Goethe's antipathy towards India nettled these people not a little, and +A. W. Schlegel, with transparent malice, called him "a heathen converted +to Mahometanism."<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a></p> + +<p>Amongst the most noteworthy writings on Goethe which have appeared this +year is a posthumous work by Johannes Falk, entitled <i>Goethe aus +Persönlichen Umgange Dargestellt</i>. With the exception of a detailed +treatise on <i>Faust</i>, which, of course, must not be omitted, the author +of this book has given us most excellent sketches of Goethe; he has +depicted him in all the walks of life, naturally, impartially, with all +his virtues and all his failings. In this book we behold Goethe in his +relations to his mother, whose temperament was so wonderfully reflected +in that of her son; we see him as the naturalist, watching a caterpillar +developing into a butterfly; we see the great Herder expostulating with +him against the indifferentism with which he let the development of +humanity itself pass before him, unregarded; we behold him at the court +of the Grand Duke of Weimar, seated among the blonde court dames, making +merry improvisations, like Apollo guarding the flocks of King Admetus; +again we see him, with the haughtiness of a Dalai-Lama, refusing to +recognise Kotzebue; then we see the latter giving a public celebration +in honour of Schiller, in order thereby to depreciate Goethe; we see him +in all things, wise, handsome, amiable, a blessed and inspiring figure, +like the eternal gods.</p> + +<p>In fact, that harmony of personal appearance with genius, which we +demand in eminent men, existed in its fullest degree in Goethe. His +outward appearance was as impressive as the thoughts that live in his +writings. His figure was symmetrical and majestic, and in that noble +form Grecian art might be studied as in an ancient statue. That stately +form was never bent in Christian humility; the features of that noble +countenance were never distorted with Christian self-reproach; those +eyes were never downcast<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> with Christian remorse, nor turned devoutly +and tremulously towards heaven. No, his eyes had a godlike +steadfastness, for it is in general the distinctive mark of a god, that +his look is unmoved. Hence when Agni, Varuna, Yama, and Indra assume the +form of Nala at Damayanti's wedding, the latter recognises her lover by +the twitching of his eyes, for, as I have said, the eyes of a god are +always steadfast and unmoved.</p> + +<p>Napoleon's eyes possessed this peculiarity, and hence I am convinced +that he also was a god. Goethe's eyes, even at an advanced age, remained +just as godlike as in his youth, and although time could whiten, it +could not bow that noble head. He always bore himself proudly and +majestically, and when he spoke he seemed to grow statelier still, and +when he stretched out his hand it seemed as though he could prescribe to +the stars the paths they should traverse. It is said that a cold, +egotistic twitching might be observed around the corners of his mouth. +But this trait is also peculiar to the eternal gods, and especially to +the father of gods, great Jupiter, to whom I have already likened +Goethe. When I visited him at Weimar I involuntarily glanced around to +see if I might not behold at his side the eagle with the thunderbolt in +its beak. I was about to address him in Greek, but, as I noticed that he +understood German, I told him in the latter language that the plums +along the roadside from Jena to Weimar were excellent. Many a long +winter's night I had pondered on the exalted and profound remarks I +should make to Goethe if I should ever see him. And now that I did at +last see him face to face, I told him that the plums of Saxony were +delicious. And Goethe smiled. He smiled with the same lips with which he +had once kissed the beautiful Leda, Europa,<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> Danaë, Semele, and many +another princess or ordinary nymph.</p> + +<p><i>Les Dieux s'en vont.</i> Goethe is dead. He died on March 22nd, last year, +that memorable year in which the world lost its greatest celebrities. It +is as if death had become suddenly aristocratic, and sought to designate +particularly the great ones of this earth by sending them +contemporaneously to the grave. Perhaps death wished to found a <i>pairie</i> +in the shadowy realms of Hades, in which case its <i>fournée</i> were well +chosen. Or, perhaps, on the contrary, death sought during the past year +to favour democracy by destroying these great celebrities, and their +authority over the minds of men, and thus to bring about an intellectual +equality. Was it out of respect or from irreverence that death spared +the crowned heads during the past year? In a fit of abstraction death +did raise his scythe over the King of Spain, but he recollected himself +in time, and spared his life. During the past twelve months not a single +king has died. <i>Les Dieux s'en vont</i>—but the kings are still with us.</p> + +<p class="cb">. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . .</p> + +<p>Schelling's influence on the romantic school was chiefly of a personal +nature, but in addition to this, by the philosophy of nature which came +into vogue through him, the poets have elevated themselves to much more +profound conceptions of nature. One portion let themselves be absorbed +with all their human emotions into nature; others remembered a few magic +formulas, with which to conjure out of nature something that possessed +human form and speech. The former were the genuine mystics, and +resembled in many respects the devotees of India, who dissolve in +nature, and at last begin to feel as if they and nature were one. The +latter were rather sorcerers, who by their own<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> will summoned forth even +hostile spirits; they resembled those Arabian magicians, who, at their +caprice, could endow stones with life, and turn living beings into +stone. Novalis belonged to the first class, Hoffman to the latter. +Novalis saw marvels in everything, and charming marvels they were. He +listened to the language of the plants, he knew the secret of every +young rose, finally he identified himself with all nature, and when +autumn came and the leaves began to fall, then he died. Hoffman, on the +contrary, saw spectres in everything; they nodded to him from every +Chinese tea-pot, and from under each Berlin periwig. He was a sorcerer +who transformed human beings into beasts, and beasts into human beings, +even into royal Prussian court-counsellors. He would raise the dead from +their graves, but life itself turned away from him, as from some gloomy +spectre. He realised this; he felt that he himself had become a ghost. +All nature was to him an imperfect mirror, in which he saw, distorted in +a thousand ways, the cast of his own dead face; and his works are naught +else than a horrible shriek of terror in twenty volumes.</p> + +<p>Hoffman does not belong to the romantic school. He did not come into +contact with the Schlegels, and was in no way affected by their +tendencies. I only mention him in contrast to Novalis, who was +peculiarly a poet of that school. Novalis is less known here than +Hoffman, who has been introduced to the French public by Loeve-Veimars +in a very attractive form, and thus has acquired a great reputation in +France. In Germany, Hoffman is by no means <i>en vogue</i>, but he was so +formerly. In their time his works were much read, but only by persons +whose nerves were either too strong or too weak to be affected by less +violent accords. The minds that were really intellectual, and the +natures that were truly poetical, would have nothing<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> to do with him. +Such as these much preferred Novalis. But frankly confessed, Hoffman was +a much greater poet than Novalis, for the latter with his idealistic +pictures ever floats in the blue skies; while Hoffman, notwithstanding +all his grotesque bogies, still clings fast to earthly realities. Just +as the giant Anteus remained strong and invincible so long as his feet +rested on mother earth, and lost his strength the moment Hercules held +him aloft; so also the poet is strong and mighty as long as he does not +forsake the <i>terra firma</i> of reality, but becomes powerless as soon as +he attempts to float enraptured in the blue ether.</p> + +<p>The great resemblance between these two poets lies in the fact that +their poetry was really a disease. It has been said that it does not +come within the province of the critic, but of the physician, to pass +judgment on their writings. The rosy glow in Novalis's poems is not the +hue of health, but the hectic flush of consumption; and the brilliant +light in Hoffman's fantastic conceptions is not the flame of genius, but +of fever.</p> + +<p>But have we a right thus to criticise—we, who are ourselves not blest +with robust health? and especially now, when all literature appears like +one vast hospital? or is poetry, perhaps, a disease of humanity, as the +pearl is the morbid matter of the diseased oyster?</p> + +<p>Novalis was born May 2nd, 1772. His real name was Hardenberg. He loved a +young lady who was afflicted with consumption, and died of that dread +disease. This sad experience left its impress upon all his writings. His +life was but a dreamy, lingering death, and he also died of consumption +in 1801, before he had completed his twenty-ninth year, or his romance. +This romance, in its present shape, is only the fragment of a great +allegorical poem, which, like the divine comedy of Dante, was to embrace +all<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> earthly and celestial matters. Heinrich von Ofterdingen, the +celebrated poet, is the hero of this romance. We see him as a youth in +Eisenach, the pretty little village which lies at the foot of the +ancient Wartburg, which has been the scene of some of the greatest, as +well as some of the most stupid, deeds; for here Luther translated his +Bible, and here, also, a few silly Teuto-maniacs burned Kamptz's +<i>Gendarmerie-Codex</i>. At this burg was held the famous tournament of +minstrelsy, at which, among other poets, Heinrich von Ofterdingen met +Klingsohr of Hungary in the perilous duel of poetry, an account of which +has been handed down to us in the Manessa collection. The head of the +vanquished was to be forfeited to the executioner, and the Landgraf of +Thuringia was the judge. Wartburg, the scene of his later glory, towers +ominously over the hero's cradle, and we behold him, in the beginning of +Novalis's romance, under the paternal roof at Eisenach. "The parents are +abed and asleep, the old clock on the wall keeps up its monotonous +ticking, the wind howls and the windows rattle; ever and anon the room +is lit up by fitful glimpses of the moon.</p> + +<p>"The youth lay tossing restlessly on his couch, thinking of the stranger +and his narratives. 'It is not the treasures that have awakened within +me such an unspeakable longing,' said he to himself; 'far from me is all +avarice; but I yearn to behold the blue flower. It is always in my +thoughts, and of nought else can I think or muse. I never felt so +strangely before. It is as if until now I had been dreaming, or as if in +my sleep I had passed into another world; for in the world in which I +formerly dwelt, who would there have concerned themselves about flowers? +And so strange a passion for a flower, I never heard of there.'"<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a></p> + +<p>These are the opening words of <i>Heinrich von Ofterdingen</i>, and the whole +romance is full of the fragrance and the radiance of the blue flower. It +is remarkable and significant that the most fabulous personages in this +book seem as well known to us, as though in earlier times we had lived +in friendly, confidential intercourse with them. Old memories awaken, +Sophia's features are so familiar, and memory brings back long avenues +of beech trees, the scene of so many promenades and tender caresses. But +all this lies dimly back of us, like some half-forgotten dream.</p> + +<p>The muse of Novalis was a fair and slender maiden, with earnest blue +eyes, golden hyacinthine tresses, smiling lips, and a small mole on the +left side of the chin, for I imagine his muse to be the self-same maid +through whom I first became acquainted with his works, as I saw the red +morocco-bound, gilt-edged volume, containing <i>Heinrich von Ofterdingen</i>, +in her dainty fingers. She always dressed in blue, and her name was +Sophia. She lived a few stations from Göttingen with her sister, the +postmistress—a merry, buxom, ruddy-cheeked dame, whose full bust, +surmounted with stiff white lace, resembled a fortress. This fortress, +however, was impregnable; the good dame was a very Gibraltar of virtue. +She was an industrious, practical housewife, and yet her only pleasure +consisted in reading Hoffman's romances. Hoffman was just the writer who +could agitate her coarse-grained nature and awaken pleasant emotions. +But her pale, delicate sister was disagreeably affected at the mere +sight of one of Hoffman's books, and if she accidentally laid hands on +one, she shrank from the touch. She was as delicate as a sensitive +plant, and her words were so fragrant and melodious, that, taken +together, they were poetry. I have written down some of her sayings, and +they are poems wholly after the manner of<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> Novalis, only more tuneful +and ethereal. One of them, which she recited to me as I bade her +farewell ere setting out on my travels to Italy, is an especial +favourite of mine. The time is autumn; the scene, a garden wherein there +had been an illumination, and we hear the conversation between the last +glimmering taper, the last rose, and a wild swan. The morning mists +approach, the solitary light flickers and dies out, the rose leaves +fall, and the swan unfolds its white wings and flies away to the south.</p> + +<p>For Hanover abounds with wild swans that seek the warm south in autumn, +and return again in summer. They probably spend the winter in Africa, +for in the breast of a dead swan an arrow was once found, which +Professor Blumenbach recognised as of African origin. The poor bird, +with the arrow in its breast, had returned to its northern nest to die. +But many a swan, when pierced by such an arrow, may not have the +strength for such a journey, and is left helpless in the burning +deserts, or with wearied pinions is perched on some Egyptian pyramid, +gazing with longing eyes towards the north, towards the cool summer home +in Hanover.</p> + +<p>Late in the autumn of 1828, as I returned from the south, also with a +burning arrow in my heart, my route led through the vicinity of +Göttingen, and I stopped over at the dwelling-place of my old friend, +the postmistress, in order to change horses. A long time had elapsed +since I last saw her, and a woeful change had taken place in the good +dame. Her buxom form still resembled a fortress,—but a ruined and +dismantled fortress. The bastions were razed, no sentinels were on +guard, and her heart, the citadel, was broken. The postillion, Pieper, +informed me that she had even lost her relish for Hoffman's novels, but, +as a substitute, she indulged all the more freely in brandy<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a> at bedtime. +The latter is a much simpler plan, for the brandy is always at hand, +whereas the novels must be procured at the Deurlich circulating library +at Göttingen, at some hours' distance. Postillion Pieper was quite +diminutive, and looked as sour as if the contraction in his size was the +result of drinking vinegar. When I asked the fellow concerning the +postmistress's sister, he answered, "She will soon die; she is already +an angel," How good a being must she have been to draw from such a +churlish person the remark, "She is an angel." While saying this, he was +driving off the fluttering, cackling poultry, by kicking at them with +his high top-boots. The house, once so white and cheerful, had changed +for the worse, like its mistress; its colour was now a sickly yellow, +and the walls were wrinkled with fissures. In the court-yard lay broken +vehicles, and a postillion's scarlet mantle, soaking wet, was hanging on +a post to dry. Mademoiselle Sophia stood by the window, reading, and +when I approached her, I found it was a gilt-edged volume, bound in red +morocco; it was Novalis's <i>Heinrich von Ofterdingen</i>. She had read and +re-read this book, until its pages had inoculated her with consumption, +and now she looked like a luminous shadow. But her beauty was now so +ethereal, that the sight of it touched me most painfully. I took both of +her pale, thin hands in mine, and looked steadily into her blue eyes, +and then I asked, "Mademoiselle Sophia, how are you?" "I am well," she +answered, "and I shall soon be still better!" Then she pointed out of +the window to a little hillock, in the new churchyard, not far from the +house. On this barren mound stood a small, thin, solitary poplar, almost +leafless, and it swayed to and fro in the autumn winds, not like a +living plant, but like the ghost of a tree.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Sophia now lies under that poplar, and the<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> gilt-edged, red +morocco volume, Novalis's <i>Heinrich von Ofterdingen</i>, which she left me +as a souvenir, lies on the desk before me as I write. I have used it in +the composition of this chapter.</p> + +<p class="cb">. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . .</p> + +<p>Jean Paul Richter anticipated the Young Germany school in its most +marked tendency. The latter, however, occupied with practical questions, +avoided the abstract intricacies, the abrupt mannerisms, and the +unenjoyable style of Jean Paul Richter. No Frenchman with a clear, +well-regulated mind can form a conception of that peculiar style. Jean +Paul's style is a structure consisting entirely of very small +compartments, which are sometimes so narrow that when one thought +encounters another, their heads collide and bruise each other. From the +ceiling are suspended hooks, on which Jean Paul hangs all sorts of +ideas, and the walls are full of secret drawers, in which he conceals +emotions. No German author is so rich as Jean Paul in ideas and in +emotions; but he never permits them to ripen; and, notwithstanding his +wealth of mind and heart, he excites more astonishment than pleasure. +Thoughts and sentiments which would grow into colossal trees, if +permitted to strike root properly and develop all their branches, +blossoms, and leaves—these he uproots while they are still +insignificant shrubs, mere sprouts even; and whole intellectual forests +are thus served up to us as an ordinary dish. Now, although curious, +this is decidedly unpalatable fare, for not every stomach can digest +such a mess of young oaks, cedars, palms, and banana trees. Jean Paul is +a great poet and philosopher; but no one can be more inartistic than he +in his modes of thought and work, In his romances he has brought to +light some truly poetical creations, but all his offspring carry with +them a long<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> umbilical cord in which they become entangled and choke.</p> + +<p>Instead of thought he gives us his thinking itself. We see the material +activity of his brain; he gives us, as it were, more brain than thought, +and meanwhile the flashes of his wit skip about, like the fleas of his +heated imagination. He is the merriest, and, at the same time, the most +sentimental of authors. In fact, sentimentality always finally overcomes +him, and his laughter abruptly turns into tears. He sometimes disguises +himself as a gross, beggarly fellow; but then, like stage princes, he +suddenly unbuttons the coarse overcoat and reveals the glittering +insignia of his rank.</p> + +<p>In this respect Jean Paul resembles Laurence Sterne, with whom he has +been often compared. The author of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, when apparently +sunk in the most vulgar trivialities, possesses the art of rising by +sudden transitions to the sublime, reminding us that he is of princely +rank and the countryman of Shakespeare. Jean Paul, like Laurence Sterne, +reveals in his writings his own personality, and lays bare his own human +frailties; but yet with a certain awkward bashfulness, especially in +sexual matters. Laurence Sterne parades before the public entirely +unrobed, quite naked; but Jean Paul has only holes in his trousers. A +few critics erroneously believe that Jean Paul possessed more true +feeling than Sterne, because the latter, whenever the subject under +treatment reaches a tragic elevation, suddenly assumes a merry, jesting +tone. Jean Paul, on the contrary, if the subject verges in the least +towards the serious, gradually becomes lachrymose, and composedly lets +his tears trickle. Sterne probably felt more deeply than Jean Paul, for +he is a greater poet. Laurence Sterne, like Shakespeare, was<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> fostered +by the muses on Parnassus. After the manner of women, they early spoiled +him with their caresses. He was the special pet of the pale Goddess of +Tragedy. Once, in a paroxysm of fierce tenderness, she kissed him so +passionately, with such fervour, with so ardent a pressure of her lips, +that his young heart began to bleed, and at once understood all earthly +sorrows, and was filled with a boundless compassion. Poor young +poet-heart! But the younger sister, the rosy Goddess of Mirth, sprang +quickly to his side, took the suffering lad into her arms, and sought to +cheer him with song and merriment. She gave him as playthings the mask +of comedy and the jingling bells, and pressed a soothing kiss upon his +lips; and with that kiss she imbued him with all her levity, all her +frolicsome mirth, all her sportive wit.</p> + +<p>And since then Sterne's heart and Sterne's lips have drifted into a +strange contradiction. Sometimes, when his soul is most deeply agitated +with tragic emotion, and he seeks to give utterance to the profound +sorrows of his bleeding heart, then, to his own astonishment, the +merriest, most mirth-provoking words will flutter from his lips.</p> + +<p class="cb">. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . .</p> + +<p>The Baron de la Motte-Fouqué was formerly a major in the Prussian +military service, and is one of the most conspicuous of those +poet-heroes, or hero-poets, whose lyre and sword won renown during the +so-called war of liberation.</p> + +<p>His laurels are of the genuine kind. He is a true poet, and the +inspiration of poetry is on his brow. Few authors receive such universal +homage as did our good Fouqué. Now his readers consist only of the +patrons of the circulating libraries. But that public is still large +enough, and Fouqué may boast that he was the only one of the<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> romantic +school who was also received with favour by the lower classes. At the +time when at the aesthetic tea-gatherings in Berlin it was the fashion +to sneer at the fallen knight, in a little Hartz village I became +acquainted with a lovely maiden, who spoke of Fouqué with a charming +enthusiasm, and blushingly confessed that she would gladly give a year +of her life if she might but once kiss the author of "Undine"—and this +maiden had the prettiest lips that I have ever seen.</p> + +<p>"Undine" is indeed a charming poem. This poem is itself a kiss! The +genius of poetry kissed the sleeping spring, and as it opened its +laughing eyes all the roses exhaled their sweetest perfumes, and all the +nightingales sang; and the fragrance of the roses and the songs of the +nightingales, all this did our good Fouqué clothe in words, and called +it "Undine."</p> + +<p>I know not if this novel has been translated into French. It is the +story of a lovely water-fairy who has no soul, and who only acquires one +by falling in love with an earthly knight. But, alas! with this soul she +also learns human sorrows. Her knightly spouse becomes faithless, and +she kisses him dead. For in this book death also is only a kiss.</p> + +<p>This "Undine" may be regarded as the muse of Fouqué's poetry. Although +she is indescribably beautiful, although she suffers as we do, and +earthly sorrows weigh full heavily upon her, she is yet no real human +being. But our age turns away from all fairy-pictures, no matter how +beautiful. It demands the figures of actual life; and least of all will +it tolerate water-fays who fall in love with noble knights. This +reactionary tendency, this continual praise of the nobility, this +incessant glorification of the feudal system, this everlasting +knight-errantry balderdash,<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> became at length distasteful to the +educated portion of the German middle classes, and they turned their +backs on the minstrel who sang so out of time. In fact, this everlasting +sing-song of armours, battle-steeds, high-born maidens, honest +guild-masters, dwarfs, squires, castles, chapels, minnesingers, faith, +and whatever else that rubbish of the middle ages may be called, wearied +us; and as the ingenuous hidalgo Friedrich de la Motte-Fouqué became +more and more immersed in his books of chivalry, and, wrapped up in the +reveries of the past, he ceased to understand the present, and then even +his best friends were compelled to turn away from him with dubious +head-shakings.</p> + +<p>His later writings are unenjoyable. The faults of his earlier works are +repeated, only more glaringly. His knights are combinations of iron and +sentimentality; they have neither flesh nor common-sense. His heroines +are mere semblances of women; they are dolls, whose golden tresses +daintily curl over features that are as pretty and as expressionless as +flowers. Like the works of Walter Scott, so also do Fouqué's romances of +chivalry remind us of the fantastic tapestries known as gobelins, whose +rich texture and brilliant colours are more pleasing to our eyes than +edifying to our souls. We behold knightly pageantry, shepherds engaged +in festive sports, hand to hand combats, and ancient customs, charmingly +intermingled. It is all very pretty and picturesque, but shallow, +brilliant superficiality. Among the imitators of Fouqué, as among the +imitators of Walter Scott, this mannerism of portraying—not the inner +nature of men and things, but merely the outward garb and +appearance—was carried to still greater extremes. This shallow art and +frivolous style is still in vogue in Germany, as well as in England and +France. Even if the portrayal no longer attempts to glorify the age<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> of +chivalry, but is directed to our modern affairs, it is still the same +mannerism, which grasps not the essential points of phenomena, but +merely the superficial and the accidental. In lieu of a knowledge of +mankind, our recent novelists evince a profound acquaintance with +clothes; they perhaps justify themselves by the old saying: "The tailor +makes the man." How different from the older, especially the English, +novelists! Richardson gives us the anatomy of the emotions. Goldsmith +treats of the affections of his heroes pragmatically. The author of +<i>Tristram Shandy</i> reveals to us the profoundest depths of the human +soul; he opens, as it were, a crevice of the soul; permits us to take +one glance into its abysses, into its paradise and into its filthiest +recesses; then quickly lets the curtain fall over it. We have had a +front view of that marvellous theatre, the soul; the arrangements of +lights and the perspective have not failed in their effects, and while +we imagined that we were gazing upon the infinite, our own hearts have +been exalted with a sense of infinity and poetry. Fielding at once takes +us behind the scenes, and there shows us all the emotions covered with +deceitful rouge; the gross motives that underlie the most generous +deeds; the colophony that is afterwards to blaze aloft into enthusiasm; +the bass drum, while on it repose the drumsticks, which are destined to +sound the furious thunder of passion. In short, he shows us the whole +interior machinery by which theatrical effects are produced; he exposes +the colossal deceit by which men assume an appearance far different from +the reality, and through which the truth and gladness of life are lost. +But what need to cite the English as an example, since our own Goethe +has given us in his <i>Wilhelm Meister</i> the best model of a novel?<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a></p> + +<p>Fouqué's romances are a legion in number; he is one of the most prolific +of authors. <i>The Magic Ring</i> and <i>Thiodolph the Icelander</i> merit a +specially favourable mention. His metrical dramas, which were not +intended for the stage, contain great beauties. <i>Sigurd the +Serpent-slayer</i> is a bold work, in which the ancient Scandinavian +mythology is mirrored with all its gigantesque and magical +characteristics. Sigurd, the chief personage of the drama, is a colossal +creation. He is as strong as the rocky crags of Norway, and as fierce as +the sea that beats around their base. He has as much courage as a +hundred lions, and as much sense as two asses.</p> + +<p>Herr Ludwig Uhland is the true lyric poet. He was born in Tübingen in +1787, and is now an advocate at Stuttgard. This author has written a +volume of poems, two tragedies, and two treatises on Walther von der +Vogelweide, and on the French troubadours. The latter are two small +historical researches, and give evidence of a diligent study of the +middle ages. The tragedies are entitled <i>Louis the Bavarian</i>, and <i>Duke +Ernest of Suabia</i>. I have not read the former, nor is it considered the +better of the two. The latter, however, contains many beauties, and +pleases by its noble and exalted sentiments. It is fragrant with the +sweet breath of poetry, such as we fail to find in the pieces that reap +so much applause on the stage at the present day. German fidelity is the +theme of the drama, and we see it here strong as an oak, defying all +storms. German love blossoms, scarcely visible, in the far distance, but +its violet-perfume appeals the more touchingly to our hearts. This +drama, or rather this poem, contains passages which are among the most +precious pearls of our literature; notwithstanding which, the +theatre-going public received, or rather rejected, the piece with +indifference. I<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> will not censure the good people of the pit too +severely for that. These people have certain needs, which they demand +that the poet shall gratify. The poet's productions must not merely +express the sympathies of his own heart, but must accord with the +desires of the audience. The latter resembles the hungry Bedouin in the +desert, who thinks he has found a sack of peas, and opens it eagerly, +but, alas! they are only pearls.</p> + +<p class="cb">. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . .</p> + +<p>...Twenty years ago I was a lad, and what overflowing enthusiasm would I +then have lavished upon Uhland! At that time I could better appreciate +his merits than now; we were then more akin in modes of thought and +feeling. But so much has happened since then! What then seemed to me so +grand: all that chivalry and Catholicism; those cavaliers that hack and +hew at each other in knightly tournaments; those gentle squires and +virtuous dames of high degree; the Norseland heroes and minnesingers; +the monks and nuns; ancestral tombs thrilling with prophetic powers; +colourless passion, dignified by the high-sounding title of +renunciation, and set to the accompaniment of tolling bells; a ceaseless +whining of the Miserere; how distasteful all that has become to me since +then! But once, it was, oh! so different. How often have I sat on the +ruins of the old castle at Düsseldorf on the Rhine, declaiming the +loveliest of all Uhland's poems:—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A wandering shepherd, young and fair,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Beneath the royal castle strayed;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And when the princess saw him there,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Love's longing thrilled the maid.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And then with accents sweet, she said,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"Oh! would that I might come to thee!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How white the lambkins there; how red</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The flowerets on the lea."<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The youth made answer from below,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"If thou would'st but come down to me!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How rosy red thy cheeks do glow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">How white those arms I see."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And every morn, with silent pain,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">He drove his flock the castle by,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And gazed aloft, until again</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">His love appeared on high.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Oh, welcome! welcome! princess sweet!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">His joyous tones rang bright and clear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then softly she in turn did greet,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"Kind thanks, my shepherd dear."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cold winter fled, spring came again,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The flowerets blossomed far and near.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The shepherd sought his love;—in vain!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">No more did she appear.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Oh, welcome! welcome! princess fair!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">His words were mournful now, and drear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A spirit voice rang through the air,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"Farewell, my shepherd dear."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>And as I sat on the ruins of the old castle and recited this poem, at +times I heard the water-fays of the Rhine mockingly, and with comic +pathos, take up my refrain, and from amidst the sighing and the moaning +of the river that ran below I could hear in faint tones——</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"A spirit voice ring through the air,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Farewell, my shepherd dear.'"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>But I would not let myself be disturbed by the bantering of the +mermaids, even when at some of the most beautiful passages in Uhland's +poems they tittered ironically. At that time I modestly ascribed the +tittering to myself, particularly when the twilight was sinking into +darkness, and I raised my voice somewhat to overcome the mysterious +feeling of awe with which the old castle ruins inspired<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> me, for there +was a legend that the ruins were haunted by a headless woman. At times I +seemed to hear the rustling of her silken gown, and my heart beat +quickly;—that was the time, and that the place, to be an enthusiast +over the poems of Ludwig Uhland.</p> + +<p>I hold the same volume again in my hands, but twenty years have flown +since then, and I have seen much and learned much. I no longer believe +in headless human beings, and the old ghost story has no longer power to +move me. The house wherein I sit and read is situated on the Boulevard +Montmartre; the fiercest turmoil of the day breaks in tumultuous billows +around this spot, and loud and shrill are heard the voices of the modern +epoch. First, a burst of laughter; then a heavy rumbling; next, drums +beating quick time; and then, like a flash, the national guards dash by +in quick march; and every one speaks French. And is this the place to +read Uhland's poems? Thrice have I again declaimed the concluding lines +of the same poem, but I do not feel the keen, unspeakable pain that once +thrilled me when the little princess died, and the handsome shepherd lad +so pathetically calls to her, "Oh, welcome! welcome! princess fair!"</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"A spirit voice rang through the air,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Farewell, my shepherd dear.'"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for this class of poems also partly arises +from my experience that the most painful love is not that which fails to +win possession of the object of its affections, or loses her through +death. In truth, it is more painful to fold the loved one in our arms, +and yet have her worry us with her contrariness, and her silly caprices, +until night and day are rendered unendurable, and we are finally forced +to close our heart against her who is<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> most precious, and send the dear +plague of a woman off in a post chaise—</p> + +<p class="c">"Farewell, oh! princess fair!"</p> + +<p>Verily, more grievous than the loss through death is the loss through +life; for instance, when the loved one in the spirit of mischievous +coquetry turns away from us; when she insists upon going to a masked +ball, to which no respectable person dare escort her; and when there, +with jaunty dress and roguish curls, takes the arm of the first scamp +that comes along, and leaves you all alone.</p> + +<p class="c">"Farewell, my shepherd dear!"</p> + +<p>Perhaps Herr Uhland himself fared no better than ourselves. Perhaps his +temperament has changed since then. With a few exceptions, he has +produced no new poems in twenty years. I cannot believe that this +beautiful poet soul was so stingily endowed by Nature, and had but one +spring-time. No, I explain Uhland's silence as the result of the +contradiction between the tendencies of his muse and his political +position. The elegiac poet, in whose ballads and romances the praises of +the Catholic-feudal past were sung so beautifully; the Ossian of the +middle ages has since then become a member of the assembly of notables +in Wurtemburg, a zealous champion of popular rights, and a bold advocate +of the equality of all citizens, and of freedom of opinion. Herr Uhland +has proved the absolute sincerity of his democratic and Protestant +convictions by the great personal sacrifices that he has made in their +behalf. In his earlier days he fairly earned the poet's laurels, and now +he has also won the bays of civic virtue. But just because he was so +honest in his sympathy for the modern epoch, he could no longer sing the +olden songs of the olden time with the former fervour. His Pegasus was a +knightly steed that<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> gladly trotted back to the past, but obstinately +refused to budge when urged forward into modern life; and so our worthy +Uhland smilingly dismounted, quietly unsaddled the unruly steed, and led +it back to the stable. There it remains to this very day; like its +colleague, the famous war-horse Bayard, it possesses all possible +virtues, and only one fault; it is dead.</p> + +<p>It will not have escaped keener eyes than mine, that the stately +war-horse, decked with its brilliant coat of arms and proudly-waving +plumes, was never rightly suited to its <i>bourgeois</i> rider, who, instead +of boots with golden spurs, wore shoes with silk stockings; and who, +instead of helm, wore the hat of a Tübingen professor. Some claim to +have discovered that Herr Ludwig Uhland never was wholly in sympathy +with his theme; that in his writings, the naïve, rude, powerful tones of +the middle ages are not reproduced with idealised fidelity, but rather +they are dissolved into a sickly, sentimental melancholy. It is claimed +that Uhland has taken up into his temperament the strong, coarse strains +of the heroic legends and folk-songs, and boiled them down, as it were, +to make them palatable to our modern public. And in truth, when we +closely observe the women in Uhland's poems, we find that they are only +beautiful shadows, embodied moonshine; milk flows in their veins, and +sweet tears in their eyes; that is, tears which lack salt. If we compare +Uhland's knights with the knights in the old ballads, it seems to us as +if the former were composed of suits of leaden armour, which were +entirely filled with flowers, instead of flesh and bones. Hence Uhland's +knights are more pleasing to delicate nostrils than the old stalwarts, +who wore heavy iron trousers, and were huge eaters, and still greater +drinkers.</p> + +<p>But that is no reason for finding fault with Herr<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> Uhland; he did not +seek to give an exact copy of the German past; perhaps he only wished to +please us with a fanciful reflection, and so he mirrored a flattering +picture by the crepuscular lights of his genius. This perhaps lends an +especial charm to his poems, and wins for them the admiration and +affection of many gentle and worthy persons. The pictures of the past +cast some of their magic glamour over us, even in the feeblest +conjuration. Even the men who have warmly espoused the cause of +modernism always retain a secret sympathy for the heritages of the olden +time. Those ghostly voices of the past, no matter how faint their +re-echo, marvellously stir our souls. Hence it is to be readily +understood that the ballads and romances of our worthy Uhland not only +received the most cordial applause from the patriots of 1813, from pious +youths and sentimental maidens, but also from more powerful and more +modern minds.<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="RELIGION_AND_PHILOSOPHY_IN_GERMANY" id="RELIGION_AND_PHILOSOPHY_IN_GERMANY"></a>RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY IN GERMANY.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[A considerable portion of this, which is one of Heine's most +important works, marked by luminous exposition and bold and +brilliant ideas, is here presented. It was published in French, +under the title <i>De l'Allemagne depuis Luther</i>, in the <i>Revue des +Deux Mondes</i> for 1834, and shortly afterwards it appeared in +German, terribly mutilated by the censor, like nearly everything +that Heine wrote. It was written at the suggestion of Prosper +Enfantin, and dedicated to him, as at that time, in Heine's +opinion, the foremost champion of human progress. The translation +here given is Mr. Fleishman's; it has been revised and brought +closer to the original.]</p></div> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Preface To Second Edition (1852).</span></h4> + +<p class="nind">...T<small>HE</small> book which lies before you is a fragment, and shall remain a +fragment. To be candid, I would prefer to leave the book wholly +unprinted; for since its first publication my views concerning many +subjects, particularly those which relate to religious questions, have +undergone a marked change, and much that I then asserted is now in +opposition to my better convictions. But the arrow belongs not to the +archer when once it has left the bow, and the word no longer belongs to +the speaker when once it has passed his lips, especially when it has +been multiplied by the press.... At that time I was yet well and hearty; +I was in the zenith of my prime, and as arrogant as Nebuchadnezzar +before his downfall.<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a></p> + +<p>Alas! a few years later, a physical and spiritual change occurred. How +often since then have I mused over the history of that Babylonian king +who thought himself a god, but who was miserably hurled from the summit +of his self-conceit, and compelled to crawl on the earth like a beast, +and to eat grass (probably it was only salad). This legend is contained +in the grand and magnificent book of Daniel; and I recommend all godless +self-worshippers to lay it devoutly to heart. There are, in fact, in the +Bible many other beautiful and wonderful narrations, well deserving +their consideration; for instance, the story of the forbidden fruit in +Paradise, and the serpent which already six thousand years before +Hegel's birth promulgated the whole Hegelian philosophy. This footless +blue-stocking demonstrates very sagaciously how the absolute consists in +the identity of being and knowing; how man becomes God through +knowledge, or, what amounts to the same thing, how God arrives at the +consciousness of himself through man. To be sure, this formula is not so +clear as in the original words: "If ye eat of the tree of knowledge, ye +shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." Dame Eve understood of the +whole demonstration only this—that the fruit was forbidden; and because +it was forbidden she ate of it. But no sooner had she eaten of the +tempting apple than she lost her innocence, her naïve guilelessness, and +discovered that she was far too scantily dressed for a person of her +quality, the mother of so many future kings and emperors, and she asked +for a dress—truly, only a dress of fig-leaves, because at that time +there were as yet no Lyons silk fabrics in existence, and because there +were in Paradise no dressmakers or milliners—oh, Paradise! Strange, +that as soon as a woman arrives at self-consciousness her first thought +is of a new dress!<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a></p> + +<p>...Officious, pious Christian souls seem very anxious to know how my +conversion was brought about, and seem desirous that I should impose +upon them an account of some wonderful miracle. With true Christian +importunity they inquire if I did not, like Saul, behold a light when on +the way to Damascus; or if, like Balaam, the son of Beor, I was not +riding a restive ass, which suddenly opened its mouth and discoursed +like a human being. No, ye credulous souls, I never journeyed to +Damascus. Even the name would be unknown to me if I had not read the +"Song of Songs," wherein King Solomon compares the nose of his beloved +to a tower looking towards Damascus. Nor have I ever seen an ass—that +is, no four-footed one—that spoke like a human being; whereas I have +met human beings in plenty that every time they opened their mouths +spoke like asses. In fact, it was neither a vision, nor a seraphic +ecstasy, nor a voice from heaven, nor a remarkable dream, nor any +miraculous apparition, that brought me to the path of salvation. I owe +my enlightenment simply to the reading of a book! one book! yes, it is a +plain old book, as modest as nature, and as simple; a book that appears +as work-day-like and as unpretentious as the sun that warms, as the +bread that nourishes us; a book that looks on us as kindly and benignly +as an old grandmother, who, with her dear tremulous lips, and spectacles +on nose, reads in it daily: this book is briefly called <i>the</i> book—the +Bible. With good reason it is also called the Holy Scriptures: he that +has lost his God can find Him again in this book, and towards him who +has never known Him it wafts the breath of the divine word. The Jews, +who are connoisseurs of precious things, well knew what they were about +when, at the burning of the second temple, they left in the lurch<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> the +gold and silver sacrificial vessels, the candlesticks and lamps, and +even the richly-jewelled breast-plate of the high-priest, to rescue only +the Bible....</p> + +<p class="cb">——</p> + +<p>...D<small>ISTINGUISHED</small> German philosophers who may accidentally cast a glance +over these pages will superciliously shrug their shoulders at the +meagreness and incompleteness of all that which I here offer. But they +will be kind enough to bear in mind that the little which I say is +expressed clearly and intelligibly, whereas their own works, although +very profound, unfathomably profound—very deep, stupendously deep—are +in the same degree unintelligible. Of what benefit to the people is the +grain locked away in the granaries to which they have no key? The masses +are famishing for knowledge, and will thank me for the portion of +intellectual bread, small though it be, which I honestly share with +them. I believe it is not lack of ability that holds back the majority +of German scholars from discussing religion and philosophy in proper +language. I believe it is a fear of the results of their own studies, +which they dare not communicate to the masses. I do not share this fear, +for I am not a learned scholar; I, myself, am of the people. I am not +one of the seven hundred wise men of Germany. I stand with the great +masses at the portals of their wisdom. And if a truth slips through, and +if this truth falls in my way, then I write it with pretty letters on +paper, and give it to the compositor, who sets it in leaden type and +gives it to the printer; the latter prints it, and then it belongs to +the whole world.</p> + +<p>The religion of Germany is Christianity. Therefore I shall have to +relate what Christianity is, how it became<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> Roman Catholicism, how out +of this sprang Protestantism, and out of the latter German philosophy. +Inasmuch as I am about to speak of religion, I beg beforehand of all +pious souls not to be uneasy. Fear naught, ye pious ones! No profane +witticisms shall offend your ears. It is true that these are yet +necessary in Germany, where, at this juncture, it is important to +neutralise ecclesiastical power. For there we are now in the same +situation that you in France were before the Revolution, when +Christianity was yet in the closest union with the old <i>régime</i>. The +latter could not be overthrown so long as the former maintained its sway +over the masses. Voltaire's keen ridicule was needed ere Samson could +let his axe descend. But neither the ridicule nor the axe proved +anything; they only effected something. Voltaire could only wound the +body of Christianity. All his jests gathered from the annals of the +Church, all his witticisms against the doctrines and public worship of +the Church, against the Bible, this holiest book of humanity, against +the Virgin Mary, that loveliest flower of poesy, the whole encylclopædia +of philosophical shafts which he launched against the clergy and +priesthood, wounded only the outward, mortal body of Christianity, not +its inner being, not its profound spirit, nor its eternal soul.</p> + +<p>For Christianity is an idea, and as such is indestructible and immortal, +like every idea. But what is this idea?</p> + +<p>Just because this idea has not yet been clearly comprehended, and +because the essential has been mistaken for the fundamental, there is as +yet no history of the Church. Two antagonistic factions write the +history of the Church, and contradict each other incessantly. But the +one as little as the other will ever distinctly state what that idea +really is which is the underlying principle of Christianity,<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> of its +symbolism, of its dogma, of its public worship, and which strives to +reveal itself throughout its whole history, and has manifested itself in +the actual life of Christian nations.</p> + +<p>...How this idea was historically evolved, and disclosed itself in the +world of phenomena, may be discovered as early as the first centuries +after the birth of Christ, if we study impartially the history of the +Manicheans and the Gnostics. Although the first were branded as +heretics, and the latter defamed, and both anathematised by the Church, +yet their influence on the doctrines of the Church was lasting. Out of +their symbolism Catholic art was developed, and their modes of thought +penetrated the whole life of Christendom. The First Cause of the +Manicheans does not differ much from that of the Gnostics. The doctrine +of the two principles, the good and the evil, constantly opposing each +other, is common to both. The Manicheans derived this doctrine from the +ancient Persian religion, in which Ormuz, the light, is at enmity with +Ahriman, the darkness. The others, the real Gnostics, believed in the +pre-existence of the good principle, and accounted for the rise of the +evil through emanation, through the generation of Æons, which, the +farther they are removed from their origin, the more vicious and evil do +they become.</p> + +<p>...This Gnostic theory of the universe originated in ancient India, and +brought with it the doctrine of the incarnation of God, of the +mortification of the flesh, of spiritual introspection and +self-absorption. It gave birth to the ascetic, contemplative, monkish +life, which is the most logical outgrowth of the Christian principle. +This principle has become entangled among the dogmas of the Church, and +has been able to express itself but very<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a> obscurely in the public +worship. But everywhere we find the doctrine of the two principles +prominent; the wicked Satan is always contrasted with the good Christ. +Christ represents the spiritual world, Satan the material; to the former +belong our souls, to the latter our bodies. Accordingly, the whole +visible world, which constitutes nature, is originally evil, and Satan, +the prince of darkness, through it seeks to lure us to ruin. Therefore +it behoves us to renounce all the sensuous joys of life, to torture the +body, which is Satan's portion, in order that the soul may the more +majestically soar aloft to the bright heavens, to the radiant kingdom of +Christ.</p> + +<p>This theory of the universe, which is the true fundamental idea of +Christianity, spread itself with incredible rapidity, like a contagious +disease, over the whole Roman empire. These sufferings, at times strung +to fever-pitch, then again relaxing into exhaustion, lasted all through +the middle ages; and we moderns still feel in our limbs those +convulsions and that debility. And if among us, here and there, there be +one who is already convalescent, he cannot flee from the universal +hospital, and feels himself unhappy as the only healthy person among +invalids.</p> + +<p>When once mankind shall have recovered its perfect life, when peace +shall be again restored between body and soul, and they shall again +interpenetrate each other with their original harmony, then it will be +scarcely possible to comprehend the factitious feud which Christianity +has instigated between them. Happier and more perfect generations, begot +in free and voluntary embraces, blossoming forth in a religion of joy, +will then smile sadly at their poor ancestors, who held themselves +gloomily aloof from all the pleasures of this beautiful world, and +through the deadening of all warm and cheerful sensuousness almost<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> +paled into cold spectres. Yes, I say it confidently, our descendants +will be more beautiful, more happy, than we; for I have faith in +progress; mankind is destined to be happy, and I have a more favourable +opinion of the Divinity than those pious souls who imagine that He +created mankind only to suffer. Already here on earth, through the +blessings of free political and industrial institutions, would I seek to +found that millennium which, according to the belief of the pious, is +not to be until the day of judgment. The one is perhaps as visionary a +hope as the other, and possibly there will be no resurrection of +humanity, either in the politico-moral or in the apostolic-Catholic +sense. Perhaps mankind <i>is</i> doomed to eternal misery; the masses <i>are</i> +perhaps condemned to be for ever trodden under foot by despots, to be +plundered by their accomplices, and to be jeered at by their lackeys. +Alas! in that case we must seek to maintain Christianity, even if we +recognise it to be an error. Barefoot, and clad in monkish cowls, we +must traverse Europe, preaching the vanity of all earthly good, and +inculcating resignation. We must hold up the consoling crucifix before +scourged and derided humanity, and promise, after death, all the seven +heavens above.</p> + +<p>...The final fate of Christianity is dependent upon our need of it. This +religion has for eighteen centuries been a blessing to suffering +humanity; it was providential, divine, holy. All that it has benefited +civilisation, by taming the strong and strengthening the weak, by +uniting the nations through like emotions and a like language, by all +that its panegyrists extol—all these are insignificant in comparison +with that great consolation which in itself is bestowed upon mankind. +Eternal praise is due to that symbol of a suffering God, the Saviour +with the crown of thorns, the Christ<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> crucified, whose blood was a +soothing balsam dripping into humanity's wounds. The poet, in +particular, will reverently recognise the solemn grandeur of that +symbol. The whole system of allegory, as expressed in the life and art +of the middle ages, will in all times excite the admiration of poets. +What colossal consistency in <i>the</i> Christian art!—that is, in +architecture! How harmoniously those Gothic cathedrals are adapted to +the religious services of the Church, and how the fundamental idea of +the Church itself is revealed in them! Everything towers upward; +everything transubstantiates itself; the stone blossoms into branches +and foliage and becomes a tree; the fruits of the vine and of the +wheat-stalk become blood and flesh; man becomes God, and God becomes a +pure, abstract spirit. The Christian life during the middle ages is for +the poet a rich, inexhaustible store-house of precious materials. Only +through Christianity could, in this world, such varied phases +arise—contrasts so striking, sorrows so diverse, beauties so strange, +that one is inclined to believe that they never did exist in reality, +and that all was but a colossal fever-dream, a delirious fantasy of an +insane God. Nature herself appeared in those times fantastically +disguised; but notwithstanding that man, occupied with abstract +metaphysical speculations, turned peevishly away from her, yet at times +she awoke him with a voice so solemnly sweet, so deliciously terrible, +so enchanting, that he involuntarily listened and smiled, then shrank +back with terror, and sickened even unto death. The story of the +nightingale of Basle here comes to my mind, and, as it is probably +unknown to you, I will relate it.</p> + +<p>In May 1433, at the time of the Ecumenical Council, a party of +ecclesiastics, prelates, learned scholars, and monks of every shades +took a walk in a grove near Basle,<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> wrangling over theological +disputations, drawing hair-splitting distinctions, or arguing concerning +annates, expectatives, and reservations, debating whether Thomas of +Aquinas was a greater philosopher than Bonaventura, and what not! But +suddenly, in the midst of their abstract and dogmatical discussions, +they paused, transfixed, before a blooming linden-tree, on which sat a +nightingale, trilling and trolling the sweetest and tenderest strains. +The learned men were ravished with delight. The glowing melodies of +spring penetrated to their scholastic, musty, bookworm hearts, their +souls awoke from the mouldy, wintry sleep, they looked at one another in +astonished ecstasy. But finally one of them made the sagacious remark +that such things could not come of good, that the nightingale might be a +devil, and that this devil might be seeking through its sweet music to +decoy them from their pious conversations and to lure them to +voluptuousness and similar pleasant sins; and then he began to exorcise, +probably with the usual formula—"Adjuro te per cum, qui venturus est, +judicare vivos et mortuos," etc. It is said that at this conjuration the +bird replied, "Yes, I am an evil spirit!" and flew away, laughing. But +those who heard its song sickened that very night, and soon after died.</p> + +<p>This legend needs no commentary. It bears distinctly the horrible +impress of a time when all that was sweet and lovely was denounced as +diabolical. Even the nightingale was slandered, and it was customary to +make the sign of the cross when she sang. The true Christian, like an +abstract spectre, walked timorously, with closed senses, amidst the +loveliness of nature.</p> + +<p>...As regards the good principle, the same conception prevailed over all +the Christian countries of Europe. The Roman Catholic Church took care +of that, and whoever<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> deviated from the prescribed faith was a heretic. +But in relation to the evil principle and the empire of Satan, different +views were held in different countries, and the Germanic North had quite +different conceptions from the Latin South. This was caused by the fact +that the Christian priesthood did not reject the previously existing +national gods as baseless fantasies of the brain, but conceded to them +an actual existence; asserting, however, that all these gods were +nothing but male and female devils, who, through the victory of Christ, +had lost their power over mankind, and now sought through wiles and +stratagems to lure them to sin. All Olympus was now transformed into an +airy hell; and if a poet of the middle ages sang of Grecian mythology +ever so beautifully, the pious Christian would persist in seeing therein +only devils and hobgoblins. The gloomy fanaticism of the monks alighted +with special severity on poor Venus: she was considered a daughter of +Beelzebub, and the good knight Tannhäuser tells her to her face—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"O Venus, lovely wife of mine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">You are but a she-devil!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Tannhäuser had been enticed by her into that wondrous mountain-cavern +called the Venusburg, where, according to tradition, dwelt the beautiful +goddess with her nymphs and her paramours, beguiling the hours with the +most wanton carousings and dancing. Even poor Diana was not spared, and, +notwithstanding her previous reputation for chastity, similar scandals +were fastened on her good name. It is said that she, together with her +nymphs, indulged in nightly rides through the forest; hence the legend +of a strange midnight chase, by wild and furious hunters. This legend +reveals clearly the then pervading Gnostic theory<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> of the degeneration +of the former divinities. In this transformation of the ancient national +religion the underlying principle of Christianity is most fully +manifested. The national religion of Europe in the North, even more than +in the South, was pantheism. All the mysteries and symbols of that +religion were founded on and had reference to a worship of nature; each +of the elements was regarded as the embodiment of some mysterious being, +and as such was revered and worshipped; in every tree dwelt a divinity, +and all nature swarmed with gods and goddesses. Christianity exactly +reversed this, and in place of gods it substituted devils and demons. +The cheerful figures of Grecian mythology, beautified as they were by +art, had taken root in the South along with Roman civilisation, and were +not so easily to be displaced by the hideous, weird, and satanic +divinities of the German North. The latter seemed to have been fashioned +without any particular artistic design, and even before the advent of +Christianity they were as sombre and as gloomy as the North itself. +Hence there could not arise in France so frightful a devil-dom as among +us in Germany, and even the witchcraft and sorcery of the former assumed +a cheerful guise. How lovely, fair, and picturesque are the popular +superstitions of France as compared with the bloody, hazy, and misshapen +monsters which loom gloomily and savagely from out the mists of German +legendary lore!</p> + +<p>Those German poets of the middle ages who chose such themes as had +originated, or been first treated, in Brittany and Normandy, thereby +invested their poems with somewhat of the cheerfulness of the French +temperament. But the old Northern sombreness, of whose gloom we can now +scarcely form any idea, exercised full sway over such of our literature +as was distinctly national, and over such popular<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> traditions as have +been orally transmitted. The superstitions of the two countries offer as +striking a contrast as that which exists between a Frenchman and a +German. The supernatural beings that figure in old French <i>fabliaux</i> and +legends are bright and cheerful creations, and remarkable for a +cleanliness which is noticeably lacking in our filthy rabble of German +hobgoblins. French fairies and sprites are as distinguishable from +German spectres as a spruce and daintily-gloved dandy, jauntily +promenading the Boulevard Coblence, is different from a burly German +porter, carrying a heavy load upon his shoulders. A French nixen, such +as a Melusina, is to a German elf as a princess to a washerwoman. The +fay Morgana would stand aghast at sight of a German witch, her body +naked and besmeared with ointment, riding on a broom-stick to the +Brocken. The Brocken is no merry Avalon, but a rendezvous for all that +is weird and hideous. On the very summit of the mountain sits Satan, in +the shape of a black goat. The infamous sisterhood form a circle around +him and dance, and sing, "Donderemus! Donderemus!" Mingled in the +infernal din are heard the bleating of the goat and the shouting of the +demoniac crew. If, during the dance, a witch happens to drop a shoe, it +is an evil omen, and portends that she will be burned at the stake ere +the year ends. But all the terror which such a portent inspires is +forgotten amid the wild and maddening Berlioz-like music of the witches' +sabbath—and when in the morning the poor witch awakens from her +delirium, she finds herself lying, stark naked and tired, by the +glimmering embers of her hearth.</p> + +<p>The most complete account of witches we find in the learned Dr. Nicolai +Remigius's <i>Demonology</i>. This sagacious man had the best opportunity to +learn the tricks<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> of witches, as he officiated at their trials, and +during his time, in Lotharingia alone, eight hundred women were burned +at the stake, after trial and conviction. The trial was generally as +follows:—Their hands and feet were tied together, and then they were +thrown into the water. If they went under and were drowned, it was a +proof that they were innocent, but if they floated on the surface, they +were recognised as guilty and burned. Such was the logic of those +times.... When the learned Dr. Remigius had completed his great work on +witchcraft, he deemed himself so great a master of his subject as to be +able to work magic, and, conscientious man that he was, did not fail to +accuse himself before the courts; in consequence of which accusation he +was burned as a sorcerer.</p> + +<p>...I must confess that Luther did not understand the real nature of +Satan. Whatever evil may be said of the devil, it cannot be denied that +he is a spiritualist. Still less did Luther understand the real nature +of Catholicism. He did not comprehend that the fundamental idea of +Christianity, the deadening of the senses, was too antagonistic to human +nature to be ever entirely practicable in life; he did not comprehend +that Catholicism was a concordat between God and the devil—that is to +say, between the spirit and the senses, in which the absolute reign of +the spirit was promulgated in theory, but in which the senses were +nevertheless practically reinstated in the enjoyment of their rights. +Hence a wise system of concessions allowed by the Church to the senses, +always, however, under formalities which cast a slur on every act of the +senses, and maintained the sham usurpation of the spirit. You might +yield to the tender impulses of your heart and embrace a pretty girl, +but you must confess that it was a flagrant sin, and for this sin you +must<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> make atonement. That this atonement might be made with money was +as beneficial to humanity as useful to the Church. The Church imposed +fines, so to say, for every indulgence of the flesh; hence there arose +taxes on all sorts of sins, and there were pious colporteurs who, in the +name of the Roman Catholic Church, hawked for sale through the land +absolutions for every taxed sin. Such a one was that Tetzel against whom +Luther first entered the field.</p> + +<p>...Leo X., the keen Florentine, the pupil of Politian, the friend of +Raphael, the Greek philosopher with the triple crown, bestowed by the +Conclave, probably because he suffered from a disease, nowise due to +Christian abstinence, which was then very dangerous, Leo of Medici, how +he must have smiled at the poor, chaste, simple-minded monk who imagined +that the evangelic gospels were the chart of Christianity, and that this +chart must be a truth! Perhaps he never comprehended what Luther was +aiming at, for at that time he was busily occupied with the building of +St. Peter's Cathedral, the cost of which was defrayed by the money +derived from these sales of absolutions, so that sin actually furnished +the means wherewith to build this church, which became thereby, as it +were, a monument to the lusts of the flesh, like that pyramid which an +Egyptian girl built with the money she had earned by prostitution. Of +this house of God it perhaps might be said more truly than of Cologne +Cathedral, that it was built by the devil. This triumph of spiritualism, +compelling sensualism itself to build its most beautiful temple—this +reaping from the multitude, by concessions made to the flesh, the means +wherewith to beautify spiritualism, was not understood in the German +North. For there, more easily than under the burning skies of Italy, was +it possible to practice a Christianity that should make the fewest +concessions to the<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> senses. We Northerners are cold-blooded, and needed +not so many price-lists of absolution for sins of the flesh as the +fatherly Leo sent us. The climate makes the exercise of Christian +virtues easier for us; and when, on the 31st of October 1517, Luther +nailed to the door of St Augustine's Church his thesis against +indulgences, the city moat of Wittenberg was, perhaps, already frozen +over with ice thick enough for skating, which is a chilly pleasure, and +therefore no sin.</p> + +<p>...In Germany the battle against Catholicism was nothing else than a war +begun by spiritualism when it perceived that it only reigned nominally +and <i>de jure</i>; whereas sensualism, through conventional subterfuges, +exercised the real sovereignty and ruled <i>de facto</i>. When this was +perceived, the hawkers of indulgences were chased off, the pretty +concubines of the priests were exchanged for plain but honest wedded +wives, the charming Madonna pictures were demolished, and there reigned +in certain localities a puritanism inimical to every gratification of +the senses. In France, on the contrary, during the seventeenth and the +eighteenth centuries, the war was begun by sensualism against +Catholicism, when it saw that while it, sensualism, reigned <i>de facto</i>, +yet every exercise of its sovereignty was restrained in the most +aggravating manner by spiritualism, and stigmatised as illegitimate. +While in Germany the battle was fought with chaste earnestness, in +France it was waged with licentious witticisms, and while there +theological disputations were in vogue, here many satires were the +fashion.</p> + +<p>...Truly, Jansenism had much more cause than Jesuitism to feel aggrieved +at the delineation of Tartuffe, and Molière would be as obnoxious to the +Methodists of to-day as to the Catholic devotees of his own time. It is<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> +just because of this that Molière is so great, for, like Aristophanes +and Cervantes, he levelled his <i>persiflage</i> not only at temporary +follies, but also against that which is ever ridiculous—the inherent +frailties of mankind. Voltaire, who always attacked only the temporary +and the unessential, is in this respect inferior to Molière.</p> + +<p>...Then why my aversion to spiritualism? Is it something so evil? By no +means. Attar of roses is a precious article, and a small vial of it is +refreshing, when one is doomed to pass one's days in the closely-locked +apartments of the harem. But yet we would not have all the roses of life +crushed and bruised in order to gain a few drops of the attar of roses, +be they ever so consoling. We are like the nightingales, that delight in +the rose itself, and derive as delicious a pleasure from the sight of +the blushing, blooming flower as from its invisible fragrance.</p> + +<p>...But there was one man at the Diet of Worms who, I am convinced, +thought not of himself, but only of the sacred interests which he was +there to champion. That man was Martin Luther, the poor monk whom +Providence had selected to shatter the world-controlling power of the +Roman Catholic Church, against which the mightiest emperors and most +intrepid scholars had striven in vain. But Providence knows well on +whose shoulders to impose its tasks; here not only intellectual but also +physical strength was required. It needed a body steeled from youth +through chastity and monkish discipline to bear the labour and vexations +of such an office.</p> + +<p>...Luther was not only the greatest, but also the most thoroughly German +hero of our history. In his character are combined, on the grandest +scale, all the virtues and all the faults of the Germans, so that, in +his own person, he was the representative of that wonderful Germany. +For<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> he possessed qualities which we seldom find united, and which we +usually even consider to be irreconcilably antagonistic. He was +simultaneously a dreamy mystic and a practical man of action. His +thoughts possessed not only wings, but also hands; he could speak and +could act. He was not only the tongue, but also the sword of his time. +He was both a cold, scholastic word-caviller, and an enthusiastic, +God-inspired prophet. When, during the day, he had wearily toiled over +his dogmatic distinctions and definitions, then in the evening he took +his lute, looked up to the stars, and melted into melody and devotion. +The same man who could scold like a fish-wife could be as gentle as a +tender maiden. At times he was as fierce as the storm that uproots oaks; +and then again he was mild as the zephyr caressing the violets. He was +filled with a reverential awe of God. He was full of the spirit of +self-sacrifice for the honour of the Holy Ghost; he could sink his whole +personality in the most abstract spirituality, and yet he could well +appreciate the good things of this earth, and from his mouth blossomed +forth the famous saying—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Who loves not wine, women, and song,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> Will be a fool all his life long."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>He was a complete man—I would say an absolute man, in whom spirit and +matter were not antagonistic. To call him a spiritualist would, +therefore, be as erroneous as to call him a sensualist. How shall I +describe him? He had in him something aboriginal, incomprehensible, +miraculous.</p> + +<p>...All praise to Luther! Eternal honour to the blessed man to whom we +owe the salvation of our most precious possessions, and whose +benefactions we still enjoy. It ill becomes us to complain of the +narrowness of his views. The dwarf, standing on the shoulders of the +giant,<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> particularly if he puts on spectacles, can, it is true, see +farther than the giant himself; but for noble thoughts and exalted +sentiments a giant heart is necessary. It were still more unseemly of us +to pass a harsh judgment on his faults, for those very faults have +benefited us more than the virtues of thousands of other men. The +refinement of Erasmus, the mildness of Melanchthon, could never have +brought us so far as the godlike brutality of Brother Martin.</p> + +<p>...From the day on which Luther denied the authority of the Pope, and +publicly declared in the Diet "that his teachings must be controverted +through the words of the Bible itself, or with sensible reasons," there +begins a new era in Germany. The fetters with which Saint Boniface had +chained the German Church to Rome are broken. This Church, which has +hitherto formed an integral part of the great hierarchy, now splits into +religious democracies. The character of the religion itself is +essentially changed: the Hindoo-Gnostic element disappears from it, and +the Judaic-theistic element again becomes prominent. We behold the rise +of evangelical Christianity. By recognising and legitimising the most +importunate claims of the senses, religion becomes once more a reality. +The priest becomes man, takes to himself a wife, and begets children, as +God desires.</p> + +<p>...If in Germany we lost through Protestantism, along with the ancient +miracles, much other poetry, we gained manifold compensations. Men +became nobler and more virtuous. Protestantism was very successful in +effecting that purity of morals and that strictness in the fulfilment of +duty which is generally called morality. In certain communities, indeed, +Protestantism assumed a tendency which in the end became quite identical +with morality, and the gospels remained as a beautiful parable only. +Particularly in the lives of the ecclesiastics is a pleasing change now<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> +noticeable. With celibacy disappeared also monkish obscenities and +vices. Among the Protestant clergy are frequently to be found the +noblest and most virtuous of men, such as would have won respect from +even the ancient Stoics. One must have wandered on foot, as a poor +student, through Northern Germany, in order to learn how much +virtue—and in order to give virtue a complimentary adjective, how much +evangelical virtue—is to be found in an unpretentious-looking +parsonage. How often of a winter's evening have I found there a +hospitable welcome,—I, a stranger, who brought with me no other +recommendation save that I was hungry and tired! When I had partaken of +a hearty meal, and, after a good night's rest, was ready in the morning +to continue my journey, then came the old pastor, in his dressing-gown, +and gave me a blessing on the way,—and it never brought me misfortune; +and his good-hearted, gossipy wife placed several slices of +bread-and-butter in my pocket, which I found not less refreshing; and +silent in the distance stood the pastor's pretty daughters, with +blushing cheeks and violet eyes, whose modest fire in the mere +recollection warmed my heart for many a whole winter's day.</p> + +<p>...How strange! We Germans are the strongest and wisest of nations; our +royal races furnish princes for all the thrones of Europe; our +Rothschilds rule all the exchanges of the world; our learned men are +pre-eminent in all the sciences; we invented gunpowder and +printing;—and yet if one of us fires a pistol he must pay a fine of +three thalers; and if we wish to insert in a newspaper, "My dear wife +has given birth to a little daughter, beautiful as Liberty," then the +censor grasps his red pencil and strikes out the word "Liberty."</p> + +<p>...I have said that we gained freedom of thought through Luther. But he +gave us not only freedom of<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> movement, but also the means of movement; +to the spirit he gave a body; to the thought he gave words. He created +the German language.</p> + +<p>This he did by his translation of the Bible.</p> + +<p>In fact, the divine author of that book seems to have known, as well as +we others, that the choice of a translator is by no means a matter of +indifference; and so He himself selected His translator, and bestowed on +him the wonderful gift to translate from a language which was dead and +already buried, into another language that as yet did not exist.</p> + +<p>...The knowledge of the Hebrew language had entirely disappeared from +the Christian world. Only the Jews, who kept themselves hidden here and +there in stray corners of the world, yet preserved the traditions of +this language. Like a ghost keeping watch over a treasure which had been +confided to it during life, so in its dark and gloomy ghettos sat this +murdered nation, this spectre-people, guarding the Hebrew Bible.</p> + +<p>...Luther's Bible is an enduring spring of rejuvenation for our +language. All the expressions and phrases contained therein are German, +and are still in use by writers. As this book is in the hands of even +the poorest people, they require no special learned education in order +to be able to express themselves in literary forms. When our political +revolution breaks out, this circumstance will have remarkable results. +Liberty will everywhere be gifted with the power of speech, and her +speech will be biblical.</p> + +<p>...More noteworthy and of more importance than his prose writings are +Luther's poems, the songs which in battle and in trouble blossomed forth +from his heart. Sometimes they resemble a floweret that grows on a rocky +crag, then again a ray of moonlight trembling over a restless sea. +Luther loved music, and even wrote a treatise on the art;<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a> hence his +songs are particularly melodious. In this respect he merits the name, +Swan of Eisleben. But he is nothing less than a wild swan in those songs +wherein he stimulates the courage of his followers and inflames himself +to the fiercest rage of battle. A true battle-song was that martial +strain with which he and his companions marched into Worms. The old +cathedral trembled at those unwonted tones, and the ravens, in their +dark nests in the steeple, startled with affright. That song, the +Marseillaise of the Reformation, preserves to this day its inspiriting +power.</p> + +<p>...The expressions "classic" and "romantic" refer only to the spirit and +the manner of the treatment. The treatment is classic when the form of +that which is portrayed is quite identical with the idea of the +portrayer, as is the case with the art-works of the Greeks, in which, +owing to this identity, the greatest harmony is found to exist between +the idea and its form. The treatment is romantic when the form does not +reveal the idea through this identity, but lets this idea be surmised +parabolically. (I use the word "parabolically" here in preference to +"symbolically.") The Greek mythology had an array of god-figures, each +of which, in addition to the identity of form and idea, was also +susceptible of a symbolic meaning. But in this Greek religion only the +figures of the gods were clearly defined; all else, their lives and +deeds, was left to the arbitrary treatment of the poet's fancy. In the +Christian religion, on the contrary, there are no such clearly-defined +figures, but stated facts—certain definite holy events and deeds, into +which the poetical faculty of man could place a parabolic signification. +It is said that Homer invented the Greek gods and goddesses. That is not +true. They existed previously in clearly-defined outlines; but he +invented their histories. The artists of the middle ages, on the other<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> +hand, never ventured the least addition to the historical part of their +religion. The fall of man, the incarnation, the baptism, the +crucifixion, and the like, were matters of fact, which were not to be +intermeddled with, and which it was not permissible to remould in the +least, but to which poetry might attach a symbolic meaning. All the arts +during the middle ages were treated in this parabolic spirit, and this +treatment is romantic. Hence we find in the poetry of the middle ages a +mystic universality; the forms are all so shadowy, what they do is so +vaguely indicated, all therein is as if seen through a hazy twilight +intermittently illumined by the moon. The idea is merely hinted at in +the form, as in a riddle; and we dimly see a vague, indefinite figure, +which is the peculiarity of spiritual literature. There is not, as among +the Greeks, a harmony, clear as the sun, between form and meaning, but +occasionally the meaning overtops the given form, and the latter strives +desperately to reach the former, and then we behold bizarre, fantastic +sublimity; then, again, the form has overgrown itself, and is out of all +proportion to the meaning. A silly, pitiful thought trails itself along +in some colossal form, and we witness a grotesque farce: misshapenness +is nearly always the result.</p> + +<p>The universal characteristic of that literature was that in all its +productions it manifested the same firm, unshaken faith which in that +period reigned over worldly as well as spiritual matters. All the +opinions of that time were based on authorities. The poet journeyed +along the abysses of doubt as free from apprehension as a mule, and +there prevailed in the literature of that period a dauntless composure +and blissful self-confidence such as became impossible in after-times, +when the influence of the Papacy, the chief of those authorities, was +shattered, and with it all<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> the others were overthrown. Hence the poems +of the middle ages have all the same characteristics, as if composed not +by single individuals, but by the whole people <i>en masse</i>: they are +objective, epic, naïve.</p> + +<p>In the literature that blossomed into life with Luther we find quite +opposite tendencies.</p> + +<p>Its material, its subject, is the conflict between the interests and +views of the Reformation and the old order of things. To the new spirit +of the times, that hodge-podge religion which arose from the two +elements already referred to—Germanic nationality and the +Hindoo-Gnostic Christendom—was altogether repugnant. The latter was +considered heathen idol-worship, which was to be replaced by the true +religion of the Judaic-theistic Gospel. A new order of things is +established; the spirit makes discoveries which demand the well-being of +matter. Through industrial progress and the dissemination of +philosophical theories, spiritualism becomes discredited in popular +opinion. The <i>tiers-état</i> begins to rise; the Revolution already rumbles +in the hearts and brains of men, and what the era feels, thinks, needs, +and wills is openly spoken; and that is the stuff of which modern +literature is made. At the same time the treatment is no longer +romantic, but classic.</p> + +<p>...The universal characteristic of modern literature consists in this, +that now individuality and scepticism predominate. Authorities are +overthrown; reason is now man's sole lamp, and conscience his only staff +in the dark mazes of life. Man now stands alone, face to face with his +Creator, and chants his songs to Him. Hence this literary epoch opens +with hymns. And even later, when it becomes secular, the most intimate +self-consciousness, the feeling of personality, rules throughout. Poetry +is no longer objective, epic, and naïve, but subjective, lyric, and +reflective.<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a></p> + +<p>...The God of the pantheists differs from the God of the theists in so +far that the former is in the world itself, while the latter is external +to, or, in other words, is over the world. The God of the theists rules +the world from above as a quite distinct establishment. Only in regard +to the manner of that rule do the theists differ among themselves. The +Hebrews picture God as a thunder-hurling tyrant; the Christians regard +him as a loving father; the disciples of Rousseau and the whole Genevese +school portray him as a skilful artist, who has made the whole world +somewhat in the same manner as their papas manufacture watches; and as +art-connoisseurs, they admire the work and praise the Maker above.</p> + +<p>...From the moment that religion seeks assistance from philosophy her +downfall is unavoidable. She strives to defend herself, and always talks +herself deeper into ruin. Religion, like all other absolutisms, may not +justify herself. Prometheus is bound to the rock by a silent power. +Æschylus represents the personification of brute force as not speaking a +single word. It must be dumb.</p> + +<p>...Moses Mendelssohn was the reformer of the German Israelites, his +companions in faith. He overthrew the prestige of Talmudism, and founded +a pure Mosaism. This man, whom his contemporaries called the German +Socrates, and whose nobleness of soul and intellectual powers they so +admired, was the son of a poor sexton of the synagogue at Dessau. +Besides this curse of birth, Providence made him a hunchback, in order +to teach the rabble in a very striking manner that men are to be judged +not by outward appearance but by inner worth. As Luther overthrew the +Papacy, so Mendelssohn overthrew the Talmud; and that, too, by a similar +process. He discarded tradition, declared the Bible to be the +well-spring of religion, and translated<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> the most important parts of it. +By so doing he destroyed Jewish Catholicism, for such is the Talmud. It +is a Gothic dome which, although overladen with fanciful, childish +ornamentation, yet amazes us by the immensity of its heaven-aspiring +proportions.</p> + +<p>...No German can pronounce the name of Lessing without a responsive echo +in his breast. Since Luther, Germany has produced no greater and better +man than Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. These two are our pride and joy. In +the troubles of the present we look back at their consoling figures, and +they answer with a look full of bright promise. The third man will come +who will perfect what Luther began and what Lessing carried on—the +third Liberator.</p> + +<p>Like Luther, Lessing's achievements consisted not only in effecting +something definite, but in agitating the German people to its depths, +and in awakening through his criticism and polemics a wholesome +intellectual activity. He was the vivifying critic of his time, and his +whole life was a polemic. His critical insight made itself felt +throughout the widest range of thought and feeling—in religion, in +science, and in art. His polemics vanquished every opponent, and grew +stronger with every victory. Lessing, as he himself confessed, needed +conflict for the full development of his powers. He resembled that +fabulous Norman who inherited the skill, knowledge, and strength of +those whom he slew in single combat, and in this manner became finally +endowed with all possible excellencies and perfections. It is easily +conceivable that such a contentious champion should stir up not a little +commotion in Germany,—in that quiet Germany which was then even more +sabbatically quiet than now. The majority were stupefied at his literary +audacity. But this was of the greatest assistance<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> to him, for <i>oser</i>! +is the secret of success in literature, as it is in revolutions,—and in +love. All trembled before the sword of Lessing. No head was safe from +him. Yes, many heads he struck off from mere wantonness, and was +moreover so spiteful as to lift them up from the ground and show to the +public that they were hollow inside. Those whom his sword could not +reach he slew with the arrows of his wit. His friends admired the pretty +feathers of those arrows; his enemies felt their barbs in their hearts. +Lessing's wit does not resemble that <i>enjouement</i>, that <i>gaîté</i>, those +lively <i>saillies</i>, which are so well known here in France. His wit was +no petty French greyhound, chasing its own shadow: it was rather a great +German tom-cat, who plays with the mouse before he throttles it.</p> + +<p>Yes, polemics were our Lessing's delight, and so he never reflected long +whether an opponent was worthy of him,—thus through his controversies +he has saved many a name from well-merited oblivion. Around many a +pitiful authorling he has spun a web of the wittiest sarcasm, the most +charming humour; and thus they are preserved for all time in Lessing's +works, like insects caught in a piece of amber. In slaying his enemies +he made them immortal. Who of us would have ever heard of that Klotz on +whom Lessing wasted so much wit and scorn? The huge rocks which he +hurled at, and with which he crushed, that poor antiquarian, are now the +latter's indestructible monument.</p> + +<p>It is noteworthy that this wittiest man of all Germany was also the most +honourable. There is nothing equal to his love of truth. Lessing made +not the least concession to falsehood, even if thereby, after the manner +of the worldly-wise, he could advance the victory of truth itself. He +could do everything for truth, except lie for it. Whoever thinks, he +once said, to bring Truth to man, masked<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> and rouged, may well be her +pander, but he has never been her lover.</p> + +<p>...It is heart-rending to read in his biography how fate denied this man +every joy, and how it did not even vouchsafe to him to rest with his +family from his daily struggles. Once only fortune seemed to smile on +him; she gave him a loved wife, a child—but this happiness was like the +rays of the sun gilding the wings of a swift-flying bird: it vanished as +quickly. His wife died in consequence of her confinement, the child soon +after birth. Concerning the latter, he wrote to a friend the +horribly-witty words, "My joy was brief. And I lost him so unwillingly, +that son! For he was so wise, so wise! Do not think that the few hours +of my fatherhood have already made a doting parent of me. I know what I +say. Was it not wisdom that he had to be reluctantly dragged into the +world with iron tongs, and that he so soon discovered his folly? Was it +not wisdom that he seized the first opportunity to leave it? For once I +have sought to be happy like other men; but I have made a miserable +failure of it."</p> + +<p>...Lessing was the prophet who from the New Testament pointed towards +the Third Testament. I have called him the successor of Luther; and it +is in this character that I have to speak of him here. Of his influence +on German art I shall speak hereafter. On this he effected a wholesome +reform, not only through his criticism, but also through his example; +and this latter phase of his activity is generally made the most +prominent, and is the most discussed. But, viewed from our present +standpoint, his philosophical and theological battles are to us more +important than all his dramas, or his dramaturgy. His dramas, however, +like all his writings, have a social import, and <i>Nathan the Wise</i> is in +reality not only a good play, but<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> also a philosophical, theological +treatise in support of the doctrine of a pure theism. For Lessing, art +was a tribune, and when he was thrust from the pulpit or the professor's +chair he sprang on to the stage, speaking out more boldly, and gaining a +more numerous audience.</p> + +<p>I say that Lessing continued the work of Luther. After Luther had freed +us from the yoke of tradition and had exalted the Bible as the only +well-spring of Christianity, there ensued a rigid word-service, and the +letter of the Bible ruled just as tyrannically as once did tradition. +Lessing contributed the most to the emancipation from the tyranny of the +letter.</p> + +<p>Lessing died in Brunswick, in the year 1781, misunderstood, hated, and +denounced. In the same year there was published at Königsberg the +<i>Critique of Pure Reason</i>, by Immanuel Kant. With this book there begins +in Germany an intellectual revolution, which offers the most wonderful +analogies to the material revolution in France, and which to the +profound thinker must appear equally important. It develops the same +phases, and between the two there exists a very remarkable parallelism. +On both sides of the Rhine we behold the same rupture with the past: it +is loudly proclaimed that all reverence for tradition is at an end. As +in France no privilege, so in Germany no thought is tolerated without +proving its right to exist: nothing is taken for granted. And as in +France fell the monarchy, the keystone of the old social system, so in +Germany fell theism, the keystone of the intellectual <i>ancien régime</i>.</p> + +<p class="cb">. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . . +. . . . .</p> + +<p>It is horrible when the bodies which we have created ask of us a soul. +But it is still more horrible, more terrible, more uncanny, to create a +soul, which craves a body and<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a> pursues us with that demand. The idea +which we have thought is such a soul, and it allows us no peace until we +have given it a body, until we have brought it into actual being. The +thought seems to become deed; the word, flesh. And, strange! man, like +the God of the Bible, needs but to speak his thought, and the world +shapes itself accordingly: light dawns, or darkness descends; the waters +separate themselves from the dry land, and even wild beasts appear. The +universe is but the signature of the word.</p> + +<p>Mark this, ye haughty men of action. Ye are naught but the unconscious +servants of the men of thought, who, oftentimes in the humblest +obscurity, have marked out your tasks for you with the utmost +exactitude. Maximilian Robespierre was only the hand of Jean Jacques +Rousseau—the bloody hand that from the womb of time drew forth the body +whose soul Rousseau had created. Did the restless anxiety that +embittered the life of Jean Jacques arise from a foreboding that his +thoughts would require such a midwife to bring them into the world?</p> + +<p>Old Fontenelle was perhaps in the right when he declared, "If I carried +all the ideas of this world in my closed hand, I should take good heed +not to open it." For my part, I think differently. If I held all the +ideas of the world in my hand, I might perhaps implore you to hew off my +hand at once, but in no case would I long keep it closed. I am not +adapted to be a jailor of thoughts. By Heaven! I would set them free. +Even if they assumed the most threatening shapes and swept through all +lands like a band of mad Bacchantes; even if with their thyrsus staffs +they should strike down our most innocent flowers; even if they should +break into our hospitals and chase the sick old world from its bed! It +would certainly grieve me<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> sadly, and I myself should come to harm. For, +alas! I too belong to that sick old world; and the poet says rightly +that scoffing at our own crutches does not enable us to walk any the +better. I am the most sick among you all, and the most to be pitied, for +I know what health is. But you know it not, you enviable ones. You can +die without noticing it yourselves. Yes, many of you have already been +dead for these many years, and you think that now only does the true +life begin. When I contradict such madness, then they become enraged +against me, and rail at me, and, horrible! the corpses spring on me and +reproach me; and more even than their revilings does their mouldy odour +oppress me. Avaunt, ye spectres! I am speaking of one whose very name +possesses an exorcising power: I speak of Immanuel Kant.</p> + +<p>It is said that the spirits of darkness tremble with affright when they +behold the sword of an executioner. How, then, must they stand aghast +when confronted with Kant's <i>Critique of Pure Reason</i>! This book is the +sword with which, in Germany, theism was decapitated.</p> + +<p>To be candid, you French are tame and moderate compared with us Germans. +At the most, you have slain a king; and he had already lost his head +before he was beheaded. And withal you must drum so much, and shout, and +stamp, so that the whole world was shaken by the tumult. It is really +awarding Maximilian Robespierre too much honour to compare him with +Immanuel Kant. Maximilian Robespierre, the great citizen of the Rue +Saint Honoré, did truly have an attack of destructive fury when the +monarchy was concerned, and he writhed terribly enough in his regicidal +epilepsy; but as soon as the Supreme Being was mentioned, he wiped the +white foam from his mouth and the blood from his hands, put on his<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> blue +Sunday coat with the bright buttons, and attached a bouquet of flowers +to his broad coat-lapel.</p> + +<p>The life-history of Immanuel Kant is difficult to write, for he had +neither a life nor a history. He lived a mechanical, orderly, almost +abstract, bachelor life, in a quiet little side-street of Königsberg, an +old city near the north-east boundary of Germany. I believe that the +great clock of the cathedral did not perform its daily work more +dispassionately, more regularly, than its countryman, Immanuel Kant. +Rising, coffee-drinking, writing, collegiate lectures, dining, +walking—each had its set time. And when Immanuel Kant, in his grey +coat, cane in hand, appeared at the door of his house, and strolled +towards the small linden avenue, which is still called "the +philosopher's walk," the neighbours knew it was exactly half-past four. +Eight times he promenaded up and down, during all seasons; and when the +weather was gloomy, or the grey clouds threatened rain, his old servant +Lampe was seen plodding anxiously after, with a large umbrella under his +arm, like a symbol of Providence.</p> + +<p>What a strange contrast between the outer life of the man and his +destructive, world-convulsing thoughts! Had the citizens of Königsberg +surmised the whole significance of these thoughts, they would have felt +a more profound awe in the presence of this man than in that of an +executioner, who merely slays human beings. But the good people saw in +him nothing but a professor of philosophy; and when at the fixed hour he +sauntered by, they nodded a friendly greeting, and regulated their +watches.</p> + +<p>But if Immanuel Kant, that arch-destroyer in the realms of thought, far +surpassed Maximilian Robespierre in terrorism, yet he had certain points +of resemblance to the latter that invite a comparison of the two men. In +both we find<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> the same inflexible, rigid, prosaic integrity. Then we +find in both the same instinct of distrust,—only that the one exercises +it against ideas, and names it a critique, while the other applies it to +men, and calls it republican virtue. In both, however, the narrow-minded +shopkeeper type is markedly manifest. Nature had intended them to weigh +out sugar and coffee, but fate willed it otherwise, and into the scales +of one it laid a king, into those of the other, a God. And they both +weighed correctly.</p> + +<p>...Pantheism had already in Fichte's time interpenetrated German art; +even the Catholic Romanticists unconsciously followed this current, and +Goethe expressed it most unmistakably. This he already does in +<i>Werther</i>. In <i>Faust</i> he seeks to establish an affinity between man and +nature by a bold, direct, mystic method, and conjures the secret forces +of nature through the magic formula of the powers of hell. But this +Goethean pantheism is most clearly and most charmingly disclosed in his +short ballads. The early philosophy of Spinoza has shed its mathematical +shell, and now flutters about us as Goethean poetry. Hence the wrath of +our pietists, and of orthodoxy in general, against the Goethean ballads. +With their pious bear-paws they clumsily strike at this butterfly, which +is so daintily ethereal, so light of wing, that it always flits out of +reach. These Goethean ballads have a tantalising charm that is +indescribable. The harmonious verses captivate the heart like the +tenderness of a loving maiden; the words embrace you while the thought +kisses you.</p> + +<p>...This giant was minister in a lilliputian German state, in which he +could never move at ease. It was said of Phidias's Jupiter seated in +Olympus, that were he ever to stand erect the sudden uprising would rend +asunder the vaulted roof. This was exactly Goethe's situation at<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> +Weimar; had he suddenly lifted himself up from his peaceful, sitting +posture, he would have shattered the gabled canopy of state, or, more +probably, he would have bruised his own head. But the German Jupiter +remained quietly seated, and composedly accepted homage and incense.</p> + +<p>...When it was seen that such saddening follies were budding out of +philosophy and ripening into a baleful maturity—when it was observed +that the German youth were generally absorbed in metaphysical +abstractions, thereby neglecting the most important questions of the +time and unfitting themselves for practical life,—it was quite natural +that patriots and lovers of liberty should be led to conceive a +justifiable dislike to philosophy; and a few went so far as to condemn +it utterly and entirely, as idle, useless, chimerical theorising.</p> + +<p>We shall not be so foolish as to attempt seriously to refute these +malcontents. German philosophy is a matter of great weight and +importance, and concerns the whole human race. Only our most remote +descendants will be able to decide whether we deserve blame or praise +for completing first our philosophy and afterwards our revolution. To me +it seems that a methodical people, such as we Germans are, must +necessarily have commenced with the Reformation, could only after that +proceed to occupy ourselves with philosophy, and not until the +completion of the latter could we pass on to the political revolution. +This order I find quite sensible. The heads which philosophy has used +for thinking, the revolution can afterwards, for its purposes, cut off. +But philosophy would never have been able to use the heads which had +been decapitated by the revolution, if the latter had preceded.</p> + +<p><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>...Christianity—and this is its fairest service—has to a certain +degree moderated that brutal lust of battle, such as we find it among +the ancient Germanic races, who fought, not to destroy, not yet to +conquer, but merely from a fierce, demoniac love of battle itself; but +it could not altogether eradicate it. And when once that restraining +talisman, the cross, is broken, then the smouldering ferocity of those +ancient warriors will again blaze up; then will again be heard the +deadly clang of that frantic Berserkir wrath, of which the Norse poets +say and sing so much. The talisman is rotten with decay, and the day +will surely come when it will crumble and fall. Then the ancient stone +gods will arise from out the ashes of dismantled ruins, and rub the dust +of a thousand years from their eyes; and finally Thor, with his colossal +hammer, will leap up, and with it shatter into fragments the Gothic +Cathedrals.</p> + +<p>And when ye hear the rumbling and the crumbling, take heed, ye +neighbours of France, and meddle not with what we do in Germany. It +might bring harm on you. Take heed not to kindle the fire; take heed not +to quench it. Ye might easily burn your fingers in the flame. Smile not +at my advice as the counsel of a visionary warning you against Kantians, +Fichteans, and natural philosophers. Scoff not at the dreamer who +expects in the material world a revolution similar to that which has +already taken place in the domains of thought. The thought goes before +the deed, as the lightning precedes the thunder. German thunder is +certainly German, and is rather awkward, and it comes rolling along +tardily; but come it surely will, and when ye once hear a crash the like +of which in the world's history was never heard before, then know that +the German thunderbolt has reached its mark. At this crash the eagles +will fall dead in mid air, and the lions in Afric's most distant deserts +will cower and sneak into their royal dens.<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> A drama will be enacted in +Germany in comparison with which the French Revolution will appear a +harmless idyl. To be sure, matters are at present rather quiet, and if +occasionally this one or the other rants and gesticulates somewhat +violently, do not believe that these are the real actors. These are only +little puppies, that run around in the empty arena, barking and snarling +at one another, until the hour shall arrive when appear the gladiators, +who are to battle unto death.</p> + +<p>And that hour <i>will</i> come. As on the raised benches of an amphitheatre +the nations will group themselves around Germany to behold the great +tournament. I advise you, ye French, keep very quiet then: on your souls +take heed that ye applaud not. We might easily misunderstand you, and in +our blunt manner roughly quiet and rebuke you, for if in our former +servile condition we could sometimes overcome you, much more easily can +we do so in the wantonness and delirious intoxication of freedom. Ye +yourselves know what one can do in such a condition—and ye are no +longer in that condition. Beware! I mean well with you, therefore I tell +you the bitter truth. You have more to fear from emancipated Germany +than from the whole Holy Alliance, with all its Croats and Cossacks. +For, in the first place, you are not loved in Germany,—which is almost +incomprehensible, for you are so very amiable, and during your sojourn +in Germany took much pains to please at least the better and lovelier +half of the Germans. But even if that half should love you, it is just +the half that does not bear arms, and whose friendship would therefore +avail you but little.</p> + +<p>What they really have against you, I could never make out. Once in a +beer-cellar at Göttingen, a young Teuton said that revenge must be had +on the French for Conrad<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> von Stauffen, whom they beheaded at Naples. +You have surely long since forgotten that. But we forget nothing. You +see that if we should once be inclined to quarrel with you, good reasons +will not be wanting. At all events, I advise you to be on your guard. +Let what will happen in Germany, whether the Crown Prince of Prussia or +Dr. Wirth hold sway, be always armed, remain quietly at your post, +musket in hand. I mean well with you; and I almost stood aghast when I +learned lately that your ministry propose to disarm France.</p> + +<p>As, notwithstanding your present Romanticism, you are inborn classics, +you know Olympus. Among the naked gods and goddesses who there make +themselves merry with nectar and ambrosia, you behold one goddess who, +although surrounded with mirth and sport, yet wears always a coat of +mail, and keeps helm on head and spear in hand.</p> + +<p>It is the goddess of wisdom.<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="FLORENTINE_NIGHTS" id="FLORENTINE_NIGHTS"></a>FLORENTINE NIGHTS.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>[Heine wrote the fragment entitled <i>Florentine Nights</i> in 1835, and +published it two years later in the third volume of the <i>Salon</i>. It is a +series of brilliant pictures united by a very slight thread of +connection. There is unquestionably an additional element of +autobiographical interest; Maximilian's visits to Potsdam and London +correspond to Heine's, and throughout this various record of impressions +we frequently hear Heine's own voice. The translation here given has not +been previously published.]</p> + +<h4>FIRST NIGHT.</h4> + +<p class="nind">I<small>N</small> the ante-room Maximilian found the doctor just as he was drawing on +his black gloves. "I am greatly pressed for time," the latter hurriedly +said to him. "Signora Maria has not slept during the whole night; she +has only just now fallen into a light slumber. I need not caution you +not to wake her by any noise; and when she wakes on no account must she +be allowed to talk. She must lie still, and not disturb herself; mental +excitement will not be salutary. Tell her all kinds of odd stories, so +that she must listen quietly."</p> + +<p>"Be assured, doctor," replied Maximilian, with a melancholy smile. "I +have educated myself for a long time in chattering, and will not let her +talk. I will narrate abundance of fantastic nonsense, as much as you +require. But how long can she live?"<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a></p> + +<p>"I am greatly pressed for time," answered the doctor, and slipped away.</p> + +<p>Black Deborah, quick of hearing as she was, had already recognised the +stranger's footstep, and softly opened the door. At a sign from him she +left as softly, and Maximilian found himself alone with his friend. A +single lamp dimly lighted the chamber. This cast now and then half +timid, half inquisitive gleams upon the countenance of the sick lady, +clothed entirely in white muslin, who lay stretched on a green sofa in +calm sleep.</p> + +<p>Silent, and with folded arms, Maximilian stood a little while before the +sleeping figure, and gazed on the beautiful limbs which the light +garments revealed rather than covered; and every time that the lamp +threw a ray of light over the pale countenance, his heart quivered. "For +God's sake!" he said softly, "what is that? What memories are awaking in +me? Yes, now I know. This white form on the green ground, yes, now...."</p> + +<p>At this moment the invalid awoke, and gazing out, as it were, from the +depths of a dream, the tender dark-blue eyes rested upon him, asking, +entreating.... "What were you thinking of, just now, Maximilian?" she +said, in that awful, gentle voice so often found in consumptives, and +wherein we seem to recognise the lisping of children, the twittering of +birds, and the gurgle of the dying. "What were you thinking of, just +then, Maximilian?" she repeated again, and started up so hastily that +the long curls, like roused snakes, fell in ringlets around her head.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake!" exclaimed Maximilian, as he gently pressed her back on +to the sofa, "lie still, do not talk; I will tell you all I think, I +feel, yes, what I myself do not know!</p> + +<p>"In fact," he pursued, "I scarcely know what I was<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> thinking and feeling +just now. Dim visions of childhood were passing through my mind. I was +thinking of my mother's castle, of the deserted garden there, of the +beautiful marble statue that lay in the grass.... I said, 'my mother's +<i>castle</i>,' but pray do not imagine anything grand and magnificent. To +this name I have indeed accustomed myself; my father always laid a +special emphasis on the words, 'the castle,' and accompanied them always +with a singular smile. The meaning of that smile I understood later, +when, a boy of some twelve years, I travelled with my mother to the +castle. It was my first journey. We spent the whole day in passing +through a thick forest; I shall never forget its gloomy horror; and only +towards evening did we stop before a long cross-bar which separated us +from a large meadow. Here we waited nearly half-an-hour before the boy +came out of the wretched hut near by, removed the barrier, and admitted +us. I say 'the boy,' because old Martha always called her forty years' +old nephew 'the lad.' To receive his gracious mistress worthily, he had +assumed the livery of his late uncle; and it was in consequence of its +requiring a little previous dusting that he had kept us waiting so long. +Had he had time, he would have also put on stockings; the long red legs, +however, did not form a very marked contrast with the glaring scarlet +coat. Whether there were any trousers underneath I am unable to say. Our +servant, John, who had likewise often heard of 'the castle,' put on a +very amazed grimace as the boy led us to the little ruined building in +which his master had lived. He was, however, altogether at a loss when +my mother ordered him to bring in the beds. How could he guess that at +the 'castle' no beds were to be found, and my mother's order that he +should bring bedding for us he had either not heard or considered as +superfluous trouble.<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> + +<p>"The little house, only one storey high, which in its best days +contained, at the most, five habitable rooms, was a lamentable picture +of transitoriness. Broken furniture, torn carpets, not one window-frame +left entire, the floor pulled up here and there, everywhere the hated +traces of the wantonest military possession. 'The soldiers quartered +with us have always amused themselves,' said the boy, with a silly +smile. My mother signed that we should all leave her alone, and while +the boy and John were busying themselves, I went out to see the garden. +This also offered the most disconsolate picture of ruin. The great trees +were partly destroyed, partly broken down, and parasites were scornfully +spreading over the fallen trunks. Here and there by the grown-up +box-bushes the old paths might be recognised. Here and there also stood +statues, for the most part wanting heads, or at all events noses. I +remember a Diana whose lower half the dark ivy grew round in a most +amusing way, as I also remember a Goddess of Plenty, out of whose +cornucopia mere ill-odorous weeds were blooming. Only one statue had +been spared from the malice of men and of time; it had, indeed, been +thrown from off its pedestal into the high grass; but there it lay, free +from mutilation, the marble goddess with pure lovely features and the +noble deep-cleft bosom, which seemed, as it glowed out of the grass, +like a Greek revelation. I almost started when I saw it; this form +inspired me with a singular feeling, and bashfulness kept me from +lingering long near so sweet a sight.</p> + +<p>"When I returned to my mother, she was standing at the window, lost in +thought, her head resting on her right arm, and the tears were flowing +over her cheeks. I had never seen her weep so before. She embraced me +with passionate tenderness, and asked my forgiveness, because, owing to<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> +John's negligence, I should have no regular bed. 'Old Martha,' she said, +'is very ill, dear child, and cannot give up her bed to you; but John +will arrange the cushions out of the coach, so that you will be able to +sleep upon them, and he can also give you his cloak for a covering. I +shall sleep on the straw; this was my dear father's bed-room; it was +much better here once. Leave me alone!' And the tears came still more +impetuously.</p> + +<p>"Whether it was owing to my unaccustomed place of rest or to my +disturbed heart, I could not sleep. The moonlight streamed in through +the broken window-panes, and seemed to allure me out into the bright +summer night. I might lie on the right or the left side, close my eyes +or impatiently open them again—I could still think of nothing but the +lovely marble statue I had seen lying in the grass. I could not +understand the shyness which had come over me at the sight of it; I was +vexed at this childish feeling, and 'To-morrow,' I said softly to +myself, 'to-morrow I will kiss you, you lovely marble face, kiss you +just on that pretty corner of your mouth where the lips melt into such a +sweet dimple!' An impatience I had never before felt was stirring +through all my limbs; I could no longer rule the strange impulse, and I +sprang up at last with audacious vivacity, exclaiming, 'And why should I +not kiss you to-night, you dear image?' Quietly, so that mother might +not hear my steps, I left the house; with the less difficulty, since the +entrance was furnished with an escutcheon indeed, but no longer with a +door, and hastily worked my way through the abundant growth of the +neglected garden. There was no sound; everything was resting silent and +solemn in the still moonlight. The shadows of the trees seemed to be +nailed on the earth. In the green grass lay the beautiful<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> goddess, +likewise motionless, yet no stony death, but only a quiet sleep, seemed +to hold her lovely limbs fettered; and as I came near, I almost feared +lest the least noise should awake her out of her slumber. I held my +breath, as I leant over to gaze on the beautiful features; a shuddering +pain thrust me back, but a boyish wantonness drew me again towards her; +my heart was beating wildly, and at last I kissed the lovely goddess +with such passion and tenderness and despair as I have never in this +life kissed with again. And I have never been able to forget the fearful +and sweet sensation which flowed through my soul as the blissful cool of +those marble lips touched my mouth.... And so you see, Maria, that as I +was just now standing before you, and saw you lying in your white muslin +garments on the green sofa, your appearance suggested to me the white +marble form in the green grass. Had you slept any longer my lips would +not have been able to resist——"</p> + +<p>"Max! Max!" she cried from the depth of her soul. "Horrible! You know +that a kiss from your mouth——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, be silent only; I know you think that something horrible. Do not +look at me so imploringly. I do not misunderstand your feelings, +although their causes are hidden from me. I have never dared to press my +mouth on your lips."</p> + +<p>But Maria would not let him finish speaking; she seized his hand, +covered it with passionate kisses, and then said, smiling—"Please tell +me more of your love affairs. How long did you adore the marble beauty +that you kissed in your mother's castle garden?"</p> + +<p>"We went away the next day," Maximilian answered, "and I have never seen +the lovely statue again. It occupied my heart, however, for nearly three +years. A<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> wonderful passion for marble statues has since then developed +in my soul, and this very day I have felt its transporting power. I was +coming out of the Laurentian, the library of the Medici, and I wandered, +I know not how, into the chapel where that most magnificent of Italian +families built for itself a resting-place of jewels, and is quietly +sleeping. For a whole hour I was absorbed in gazing on the marble figure +of a woman, whose powerful body witnesses to the cunning strength of +Michael Angelo, while yet the whole form is pervaded by an ethereal +sweetness which we are not accustomed to seek in that master. The whole +dream-world, with its silent blisses, lives in that marble; a tender +repose dwells in the lovely limbs, a soothing moonlight seems to course +through the veins. It is the Night of Michael Angelo Buonarotti. O, how +willingly would I sleep the eternal sleep in the arms of that Night!</p> + +<p>"Painted women forms," Maximilian pursued, after a pause, "have never so +powerfully interested me as statues. Only once was I in love with a +painting. It was a wondrously lovely Madonna that I learnt to know at a +church in Cologne. I was at that time a very zealous church-goer, and my +heart was absorbed in the mysticism of the Catholic religion. I would +then have willingly fought like a Spanish knight, at the peril of my +life, for the immaculate conception of Mary, the Queen of Angels, the +fairest lady of Heaven and earth! I was interested in all the members of +the holy family at that time, and I took my hat off in an especially +friendly manner whenever I passed near a picture of the holy Joseph. +This disposition did not last long, however, and I deserted the Mother +of God almost without any explanations, having become acquainted, in a +gallery of antiquities, with a Grecian nymph, who for a long time held +me enchained in marble fetters."<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a></p> + +<p>"And you only loved sculptured or painted women?" said Maria, smiling.</p> + +<p>"No, I have also loved dead women," answered Maximilian, over whose face +an expression of seriousness had spread. He failed to perceive Maria +start and shrink at these words, and quietly proceeded—</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is very strange that I once fell in love with a girl after she +had been seven years dead. When I became acquainted with little Very I +liked her extremely. For three days I occupied myself with this young +person, and experienced the greatest pleasure in all that she said and +did, and in every expression of her charming wayward being, without +being betrayed withal into any over-tender emotion. And so I was not too +deeply grieved when a few months later I heard that a fever that had +seized her suddenly resulted in death. I forgot her entirely, and I am +convinced that from one year's end to another's I had not one thought of +her. Seven years passed away, and I found myself at Potsdam, to enjoy +the beautiful summer in undisturbed solitude. My society was confined to +the statues in the garden of Sansouci. It happened there one day that I +recollected certain features, and a singular, lovely way of speaking and +moving, without being able to remember to whom they belonged. Nothing is +more annoying than such a drifting into old memories, and I was +therefore joyfully surprised when, after some days, I recollected little +Very, and discovered that it was her dear, forgotten form that had +hovered before me so restlessly. Yes, I rejoiced at this discovery like +one who unexpectedly meets his most intimate friend; the pale hues +gradually grew bright, and at last her sweet little person seemed to +stand bodily before me, smiling, pouting, witty, and prettier than ever. +From that time forth the sweet vision never left me,<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a> it filled my whole +soul; wherever I went or stood, that went and stood at my side, spoke +with me, laughed with me, always gentle, and yet never over-tender. I +was, however, more and more fascinated with this vision, which daily +gained more and more reality for me. It is easy to raise ghosts, but it +is difficult to send them back again to their dark night; they look at +us then so imploringly, our own hearts lend them such powerful +intercession. I could not tear myself free, and fell in love with little +Very after she had been seven years dead. I lived thus at Potsdam for +six months, quite buried in this love. I guarded myself more carefully +than ever from any contact with the outer world, and if anyone in the +street came at all near me, I experienced the most miserable oppression. +I cherished a deep horror of every occurrence, such as, perhaps, the +night-wandering spirits of the dead experience; for these, it is said, +are terrified when they meet a living man, as much as a living man is +terrified when he meets a spectre. By chance a traveller came at that +time to Potsdam whom I could not escape—namely, my brother. His +appearance and his accounts of the latest news woke me as from a deep +dream, and I suddenly felt, with a shudder, in what a frightful solitude +I had been so long living. In this condition I had not once noted the +change of the seasons, and I now gazed with wonder on the trees, long +since leafless, decked in their autumn mellowness. I immediately left +Potsdam and little Very, and in another town, where important business +was awaiting me, and by means of difficult circumstances and relations, +I was soon again plunged into crude reality.</p> + +<p>"The living women," Maximilian pursued, while a sorrowful smile played +on his upper lip, "the living women with whom I then came into +unavoidable contact, how they<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a> tormented me, tenderly tormented me with +their pouting, jealousy, and constant sighs. At how many balls must I +trot round with them, in how much gossip must I mix myself! What +restless vanity, what delight in lying, what kissing treachery, what +envenomed flowers! These women spoilt all pleasure and love for me, and +I was for some time a misogynist, who damned the whole sex. It went with +me almost as with the French officer, who, in the Prussian campaign, +only saved himself with the greatest difficulty from the ice-pits at +Beresina, and since that retains such an antipathy to everything frozen, +that now he thrusts away with disgust the sweetest and most delicious of +Tortoni's ices. Yes, the remembrance of the Beresina of love that I +passed through then spoilt for me, for a time, even the most charming +ladies, women like angels, girls like Vanilla sherbert."</p> + +<p>"Pray, do not abuse women," exclaimed Maria. "That is a worn-out +commonplace among men. In the end, to be happy, you need women after +all."</p> + +<p>"Oh," sighed Maximilian, "that is true, certainly. But women, +unfortunately, have only one way of making us happy, while they have +thirty thousand ways of making us unhappy."</p> + +<p>"Dear friend," replied Maria, suppressing a little smile, "I am speaking +of the concord of two souls in unison. Have you never experienced this +joy? But I see an unaccustomed blush spreading over your cheeks. Tell +me, Max."</p> + +<p>"It is true, Maria, I feel as confused almost as a boy at confessing to +you the happy love with which I was once infinitely blessed. That memory +is not yet lost to me, and to its cool shades my soul often flies, when +the burning dust and day's heat of life grow almost unbearable. Yet I am +not able to give you a just idea of her. She was such an<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a> ethereal +creature that she only seemed revealed to me in dreams. I think that +you, Maria, have no vulgar prejudice against dreams; those nightly +visions have, in truth, as much reality as the coarser shapes of day, +which we can touch with our hands, and by which we are not seldom +besmutched. Yes, it was in a dream that I knew that sweet being who has +made me most happy on earth. I can say little of her outward appearance. +I am not able to describe the form of her features with precision. It +was a face that I had never seen before, and that I have never in my +life seen since. So much I remember; it was not white and rosy, but all +of one colour—a soft, reddened, pale-yellow, transparent as crystal. +The charm of this face was not in firm regularity of beauty, nor in +interesting vivacity; its characteristic was, rather, a charming, +enrapturing, almost terrible veracity. It was a face full of conscious +fire and gracious goodness; it was more a soul than a face, and on that +account I have never been able to make her outward form quite present to +myself. The eyes were soft as flowers, the lips rather pale, but +charmingly arched. She wore a silk dressing-gown of a corn-flour blue +colour, and in that consisted her entire clothing; neck and feet were +naked, and through the thin delicate garment now and then peeped +stealthily the slender tenderness of the limbs. Nor can I make plain the +words we said to one another; I only know that we betrothed each other, +and that we chatted with one another, gay and familiar and open-hearted, +like bridegroom and bride, almost like brother and sister. Often we left +off talking, and gazed into each other's eyes; we spent whole eternities +so. What waked me I cannot say, but I revelled for a long time in the +after-feeling of these love-blisses. I was long, as it were, intoxicated +with ineffable delight, the pining<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> depth of my heart was filled with +bliss, a hitherto unknown joy seemed poured over all my emotions, and I +remained glad and joyful, though I never saw the beloved form in my +dreams again. But had I not enjoyed whole eternities in her gaze? and +she knew me too well not to be aware that I do not like repetitions."</p> + +<p>"Truly," exclaimed Maria, "you are an <i>homme à bonne fortune</i>. But, tell +me, was Mademoiselle Laurence a marble statue or a painting—was she +dead or a dream?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she was all these together," answered Maximilian, very +earnestly.</p> + +<p>"I can imagine, dear friend, that this sweetheart was of very doubtful +character. And when will you tell me the history?"</p> + +<p>"To-morrow. It is too long, and I am tired to-night. I have just come +from the opera, and have too much music in my ears."</p> + +<p>"You often go to the opera now, and I think, Max, you go there more to +see than to hear."</p> + +<p>"You are not mistaken, Maria; I go to the opera, indeed, to look at the +faces of the beautiful Italian women. In truth, they are beautiful +enough outside the theatre, and a connoisseur in faces could easily +trace in the ideality of their features the influence which the arts +have had on the physique of the Italian people. Nature has taken back +from the artists the capital she once lent, and see how delightfully the +interest has increased! Nature, who once furnished the artists with +their model, now on her side copies the masterpieces which have thus +arisen. The sense of the beautiful has permeated the whole people, and +as once the flesh on the spirit, so now the spirit works on the flesh. +The devotion paid before those fair Madonnas and lovely altar-pieces, +which impress themselves on the<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a> mind of the bridegroom, while the bride +bears a handsome saint in her ardent heart, is not fruitless. From this +affinity a race has arisen still fairer than the gracious earth on which +it flourishes, and the sunny sky that is as bright around it as a golden +frame. The men do not interest me much when they are not painted or +sculptured, and I resign to you, Maria, all possible enthusiasm in +regard to those handsome, supple Italians, who have such wild-black +beards, such bold noble noses, and such soft subtle eyes. They say the +Lombards are the most handsome men. I have never made any investigations +on the subject, but I have earnestly considered the Lombardy women, and +they, I have noted well, are indeed as beautiful as report announces. +Even in the middle ages they must have been tolerably beautiful. It is +said of Francis I. that the fame of the beauty of the Milanese women was +a secret motive which impelled him to the Italian campaign; the +chivalrous king was certainly curious whether the kinsfolk of his +spiritual muses were really as beautiful as fame reported. Poor rogue! +he had to atone dearly for this curiosity at Pavia!</p> + +<p>"But how beautiful they are, these Italian women, when music illuminates +their countenances! I say 'illuminates,' because the effect of the +music, which I marked in the opera, on the faces of the beautiful women +altogether resembled those light-and-shade effects which surprise us so +when we look at statues by torch-light at night-time. These marble forms +reveal to us then, with terrifying truth, their indwelling spirit and +their horrible dumb secrets. In the same way the whole life of the fair +Italian women becomes known to us when we see them in the opera; the +changing melodies wake in their souls a succession of emotions, +memories, wishes, scandals, which visibly speak in the movements of +their features, in their blushes, in their pallors, and even<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a> in their +eyes. He who knows how to read them may then see in their faces many +very sweet and interesting things—histories as remarkable as +Boccaccio's tales, emotions as tender as Petrarch's sonnets, caprices as +full of adventure as Ariosto's <i>ottaverime</i>, sometimes, too, fearful +treachery and sublime wickedness as poetic as Dante's <i>Inferno</i>. It is +worth while to gaze at the boxes. If the men would only express their +enthusiasm meanwhile with less frightful sounds! This mad noise in an +Italian theatre often annoys me. But music is the soul of these men, +their life, their national business. In other countries, certainly, +there are musicians who equal the greatest Italian masters, but there is +no other musical nation. Here, in Italy, music is not represented by +individuals; it manifests itself in the whole population; music has +become a nation. With us in the north it is quite different; there music +only becomes a man, and is called Mozart or Meyerbeer; and when, +moreover, they would accurately investigate what is the best that this +northern music offers us, they find it in Italian sunshine and +orange-perfume; and much rather than to our Germany those belong to fair +Italy, the home of music. Yes, Italy will always be the home of music, +even though her great <i>maestri</i> descend early into the grave or become +dumb—even though Bellini dies and Rossini keeps silence."</p> + +<p>"Indeed," remarked Maria, "Rossini has preserved a very long silence. If +I do not mistake, he has been silent for ten years."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that is a joke on his part," answered Maximilian. "He wishes to +show that the title, "Swan of Pesaro," which has been conferred upon +him, is quite unsuitable. Swans sing at the end of their lives, but +Rossini has left off singing in the middle of his life. And I believe +that he has done well in that, and shown, even by that, that<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a> he is a +genius. The artist who has only talent retains to the end of his life +the impulse to exercise that talent; ambition stimulates him; he feels +that he is constantly perfecting himself, and he is compelled to strive +after the highest. But genius has already accomplished the highest; it +is content; it contemns the world and small ambition, and goes home to +Stratford-on-Avon, like William Shakespeare, or walks about the +Boulevard des Italiens at Paris, and laughs and jokes, like Giacomo +Rossini. If genius has a not altogether badly constituted body, it lives +on in this way for a good while after it has given forth its +masterpieces, or, as people express it, after it has fulfilled its +mission. It is owing to a prepossession that people say that genius must +die early; I think that from the thirtieth to the thirty-fourth year has +been indicated as the most dangerous period for genius. How often have I +bantered poor Bellini on this subject, and playfully prophesied that, +being a genius, and having reached that dangerous age, he must soon die. +Singular! in spite of the playful tone, he tormented himself about this +prophecy; he called me his <i>jettatore</i>, his evil eye, and always made +the <i>jettatore</i> sign. He so wished to live, he had an almost passionate +hatred of death: he would hear nothing of dying; he was frightened of it +as a child who is afraid to sleep in the dark.... He was a good, dear +child, often rather naughty, but then one only needed to threaten him +with an early death, and he would immediately draw in, and entreat, and +make with his two raised fingers the <i>jettatore</i> sign. Poor Bellini!"</p> + +<p>"So you knew him personally? Was he handsome?"</p> + +<p>"He was not ugly. You see, we cannot answer affirmatively when anyone +asks us such a question about our own sex. He had a tall, slender +figure, which moved in an elegant, I might say a coquettish, manner; +always <i>a quatre<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> épingles</i>; a long, regular face, with a pale rosiness; +very fair, almost golden, hair, put into small curls; very high noble +brows, a straight nose, pale blue eyes, a beautifully-chiselled mouth, a +round chin. His features had something vague and characterless; +something like milk, and in this milk-face often mingled, half sweet, +half bitter, an expression of sorrow. This expression of sorrow +compensated for the want of soul in Bellini's face, but it was a sorrow +without depth; it glistened in the eyes without poetry, it played +passionless about his lips. The young <i>Maestro</i> seemed anxious to make +this flat, languid sorrow conspicuous in his whole person. His hair was +curled in such a fanciful, melancholy way, his clothes sat so languidly +about his frail body, he carried his little Spanish cane in so idyllic a +way, that he always reminded me of the affected young shepherds with +their be-ribboned sticks, and bright-coloured jackets, and pantaloons +that we see in our pastorals. And his gait was so young-lady-like, so +elegiac, so ethereal. The whole man looked like a sigh <i>en escarpins</i>. +He had received much applause among women, but I doubt if he anywhere +awakened a strong passion. In himself his appearance had something +comically unenjoyable, the reason of which lay in his way of speaking +French. Although Bellini had lived many years in France, he spoke the +language so badly, that even in England it could scarcely be spoken +worse. I ought not to call it 'bad;' bad is here much too good. One must +call it awful, a violation, something enough to overturn the world. Yes, +when one was in society with him, and he mangled the poor French words +like an executioner, and displayed, unmoved, his colossal <i>coq-à-l'âne</i>, +one thought sometimes that the world must fall in with a crash of +thunder. The stillness of the grave reigned on the whole room; a<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> death +agony was painted on all faces in chalk or in vermilion; the ladies were +uncertain whether to faint or to escape; the gentlemen gazed in alarm at +their trousers, to convince themselves that they actually had them on; +and what was most horrible, this fright raised at the same time a +convulsive desire to laugh, which could hardly be suppressed. So that +when one was in Bellini's society, his presence inspired a certain +anxiety, which by a horrible charm was at once repellant and attractive. +Often his involuntary <i>calembours</i> were merely amusing, and in their +droll insipidity reminded one of the castle of his fellow-countryman, +the Prince of Pallagonia, which Goethe in his <i>Italian Journey</i> has +described as a museum of uncouth distortions and absurd deformities. As +Bellini on such occasions always imagined he had said something quite +harmless and earnest, his face and his words formed the maddest +contrast. That which displeased me in his face came at such moments +specially prominent. What I disliked could not be exactly described as +something lacking, and may not have been displeasing to women at all. +Bellini's face, like his whole appearance, had that physical freshness, +that bloom of flesh, that rosiness which makes a disagreeable impression +on me—on me, because I like much more what is death-like and marble. +Later on, when I had known him a long time, I felt some liking for +Bellini. This arose after I had observed that his character was +thoroughly noble and good. His soul was certainly pure and unspotted by +any hateful contagion. And he was not wanting in that good-natured, +childlike quality which we never miss in men of genius, even if they do +not wear it as an outward show.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I remember," Maximilian pursued, sinking down on the chair, on the +back of which he had been hitherto<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> leaning—"I remember one moment when +Bellini appeared in so amiable a light, that I gazed on him with +pleasure, and resolved to become more intimately acquainted with him. +But, unhappily, it was the last time I should see him in this life. It +was one evening after we had been dining together at the house of a +great lady who had the smallest foot in Paris. We were very merry, and +the sweetest melodies rang out from the piano. I see him still, the +good-natured Bellini, as, at last, exhausted with the mad Bellinism that +he chattered, he sank into a seat.... It was a very low one, so that +Bellini found himself sitting at the foot, as it were, of a beautiful +lady, stretched on a sofa opposite, who gazed down on him with a sweet, +malicious delight, as he worked off some French expressions to entertain +her, and was compelled, as usual, to communicate what he had said in his +Sicilian jargon to show that it was no <i>sottise</i>, but, on the contrary, +the most delicate flattery. I think the fair lady paid little attention +to Bellini's conversation. She had taken from his hand the little +Spanish cane with which he often used to assist his weak rhetoric, and +was making use of it for a calm destruction of the elegant curl-edifice +on the young <i>Maestro's</i> brows. But this wanton occupation was well +repaid by the smile which gave her face an expression which I have seen +on no other living human countenance. That face will never leave my +memory! It was one of those faces which belong more to the kingdom of +poetry than to the crude reality of life, contours which remind one of +Da Vinci—that noble oval, with the naïve cheek-dimples and the +sentimental pointed chin of the Lombard school. The colouring was more +soft and Roman, with the dull gleam of pearls, a distinguished pallor, +<i>morbidezza</i>. In short, it was one of those faces which can only be +found in early Italian portraits, which,<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a> perhaps, represent those great +ladies with whom the Italian artists of the sixteenth century were in +love when they created their masterpieces, of whom the poets of those +days thought when they sang themselves immortal, and which kindled +German and French heroes with desire when they girded on their swords +and started across the Alps in search of great deeds. Yes, it was such a +face, and on it played a smile of sweetest, malicious delight and most +delicate wantonness, as she, the fair lady, with the point of the little +Spanish cane destroyed the blonde curls on the good-natured Bellini's +brows. At that moment Bellini seemed to me as if touched by an enchanted +wand, as if transformed, and he was at once akin to my heart. His face +shone with the reflection of that smile; it was, perhaps, the most +joyful moment of his life. I shall never forget it. Fourteen days +afterwards I read in the papers that Italy had lost one of her most +famous sons!</p> + +<p>"Strange! At the same time Paganini's death was announced. About his +death I had no doubt, for the old, ash-coloured Paganini always looked +like a dying man; but the death of the young, rosy Bellini seemed to me +incredible. And yet the news of the death of the first was only a +newspaper error; Paganini is safe and sound at Genoa, and Bellini lies +in his grave at Paris!"</p> + +<p>"Do you like Paganini?" asked Maria. "He is the ornament of his +country," answered Maximilian, "and deserves the most distinguished +mention in speaking of the musical notabilities of Italy."</p> + +<p>"I have never seen him," Maria remarked, "but according to report his +outward appearance does not altogether satisfy the sense of beauty. I +have seen portraits of him."</p> + +<p>"Which are all different," broke in Maximilian; "they either make him +uglier or handsomer than he is; they do<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> not give his actual appearance. +I believe that only one man has succeeded in putting Paganini's true +physiognomy on to paper—a deaf painter, Lyser by name, who, in a frenzy +full of genius, has, with a few strokes of chalk, so well hit Paganini's +head that one is at the same time amused and terrified at the truth of +the drawing. 'The devil guided my hand,' the deaf painter said to me, +chuckling mysteriously, and nodding his head with good-natured irony in +the way he generally accompanied his genial witticisms. This painter +was, however, a wonderful old fellow; in spite of his deafness he was +enthusiastically fond of music, and he knew how, when near enough to the +orchestra, to read the music on the musicians' faces, and to judge the +more or less skilful execution by the movements of their fingers; +indeed, he wrote critiques on the opera for an excellent journal at +Hamburg. And is that peculiarly wonderful? In the visible symbols of the +performance the deaf painter could see the sounds. There are men to whom +the sounds themselves are invisible symbols in which they hear colours +and forms."</p> + +<p>"You are one of those men!" exclaimed Maria.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry that I no longer possess Lyser's little drawing; it would +perhaps have given you an idea of Paganini's outward appearance. Only +with black and glaring strokes could those mysterious features be +seized, features, which seemed to belong more to the sulphurous kingdom +of shades than to the sunny world of life. 'Indeed, the devil guided my +hand,' the deaf painter assured me, as we stood before the Alster +pavilion at Hamburg on the day when Paganini gave his first concert +there. 'Yes, my friend,' he pursued, 'it is true, as everyone believes, +that he has sold himself to the devil, body and soul, in order to become +the best violinist, to fiddle millions of money, and<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> principally to +escape the damnable galley where he had already languished many years. +For, you see, my friend, when he was chapel-master at Lucca he fell in +love with a princess of the theatre, was jealous of some little +<i>abbate</i>, was perhaps deceived by the faithless <i>Amata</i>, stabbed her in +approved Italian fashion, came in the galley to Genoa, and, as I said, +sold himself to the devil to escape from it, become the best +violin-player, and impose upon us this evening a contribution of two +thalers each. But, you see, all good spirits praise God; there in the +avenue he comes himself, with his suspicious Famulus!'</p> + +<p>"It was indeed Paganini himself, whom I then saw for the first time. He +wore a dark grey overcoat, which reached to his feet, and made his +figure seem very tall. His long black hair fell in neglected curls on +his shoulders, and formed a dark frame round the pale, cadaverous face, +on which sorrow, genius, and hell had engraved their indestructible +lines. Near him danced along a little pleasing figure, elegantly +prosaic—with rosy, wrinkled face, bright grey little coat with steel +buttons, distributing greetings on all sides in an insupportably +friendly way, leering up, nevertheless, with apprehensive air at the +gloomy figure who walked earnest and thoughtful at his side. It reminded +one of Retzsch's representation of Faust and Wagner walking before the +gates of Leipsic. The deaf painter made comments to me in his mad way, +and bade me observe especially the broad, measured walk of Paganini. +'Does it not seem,' said he, 'as if he had the iron cross-pole still +between his legs? He has accustomed himself to that walk for ever. See, +too, in what a contemptuous, ironical way he sometimes looks at his +guide when the latter wearies him with his prosaic questions. But he +cannot separate himself from him; a bloody contract binds him to that<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> +companion, who is no other than Satan. The ignorant multitude, indeed, +believe that this guide is the writer of comedies and anecdotes, Harris +from Hanover, whom Paganini has taken with him to manage the financial +business of his concerts. But they do not know that the devil has only +borrowed Herr George Harris's form, and that meanwhile the poor soul of +this poor man is shut up with other rubbish in a trunk at Hanover, until +the devil returns its flesh-envelope, while he perhaps will guide his +master through the world in a worthier form—namely, as a black poodle.'</p> + +<p>"But if Paganini seemed mysterious and strange enough when I saw him +walking in bright mid-day under the green trees of the Hamburg +Jungfernstieg, how his awful bizarre appearance startled me at the +concert in the evening! The Hamburg Opera House was the scene of this +concert, and the art-loving public had flocked thither so early, and in +such numbers, that I only just succeeded in obtaining a little place in +the orchestra. Although it was post-day, I saw in the first row of boxes +the whole educated commercial world, a whole Olympus of bankers and +other millionaires, the gods of coffee and sugar by the side of their +fat goddesses, Junos of Wandrahm and Aphrodites of Dreckwall. A +religious silence reigned through the assembly. Every eye was directed +towards the stage. Every ear was making ready to listen. My neighbour, +an old furrier, took the dirty cotton out of his ears in order to drink +in better the costly sounds for which he had paid two thalers. At last a +dark figure, which seemed to have arisen from the under-world, appeared +upon the stage. It was Paganini in his black costume—the black +dress-coat and the black waistcoat of a horrible cut, such as is perhaps +prescribed by infernal etiquette at the court of Proserpina; the black +trousers<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> anxiously hanging around the thin legs. The long arms appeared +to grow still longer, as, holding the violin in one hand and the bow in +the other, he almost touched the ground with them while displaying to +the public his unprecedented obeisances. In the angular curves of his +body there was a horrible woodenness, and also something absurdly +animal-like, that during these bows one could not help feeling a strange +desire to laugh; but his face, that appeared still more cadaverously +pale in the glare of the orchestra lights, had about it something so +imploring, so simply humble, that a sorrowful compassion repressed one's +desire to laugh. Had he learnt these complimentary bows from an +automaton or a dog? Is that the entreating gaze of one sick unto death, +or is there lurking behind it the mockery of a crafty miser? Is that a +man brought into the arena at the moment of death, like a dying +gladiator, to delight the public with his convulsions? Or is it one +risen from the dead, a vampire with a violin, who, if not the blood out +of our hearts, at any rate sucks the gold out of our pockets?</p> + +<p>"Such questions crossed our minds while Paganini was performing his +strange bows, but all those thoughts were at once still when the +wonderful master placed his violin under his chin and began to play. As +for me, you already know my musical second-sight, my gift of seeing at +each tone a figure equivalent to the sound, and so Paganini with each +stroke of his bow brought visible forms and situations before my eyes; +he told me in melodious hieroglyphics all kinds of brilliant tales; he, +as it were, made a magic-lantern play its coloured antics before me, he +himself being chief actor. At the first stroke of his bow the stage +scenery around him had changed; he suddenly stood with his music-desk in +a cheerful room, decorated in a gay, irregular<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a> way after the Pompadour +style; everywhere little mirrors, gilded Cupids, Chinese porcelain, a +delightful chaos of ribbons, garlands of flowers, white gloves, torn +lace, false pearls, diadems of gold leaf and spangles—such tinsel as +one finds in the room of a prima-donna. Paganini's outward appearance +had also changed, and certainly most advantageously; he wore short +breeches of lily-coloured satin, a white waistcoat embroidered with +silver, and a coat of bright blue velvet with gold buttons; the hair in +little carefully curled locks bordered his face, which was young and +rosy, and gleamed with sweet tenderness as he ogled the pretty little +lady who stood near him at the music-desk, while he played the violin.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I saw at his side a pretty young creature, in antique costume, the +white satin swelled out below the waist, making the figure still more +charmingly slender; the high raised hair was powdered and curled, and +the pretty round face shone out all the more openly with it glancing +eyes, its little rouged cheeks, its little beauty-patches, and the sweet +impertinent little nose. In her hand was a roll of white paper, and by +the movements of her lips as well as by the coquettish waving to and fro +of her little upper lip she seemed to be singing; but none of her trills +were audible to me, and only from the violin with which the young +Paganini led the lovely child could I discover what she sang, and what +he himself during her song felt in his soul. O, what melodies were +those! Like the nightingale's notes, when the fragrance of the rose +intoxicates her yearning young heart with desire, they floated in the +evening twilight. O, what melting, languid delight was that! The sounds +kissed each other, then fled away pouting, and then, laughing, clasped +each other and became one, and died away in intoxicated harmony. Yes, +the sounds carried on their<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a> merry game like butterflies, when one, in +playful provocation, will escape from another, hide behind a flower, be +overtaken at last, and then, wantonly joying with the other, fly away +into the golden sunlight. But a spider, a spider can prepare a sudden +tragical fate for such enamoured butterflies. Did the young heart +anticipate this? A melancholy sighing tone, a foreboding of some slowly +approaching misfortune, glided softly through the enrapturing melodies +that were streaming from Paganini's violin. His eyes became moist. +Adoringly he knelt down before his <i>Amata</i>. But, alas! as he bowed down +to kiss her feet, he saw under the bed a little <i>abbate</i>! I do not know +what he had against the poor man, but the Genoese became pale as death, +he seized the little fellow with furious hands, gave him sundry boxes on +the ear, as well as a considerable number of kicks, flung him outside, +drew a stiletto from its sheath, and buried it in the young beauty's +breast.</p> + +<p>"At this moment, however, a shout of 'Bravo! Bravo!' broke out from all +sides. Hamburg's enthusiastic sons and daughters were paying the tribute +of their uproarious applause to the great artist, who had just ended the +first part of his concert, and was now bowing with even more angles and +contortions than before. And on his face the abject humility seemed to +me to have become more intense. From his eyes stared a sorrowful anxiety +like that of a poor malefactor. 'Divine!' cried my neighbour, the +furrier, as he scratched his ears; 'that piece alone was worth two +thalers.'</p> + +<p>"When Paganini began to play again a gloom came before my eyes. The +sounds were not transformed into bright forms and colours; the master's +form was clothed in gloomy shades, out of the darkness of which his +music moaned in the most piercing tones of lamentation. Only at times,<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> +when a little lamp that hung above cast its sorrowful light over him, +could I catch a glimpse of his pale countenance, on which the youth was +not yet extinguished. His costume was singular, in two colours, yellow +and red. Heavy chains weighed upon his feet. Behind him moved a face +whose physiognomy indicated a lusty goat-nature. And I saw at times long +hairy hands seize assistingly the strings of the violin on which +Paganini was playing. They often guided the hand which held the bow, and +then a bleating laugh of applause accompanied the melody, which gushed +from the violin ever more full of sorrow and anguish. They were melodies +which were like the song of the fallen angels who had loved the +daughters of earth, and, being exiled from the kingdom of the blessed, +sank into the under-world with faces red with shame. They were melodies +in whose bottomless shallowness glimmered neither consolation nor hope. +When the saints in heaven hear such melodies, the praise of God dies +upon their paled lips, and they cover their heads weeping. At times when +the <i>obligato</i> goat's laugh bleated in among the melodious pangs, I +caught a glimpse in the background of a crowd of small women-figures who +nodded their odious heads with wicked wantonness. Then a rush of +agonising sounds came from the violin, and a fearful groan and a sob, +such as was never heard upon earth before, nor will be perhaps heard +upon earth again; unless in the valley of Jehoshaphat, when the colossal +trumpets of doom shall ring out, and the naked corpses shall crawl forth +from the grave to abide their fate. But the agonised violinist suddenly +made one stroke of the bow, such a mad despairing stroke, that his +chains fell rattling from him, and his mysterious assistant and the +other foul mocking forms vanished.</p> + +<p>"At this moment my neighbour, the furrier, said, 'A pity,<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a> a pity; a +string has snapped—that comes from the constant <i>pizzicato</i>.'</p> + +<p>"Had a string of the violin really snapped? I do not know. I only +observed the alteration in the sounds, and Paganini and his surroundings +seemed to me again suddenly changed. I could scarcely recognise him in +the monk's brown dress, which concealed rather than clothed him. With +savage countenance half hid by the cowl, waist girt with a cord, and +bare feet, Paganini stood, a solitary defiant figure, on a rocky +prominence by the sea, and played his violin. But the sea became red and +redder, and the sky grew paler, till at last the surging water looked +like bright scarlet blood, and the sky above became of a ghastly, +corpse-like pallor, and the stars came out large and threatening; and +those stars were black, black as glooming coal. But the tones of the +violin grew ever more stormy and defiant, and the eyes of the terrible +player sparkled with such a scornful lust of destruction, and his thin +lips moved with such a horrible haste, that it seemed as if he murmured +some old accursed charms to conjure the storm and loose the evil spirits +that lie imprisoned in the abysses of the sea. Often, when he stretched +his long thin arm from the broad monk's sleeve, and swept the air with +his bow, he seemed like some sorcerer who commands the elements with his +magic wand; and then there was a wild wailing from the depth of the sea, +and the horrible waves of blood sprang up so fiercely that they almost +besprinkled the pale sky and the black stars with their red foam. There +was a wailing and a shrieking and a crashing, as if the world was +falling into fragments, and ever more stubbornly the monk played his +violin. He seemed as if by the power of violent will he wished to break +the seven seals wherewith Solomon sealed the iron vessels in which<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a> he +had shut up the vanquished demons. The wise king sank those vessels in +the sea, and I seemed to hear the voices of the imprisoned spirits while +Paganini's violin growled its most wrathful bass. But at last I thought +I heard the jubilee of deliverance, and out of the red billows of blood +emerged the heads of the fettered demons: monsters of legendary horror, +crocodiles with bats' wings, snakes with stags' horns, monkeys with +shells on their heads, seals with long patriarchal beards, women's faces +with breasts in place of cheeks, green camels' heads, hermaphrodites of +incomprehensible combination—all staring with cold, crafty eyes, and +with long fin-like claws grasping at the fiddling monk. From the latter, +however, in the furious zeal of his conjuration, the cowl fell back, and +the curly hair, fluttering in the wind, fell round his head in ringlets, +like black snakes.</p> + +<p>"So maddening was this vision that, to keep my senses, I closed my ears +and shut my eyes. When I again looked up the spectre had vanished, and I +saw the poor Genoese in his ordinary form, making his ordinary bows, +while the public applauded in the most rapturous manner.</p> + +<p>"'That is the famous performance upon G,' remarked my neighbour; 'I +myself play the violin, and I know what it is to master that +instrument.' Fortunately, the pause was not considerable, or else the +musical furrier would certainly have engaged me in a long conversation +upon art. Paganini again quietly set his violin to his chin, and with +the first stroke of his bow the wonderful transformation of melodies +again also began. They no longer fashioned themselves so brightly and +corporeally. The melody gently developed itself, majestically billowing +and swelling like an organ chorale in a cathedral, and everything +around, stretching larger and higher, had extended into a colossal space +which, not the bodily eye, but only the eye of the<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> spirit could seize. +In the midst of this space hovered a shining sphere, upon which, +gigantic and sublimely haughty, stood a man who played the violin. Was +that sphere the sun? I do not know. But in the man's features I +recognised Paganini, only ideally lovely, divinely glorious, with a +reconciling smile. His body was in the bloom of powerful manhood, a +bright blue garment enclosed his noble limbs, his shoulders were covered +by gleaming locks of black hair; and as he stood there, sure and secure, +a sublime divinity, and played the violin, it seemed as if the whole +creation obeyed his melodies. He was the man-planet about which the +universe moved with measured solemnity and ringing out beatific rhythms. +Those great lights, which so quietly gleaming swept around, were they +the stars of heaven, and that melodious harmony which arose from their +movements, was it the song of the spheres, of which poets and seers have +reported so many ravishing things? At times, when I endeavoured to gaze +out into the misty distance, I thought I saw pure white garments +floating around, in which colossal pilgrims passed muffled along with +white staves in their hands, and, singular to relate, the golden knob of +each staff was even one of those great lights which I had taken for +stars. These pilgrims moved in large orbit around the great performer, +the golden knobs of their staves shone even brighter at the tones of the +violin, and the chorale which resounded from their lips, and which I had +taken for the song of the spheres, was only the dying echo of those +violin tones. A holy, ineffable ardour dwelt in those sounds, which +often trembled, scarce audibly, in mysterious whisper on the water, then +swelled out again with a shuddering sweetness, like a bugle's notes +heard by moonlight, and then finally poured<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> forth in unrestrained +jubilee, as if a thousand bards had struck their harps and raised their +voices in a song of victory. These were sounds which the ear never +hears, which only the heart can dream when it rests at night on a +beloved breast. Perhaps also the heart can grasp them in the bright +light of day, when it loses itself with joy in the curves of beauty in a +Grecian work of art...."</p> + +<p>"Or when one has drunk one too many bottles of champagne!" broke in +suddenly a laughing voice, which woke our story-teller as from a dream. +Turning round, he saw the doctor, who, under the guidance of black +Deborah, had gently entered the room to inform himself of the effect of +his medicine on the patient.</p> + +<p>"That sleep does not please me," he said, pointing to the sofa.</p> + +<p>Maximilian, who, absorbed in the fancies of his own discourse, had not +observed that Maria had long since fallen asleep, bit his lip with +vexation.</p> + +<p>"That sleep," the doctor pursued, "gives to her countenance already the +appearance of death. Does it not look like those white masks, those +plaster casts, in which we seek to preserve the features of the dead?"</p> + +<p>"I should like," Maximilian whispered in his ear, "to have such a cast +of our friend's face. Even as a corpse she would be very lovely."</p> + +<p>"I do not advise you to do so," answered the doctor. "Such masks spoil +the recollection of those we love. We think that in the plaster we have +procured something of their life, but it is only death that we have +caught. Beautiful regular features get something horribly rigid, +mocking, fatal, with which they terrify rather than delight us; but the +casts of those faces whose charm was of a more spiritual kind, whose +features were less regular than interesting, are<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a> absolute caricature; +for as soon as the graces of life are extinguished, the real +declinations from the line of ideal beauty are no longer compensated by +the spiritual charm. A certain enigmatic expression is common to all +these casts, which, after long contemplation, send an intolerable chill +through our souls; they look as if on the point of going a long +journey."</p> + +<p>"Whither?" asked Maximilian, as the doctor took his arm and led him from +the room.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Second Night.</span></p> + +<p>"And why will you torment me with this horrible medicine, since I must +die so soon?"</p> + +<p>It was Maria who, as Maximilian entered, spoke these words. The doctor +was standing before her with a medicine bottle in one hand and in the +other a little glass in which a brownish liquor frothed nauseously. "My +dear fellow," he exclaimed, turning to the new-comer, "you have just +come at the right time; try and persuade Signora to swallow these few +drops; I am in a hurry."</p> + +<p>"I entreat you, Maria!" whispered Maximilian, in that tender voice which +one did not often observe in him, and which seemed to come from so +wounded a heart that the patient, singularly touched, took the glass in +her hand. Before she put it to her mouth, she said, smiling, "Will you +reward me with the story of Laurence?"</p> + +<p>"All that you wish shall be done," nodded Maximilian.</p> + +<p>The pale lady then drank the contents of the glass, half smiling, half +shuddering.</p> + +<p>"I am in a hurry," said the doctor, drawing on his black gloves. "Lie +down quietly, Signora, and move as little as possible."</p> + +<p>Led by black Deborah, who lighted him, he left the room.<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> When the two +friends were left alone, they looked at each other for a long time in +silence. In the souls of both thoughts were clamorous which each strove +to hide from the other. The woman, however, suddenly seized the man's +hand and covered it with glowing kisses.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake," said Maximilian, "do not agitate yourself so, and lie +back quietly on the sofa."</p> + +<p>As Maria fulfilled this wish, he covered her feet carefully with a +shawl, which he previously touched with his lips. She probably noticed +him, for her eyes winked with contentment, like a happy child's.</p> + +<p>"Was Mademoiselle Laurence very beautiful?"</p> + +<p>"If you will not interrupt me, dear friend, and promise to listen quite +silently, I will tell you circumstantially all that you wish to know." +Smiling in response to Maria's affirmative glance, Maximilian seated +himself on the chair which was beside the sofa, and began his story:—</p> + +<p>It is now eight years since I travelled to London to become acquainted +with the language and the people. Confound the people and their language +too! There they take a dozen monosyllables in their mouths, chew them, +gnash them, spit them out again, and they call that speaking! +Fortunately, they are by nature tolerably taciturn, and though they +always gape at us with open mouths, they spare us long conversations. +But woe unto us if we fall into the hands of a son of Albion who has +made the great tour and learnt French on the Continent. He will use the +opportunity to exercise the achieved language, and overwhelm us with +questions on all possible subjects. And scarcely is one question +answered before he comes out with another about one's age or home or +length of one's stay, and with these incessant inquiries he thinks he is +entertaining us in the most delightful manner. One of my friends<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> at +Paris was perhaps right when he maintained that the English learn their +French conversation at the <i>Bureaux des Passeports</i>. Their talk is most +useful at table, when they carve their colossal roast beef and inquire +which cut you like, overdone or underdone, the inside or the brown +outside, fat or lean. This roast beef and this roast mutton are the only +good things they have. Heaven preserve every Christian man from their +sauces, which consist of one part of flour and two of butter, or when +the composition aims at a change, of one part of butter and two of +flour. Heaven preserve anyone also from their vegetables, which they +bring on the table cooked in water, just as God created them. Still more +horrible than the cookery of the English are their toasts and <i>obligato</i> +speeches, when the table-cloth is taken away and the ladies retire, and +instead of them just so many bottles of port wine are brought up; for +they think that that is the best way to replace the absence of the fair +sex. I say the 'fair' sex, for the English women deserve that name. They +are fair, slender creatures. Only the excessive space between the nose +and the mouth, which is found in them as frequently as in the men, has +often spoiled for me in England the most beautiful faces. This +declination from the type of beauty acts upon me still more fatally when +I see the English here in Italy, where their sparingly chiselled noses, +and the broad space of flesh that stretches from there to the mouth, +forms so much the more uncouth contrast with the faces of the Italians, +whose features have a more antique regularity, and whose noses, either +curved in the Roman way or inclined in the Grecian, degenerate into too +great a length. Very correct is the observation of a German traveller +that the English, when among the Italians, all look like statues with +the points of their noses broken off.<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a></p> + +<p>Yes, when one meets the English in a foreign land, the contrast brings +out their deficiencies distinctly. They are the gods of <i>ennui</i>, who +travel through all lands at post haste in shining, lacquered coaches, +and leave everywhere a grey, dark cloud of mournfulness behind them. +Their curiosity without interest, their dressed-up awkwardness, their +insolent timidity, their angular egotism, and their empty joy at all +melancholy objects, aid in this impression. In the last three weeks an +Englishman has been visible every day on the Piazza del Gran Duca, +gazing for an hour at a time at a quack sitting on a horse who draws +people's teeth. Perhaps this performance compensates the noble son of +Albion for the loss of the executions of his own dear native land. For +after boxing and cock-fights, there is no more delightful sight for a +Briton than the agony of some poor devil who has stolen a sheep, or +imitated somebody's handwriting, and is exhibited for an hour in front +of the Old Bailey before he is thrown into eternity. It is no +exaggeration to say that forgery and the theft of a sheep in that +detestable and barbarous land are punished in the same way as the most +awful crimes, as parricide and incest.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> I, myself, led by a sad +chance, saw a man hanged for stealing a sheep, and after that I lost all +pleasure in roast mutton; the fat reminded me of the poor culprit's +white cap. Near him an Irishman was hanged for forging the signature of +a rich banker; I still see poor Paddy's death agony; he could not +understand at the assizes why he should be so hardly punished for +imitating a signature when he would allow any human being to imitate his +own! And these people talk constantly of Christianity, and never miss +church on Sunday, and flood the whole world with Bibles.<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a></p> + +<p>"I confess to you, Maria, that if I relished nothing in England, men or +cookery, the reason lay partly in myself. I brought over a good store of +ill-humour with me, and I was seeking amusement among a people who can +only kill their <i>ennui</i> in the whirlpool of political and mercantile +activity. The perfection of machinery, which is applied to everything +here, and has superseded so many human functions, has for me something +dismal; this artificial life of wheels, bars, cylinders, and a thousand +little hooks, pins, and teeth which move almost passionately, fills me +with horror. I am annoyed no less by the definiteness, the precision, +the strictness, in the life of the English; for just as the machines in +England seem to have the perfection of men, so the men seem like +machines. Yes, wood, iron, and brass seem to have usurped the human mind +there, and to have gone almost mad from fulness of mind, while the +mindless man, like a hollow ghost, exercises his ordinary duties in a +machine-like fashion; at the appointed moment eats beef-steaks, makes +parliamentary speeches, trims his nails, mounts the stage-coach, or +hangs himself.</p> + +<p>"You can well imagine how my dissatisfaction increased in this country. +Nothing, however, equalled the gloomy mood which once came over me as I +stood on Waterloo Bridge towards evening and gazed on the water. It +seemed to me as if my soul was mirrored there, and was gazing up out of +the water at me with all its scars. The most sorrowful stories came to +my recollection. I thought of the rose which was always watered with +vinegar, and so lost its sweet fragrance and faded early. I thought of +the strayed butterfly which a naturalist, who ascended Mount Blanc, saw +fluttering amid the ice. I thought of the tame monkey who was so +familiar with men, played with them, eat with them, but once at table +recognised in the<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a> roast meat on the dish her own little monkey baby, +quickly seized it, and hastened to the woods, never more to be seen +among her human friends. Ah, I felt so sorrowful that the hot tears +started from my eyes. My tears fell down into the Thames, and floated on +to the great sea which has swallowed so many tears without noticing +them.</p> + +<p>"At this moment it happened that a singular music awoke me from my +gloomy dreams, and looking round, I saw on the bank a crowd of people, +who seemed to have formed a circle round some amusing display. I drew +nearer, and saw a family of performers, consisting of the following four +persons:—</p> + +<p>"Firstly, a short, thick-set woman, dressed entirely in black, who had a +very little head and a very large, protuberant belly. Upon this belly +was hung an immense drum, upon which she drummed away most unmercifully.</p> + +<p>"Secondly, a dwarf, who wore an embroidered coat like an old French +marquis. He had a large powdered head, but for the rest, had very thin +contemptible limbs, and danced to and fro striking the triangle.</p> + +<p>"Thirdly, a young girl of about fifteen years, who wore a short +close-fitting jacket of blue-striped silk, and broad pantaloons also +with blue stripes. She was an ærially-made figure. The face was of +Grecian loveliness. A straight nose, sweet lips turned outwards, a +dreamy, tender, rounded chin, the colour a sunny yellow, the hair of a +gleaming black, wound round the brows. So she stood, slender and +serious; yes, ill-humoured, and gazed upon the fourth person of the +company, who was just then engaged in his performance.</p> + +<p>"This fourth person was a learned dog, a very hopeful poodle, and to the +great delight of the English public, he had just put together from some +wooden letters before him,<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a> the name of the Duke of Wellington, and +joined to it a very flattering word—namely, "Hero." Since the dog, as +one might conclude from his witty expression, was no English beast, but +had, like the other three persons, come from France, the sons of Albion +rejoiced that their great general had at least obtained from the French +dog that recognition which the other French creatures had so +disgracefully denied.</p> + +<p>"In fact, this company consisted of French people, and the dwarf, who +now announced himself as Monsieur Turlutu, began to bluster in French, +and with such vehement gestures, that the poor English opened their +mouths and noses still wider than usual. Often, after a long phrase, he +crowed like a cock, and these cock-a-doodle-doos, as also the names of +many emperors, kings, and princes which he mixed up with his discourse, +were probably the only sounds the poor spectators understood. Those +emperors, kings, and princes he extolled as his patrons and friends. +When only a boy of eight years, so he assured us, he had had an +interview with his most sacred majesty Louis XVI., who also, later on, +always asked his advice on weighty matters. He escaped the storms of the +Revolution, like many others, by flight, and he only returned under the +empire to his beloved country to take part in the glory of the great +nation. Napoleon, he said, never loved him, whereas His Holiness Pope +Pius VII. almost idolised him. The Emperor Alexander gave him bon-bons, +and the Princess Wilhelm von Kyritz always placed him on her lap. His +Highness Duke Charles of Brunswick often allowed him to ride on his +dogs, and his majesty King Ludwig of Bavaria read to him his sublime +poems. The Princes of Reuss-Schleiz-Kreuz and of +Schwarzburg-Sondershausen loved him as a brother, and always smoked the +same pipe with<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a> him. Yes, from childhood up, he said, he had lived among +sovereigns; the present monarchs, had, as it were, grown up with him; he +looked upon them as equals, and he felt deep sorrow every time that one +of them passed from the scene of life. After these solemn words he +crowed like a cock.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur Turlutu was, in fact, one of the most curious dwarfs I ever +saw; his wrinkled old face formed such a droll contrast with his scanty, +childish, little body, and his whole person again contrasted as +comically with his performances. He threw himself into the most +sprightly postures, and with thrusts of an inhumanly long rapier he +transfixed the air, affirming all the while, on his honour, that no one +could parry this <i>quarte</i> or that <i>tierce</i>; that, on the contrary, his +own defence could be broken through by no mortal man, and he challenged +anyone to engage with him in the noble art. After the dwarf had carried +this performance on for some time, and found no one who would resolve on +open conflict with him, he bowed with old French grace, gave thanks for +the applause which was bestowed upon him, and took the liberty of +announcing to the very honourable public the most extraordinary +performance ever displayed upon English ground. 'You see this person,' +he exclaimed, after drawing on dirty kid gloves, and leading the young +girl of the company with respectful gallantry into the middle of the +circle—'this is Mademoiselle Laurence, the only daughter of the +honourable Christian lady whom you see there with the drum, and who +still wears mourning for the loss of her dearly-beloved husband, the +greatest ventriloquist in Europe! Mademoiselle Laurence will now dance! +Now, admire the dancing of Mademoiselle Laurence.' After these words, he +again crowed like a cock.<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a></p> + +<p>"The young girl appeared to care not the least either for these words or +the gaze of the spectators; ill-humouredly absorbed in herself, she +waited till the dwarf had spread a large carpet at her feet, and under +the guidance of the great drum had again begun to play his triangle. It +was strange music, a mixture of awkward humming and a delightful +tinkling, and I caught a pathetic, foolish, melancholy, bold, bizarre +melody of, nevertheless, the most singular simplicity. But I soon forgot +the music when the young girl began to dance.</p> + +<p>"Dance and dancer powerfully seized my attention. It was not the +classical dance which we still see in our great ballets, where, just as +in classical tragedy, only sprawling unities and artificialities reign; +it was not those danced Alexandrines, those declamatory springs, those +antithetic capers, that noble emotion which pirouets round on one foot, +so that one sees nothing except heaven and petticoats, ideality and +lies! There is, indeed, nothing so odious to me as the ballet at the +Paris Grand Opera, where the traditions of that classical dance are +retained in their purest forms, while in the rest of the arts, in +poetry, in music, and in painting, the French have overturned the +classical system. It will be, however, difficult for them to bring about +a similar revolution in the art of dancing; they will need, as in their +political revolution, to have recourse to terrorism, and guillotine the +legs of the obdurate dancers. Mademoiselle Laurence was no great dancer; +the joints of her feet were not very supple, her legs were not exercised +in all possible dislocations, she understood nothing of the art of +dancing as Madame Vestris teaches it, but she danced as nature commands +to dance: her whole being was in harmony with her <i>pas</i>; not only her +feet but her whole body danced; her face danced—she was often pale, +almost<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a> deathly pale, her eyes opened to an almost ghostly size, desire +and pain quivered on her lips, and her black hair, which enclosed her +brows in smooth oval, moved like a pair of fluttering wings. It was, +indeed, no classical dance, but also no romantic dance, in the sense of +a young Frenchman of the Eugène Renduel school. This dance had nothing +mediæval, nor Venetian, nor hump-backed, nor Macabrian about it; there +was neither moonshine nor incest in it. It was a dance which did not +seek to answer by outward movements, but the outward movements seemed +words of a strange speech which strove to express strange things. But +what did this dance express? I could not understand, however +passionately this speech uttered itself. I only guessed sometimes that +it spoke of something intensely sorrowful. I, who so easily seized the +meaning of all appearances, was nevertheless unable to solve this danced +riddle; and that I groped in vain for the sense of it was partly the +fault of the music, which certainly pointed intentionally to false +roads, cunningly sought to lead me astray, and always disturbed me. +Monsieur Turlutu's triangle often tittered maliciously. Madame, however, +beat upon her drum so wrathfully, that her face glowed forth from the +black cloud of cap like a blood-red northern light.</p> + +<p>"Long after the troop had passed away, I remained standing at the same +spot, considering what that dance might signify. Was it a national dance +of the south of France or of Spain? In such a dance might appear the +impetuosity with which the dancer swung her little body to and fro, and +the wildness with which she often threw her head backward in the bold +way of those Bacchantes whom we gaze at with amazement on ancient vases. +There was an intoxicated absence of will about her dance, something<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a> +gloomy and inevitable; it was like the dance of fate. Or was it a +fragment of some venerable forgotten pantomime? Or was she dancing her +personal history? Often the girl bent down to the earth with a listening +ear, as though she heard a voice which spoke up to her. She trembled +then like an aspen leaf, bent suddenly to another side, went through her +maddest, most unrestrained leaps, then again bent her ear to the earth, +listened more anxiously than before, nodded her head, became red and +pale by turns, shuddered, stood for a while stiffly upright as if +benumbed, and made finally a movement as one who washes his hands. Was +it blood that so long and with such care, such horrible care, she was +washing from her hands? She threw therewith a sideward glance so +imploring, so full of entreaty, so soul-dissolving—and that glance fell +by chance upon me.</p> + +<p>"All the following night I was thinking of that glance, of that dance, +of that strange accompaniment; and as, on the following day, I sauntered +as usual through the streets of London, I longed to meet the pretty +dancer again, and I constantly pricked my ears in case I might somewhere +hear the music of the drum and the triangle. I had at last found +something in London which interested me, and I no longer wandered +aimless through its yawning streets.</p> + +<p>"I had just come out of the Tower, after carefully examining the axe +which cut off Anne Bullen's head, as well as the English crown-diamonds +and the lions, when in front of the Tower I caught a glimpse, amid a +crowd, of Madame with the great drum, and heard Monsieur Turlutu crowing +like a cock. The learned dog again scraped together the heroism of the +Duke of Wellington, the dwarf again showed his not-to-be-parried +<i>tierces</i> and <i>quartes</i>, and Mademoiselle Laurence again began her +wondrous dance. There were again the same enigmatic movements,<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> the same +speech which I could not understand, the same impetuous throwing back of +the beautiful head, the same leaning down to the earth, the anguish +which sought to soothe itself by ever madder leaps, and again the +listening ear bent to the earth, the trembling, the pallor, the benumbed +stiffness; then also the fearful mysterious washing of the hands, and at +last the imploring side-glance, which rested upon me this time still +longer than before.</p> + +<p>"Yes, women, and young girls as well as women, immediately observe when +they have excited the attention of a man. Although Mademoiselle +Laurence, when she was not dancing, gazed immovable and ill-humouredly +before her, and while she was dancing often cast only one glance on the +public, it was now no mere chance that this glance fell upon me; and the +oftener I saw her dance, the more significantly it gleamed, but also the +more incomprehensibly. I was fascinated by this glance, and for three +weeks, from morning till evening, I wandered about the streets of +London, always remaining wherever Mademoiselle Laurence danced. In spite +of the greatest confusion of sounds, I could catch the tones of the drum +and the triangle at the farthest distance; and Monsieur Turlutu, as soon +as he saw me hastening near, raised his most friendly crow. Although I +never spoke a word to him or to Mademoiselle Laurence, or to madame, or +to the learned dog, I seemed at last as if I belonged to the company. +When Monsieur Turlutu made a collection, he always behaved with the most +delicate tact as he drew near me, and looked in the opposite direction +when I put a small coin in his little three-cornered hat. His demeanour +was indeed most distinguished; he reminded one of the good manners of +the past; one could tell that the little man had grown up with<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> +monarchs, and all the stranger was it when at times, altogether +forgetting his dignity, he crowed like a cock.</p> + +<p>"I cannot describe to you how vexed I became, when, after seeking for +three days in vain for the little company through all the streets of +London, I was forced to conclude that they had left the town. <i>Ennui</i> +again took me in its leaden arms, and again closed my heart. At last I +could endure it no longer; I said farewell to the four estates of the +realm—<i>i.e.</i>, the mob, the blackguards, the gentlemen, and the +fashionables—and travelled back again to civilised <i>terra firma</i>, where +I knelt in adoration before the white apron of the first cook I met. +Here once more I could sit down to dinner like a reasonable being, and +refresh my soul by gazing at good-natured, unselfish faces. But I could +not forget Mademoiselle Laurence; she danced in my memory for a long +time; at solitary hours I often reflected over the lovely child's +enigmatic pantomime, especially over the listening ear bent to the +earth. It was a long time, too, before the romantic melodies of the +triangle and drum died away in my memory."</p> + +<p>"And is that the whole story?" cried out Maria, all at once, starting up +eagerly.</p> + +<p>Maximilian pressed her softly down, placed his finger significantly to +his lips, and whispered, "Still! still! do not talk! Lie down, good and +quiet, and I will tell you the rest of the story. Only on no account +interrupt me."</p> + +<p>Leaning slowly back in his chair, Maximilian pursued the story:—</p> + +<p>"Five years afterwards I came for the first time to Paris, and at a very +noteworthy period. The French had just performed their July revolution, +and the whole world was applauding. This piece was not so horrible as +the earlier tragedies of the Republic and the Empire. Only some<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> +thousand corpses remained upon the stage. The political Romanticists +were not very contented, and announced a new piece in which more blood +should flow, and the executioner have more to do.</p> + +<p>"Paris delighted me by the cheerfulness which prevails there, and which +exercises its influence over the most sombre minds. Singular! Paris is +the stage on which the greatest tragedies of the world's history are +performed—tragedies at the recollection of which hearts tremble and +eyes become moist in the most distant lands; but to the spectator of +these tragedies it happens as it happened to me once at the Porte +Saint-Martin Theatre, when I went to see the <i>Tour de Nesle</i> performed. +I found myself sitting behind a lady who wore a hat of rose-red gauze, +and this hat was so broad that it obstructed the whole of my view of the +stage, and I saw all the tragedy only through the red gauze of this hat, +and all the horror of the <i>Tour de Nesle</i> appeared in the most cheerful +rose-light. Yes, there is such a rose-light in Paris, which makes all +tragedies cheerful to the near spectator, so that his enjoyment of life +is not spoilt there. In the same way all the terrible things that one +may bring in his own heart to Paris there lose their tormenting horror. +Sorrows are singularly soothed. In this air of Paris all wounds are +healed quicker than anywhere else; there is in this air something as +generous, as kind, as amiable as in the people themselves.</p> + +<p>"What most pleased me in the people of Paris was their polite bearing +and distinguished air. Sweet pine-apple perfume of politeness! how +beneficently thou refreshedst my sick soul, which had swallowed down in +Germany so much tobacco smoke, sauerkraut odour, and coarseness! The +simple words of apology of a Frenchman, who, on the day of my arrival, +only gently pushed against me, rang in<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> my ears like the melodies of +Rossini. I was almost terrified at such sweet politeness, I, who was +accustomed to German clownish digs in the ribs without apology. During +the first week of my stay in Paris I several times deliberately sought +to be jostled, simply to delight myself with this music of apology. But +the French people has for me a certain touch of nobility, not only on +account of its politeness, but also on account of its language. For, as +you know, with us in the north the French language is one of the +attributes of high birth; from childhood I had associated the idea of +speaking French with nobility. And a Parisian market-woman spoke better +French than a German canoness with sixty-four ancestors.</p> + +<p>"On account of this language, which lends a distinguished bearing to it, +the French people has in my eyes something delightfully fabulous. This +originated in another reminiscence of my childhood. The first book in +which I learnt French was the <i>Fables</i> of La Fontaine; its naïve, +sensible manner of speech impressed itself on my recollection +ineffaceably, and as I now came to Paris and heard French spoken +everywhere, I was constantly reminded of La Fontaine's <i>Fables</i>, I +constantly imagined I was hearing the well-known animal voices; now the +lion spoke, then the wolf, then the lamb, or the stork, or the dove, not +seldom, I thought, I caught the voice of the fox, and often the words +awoke in my memory—'Eh! bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau! Que vous êtes +joli! que vous me semblez beau!'</p> + +<p>"Such reminiscences, however, awoke in my soul still oftener when at +Paris I ascended to that higher region which is called 'the world.' This +was even that world which gave up to the happy La Fontaine the types of +his animal characters. The winter season began soon after my arrival at +Paris, and I took part in the <i>salon</i> life in which<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> that world more or +less joyfully moves. What struck me as most interesting in this world +was not so much the equality of good manners which reigned there as the +variety of its ingredients. Often when I gazed round at the people +gathered peacefully together in a large drawing-room I thought I was in +one of those curiosity shops where relics of all ages lie beside each +other, a Greek Apollo, a Chinese pagoda, a Mexican Vizlipuzli by a +Gothic Ecce-Homo, Egyptian idols with little dogs' heads, holy +caricatures made of wood, of ivory, of metal, and so on. There I saw old +mousquetaires who had danced with Marie Antoinette, republicans who were +deified in the National Assembly, Montagnards without spot and without +mercy, former men of the Directory who were throned in the Luxembourg, +great dignitaries of the Empire, before whom all Europe had trembled, +ruling Jesuits of the Restoration—in short, mere faded, mutilated +deities of olden times, in whom nobody believed any longer. The names +seem to recoil from each other, but the men one may see standing +peaceful and friendly together like the antiquities in the shops of the +Quai Voltaire. In German countries, where the passions are not so easily +disciplined, for such a heterogeneous mass of persons to live together +in society would be quite impossible. And with us in the cold north the +vivacity of speech is not so strong as in warmer France, where the +greatest enemies, if they meet one another in a <i>salon</i>, cannot long +observe a gloomy silence. In France, also, the desire to please is so +great that people zealously strive to please not only their friends, but +also their enemies. There is constant drapery and affectation, and the +women here have the delightful trouble of excelling the men in coquetry; +but they succeed, nevertheless.</p> + +<p>"I do not mean anything wicked by this observation,<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a> certainly not as +regards the French ladies, and least of all as regards the Parisian +ladies. I am their greatest adorer, and I adore them on account of their +failings still more than on account of their virtues. I know nothing +more excellent than the legend that the Parisian women come into the +world with all possible failings, but that a kind fairy has mercy upon +them and lends to each fault a spell by which it works as a charm. That +kind fairy is Grace! Are the Parisian women beautiful? Who can say? Who +can see through all the intrigues of the toilet? Who can decipher +whether what the tulle betrays is genuine, or what the swelling silk +displays, false? And when the eye succeeds in piercing the shell, and we +are at the point of finding the kernel, we discover that it is enclosed +in a new shell, and after this again in another, and with this ceaseless +change of fashions they mock masculine acuteness. Are their faces +beautiful? Even this is difficult to find out. For all their features +are in constant movement; every Parisian woman has a thousand faces, +each more laughing, <i>spirituel</i>, gracious than the other, and puts to +confusion those who seek to choose the loveliest face among them, or at +all events, who wishes to guess which is the true face. Are their eyes +large? What do I know! We cease investigating the calibre of the canon +when the ball carries off our heads. And when their eyes do not hit, +they at least blind us with the flash, and we are glad enough to get out +of range. Is the space between nose and mouth broad or narrow? It is +often broad when they wrinkle up their noses; it is often narrow when +they give their upper lips an insolent little pout. Have they large or +small mouths? Who can say where the mouth leaves off and where the smile +begins? In order to give a just opinion, both the<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a> observer and the +object of observation must be in a state of rest. But who can be quiet +near a Parisian, and what Parisian woman is ever quiet? There are people +who think that they can observe a butterfly quite accurately when they +have stuck it on to paper with a pin. That is as foolish as it is cruel. +The motionless transfixed butterfly is a butterfly no longer. One must +observe the butterfly in his antics round the flowers, and one must +observe the Parisian woman, not at home, when she is made fast by a pin +through her breast, but in the <i>salon</i>, at soirées, and balls, when she +flutters about with her wings of gauze and silk beneath the gleaming +chandeliers. Then is revealed in her an impetuous passion for life, a +longing after a sweet stupor, a thirsting for intoxication, by which +means she becomes almost horribly beautiful, and wins a charm which at +the same time delights and terrifies our souls.</p> + +<p>"This thirst to enjoy life, as if death was about to snatch them from +the bubbling spring of enjoyment, or as if that spring was about to +cease flowing, this haste, this fury, this madness of the Parisian +women, especially as it shows itself at balls, reminds me always of the +legend of the dead dancing-girls which we call Willis. These are young +brides who died before the wedding-day, and the unsatisfied desire of +dancing is preserved so powerfully in their hearts that they come every +night out of their graves, assemble in bands on the high roads, and give +themselves up at midnight to the wildest dances. Dressed in their +wedding clothes, with garlands on their heads, and glittering rings on +their pale hands, laughing horribly, irresistibly lovely, the Willis +dance in the moonshine, and they dance ever more madly the more they +feel that the hour of dancing, which has been granted them, is coming to +an end, and that they must again descend to their cold graves.<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a></p> + +<p>"At a soirée once in the Chaussée d'Antin this idea moved my soul +profoundly. It was a brilliant soirée, and none of the customary +ingredients of social pleasure were wanting: enough light to illuminate +us, enough mirrors to see ourselves in, enough people to heat us with +the squeeze, enough <i>eau sucrée</i> to cool us. They began with music. +Franz Liszt allowed himself to be drawn to the piano, pushed his hair +over his genial brows, and waged one of his most brilliant battles. The +keys seemed to bleed. If I am not mistaken, he played a passage from the +<i>Palingenesis</i> of Ballanche, whose ideas he was translating into music, +which was very useful for those who cannot read the works of that famous +writer in the original. Afterwards he played Berlioz's <i>La Marche au +Supplice</i>, that excellent piece which the young musician, if I am not +mistaken, composed on the morning of his wedding-day. Throughout the +room paled faces, heaving bosoms, highly-drawn breath during the pauses, +were succeeded at last by stormy applause. The women are always as it +were intoxicated when Liszt plays anything for them. The Willis of the +<i>salon</i> now gave themselves up to dancing with frantic delight, and I +had difficulty in getting out of this confusion and saving myself in the +adjoining room. Here card-playing was going on, and several ladies were +resting in large chairs, looking on at the players, or at all events +pretending to interest themselves in the play. As I passed one of these +ladies, and my arm touched her dress, I felt from hand to shoulder a +slight quiver as from a very weak electric shock. A similar shock, but +of the greatest force, went through my whole heart when I saw the lady's +countenance. Was it she, or was it not? It was the same face, with the +form and sunny colour of an antique, only it was no longer so marble +pure and marble smooth as<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> formerly. The acute observer might perceive +on brow and cheeks several little flaws, perhaps small-pox marks, which +here exactly resembled those delicate weather-flecks which may be seen +on the faces of statues that have been standing some time in the rain. +It was the same black hair which covered the brows in smooth oval like a +raven's wings. As, however, her eyes met mine, and with that well-known +side-glance, whose swift lightning had always shot so enigmatically +through my soul, I doubted no longer—it was Mademoiselle Laurence.</p> + +<p>"Stretched in a distinguished way on her chair, with a bouquet in one +hand and the other placed on the arm of the chair, Mademoiselle Laurence +sat not far from one of the tables, and seemed to devote her whole +attention to the cards. Her dress of white satin was elegant and +distinguished, but still quite simple. Except bracelets and breast-pins +of pearl, she wore no jewels. An abundance of lace covered the youthful +bosom, covered it almost puritanically up to the neck, and in this +simplicity and modesty of clothing she formed a lovely and touching +contrast with some elderly ladies, gaily adorned and glistening with +diamonds, who sat near her, and displayed to view the ruins of former +magnificence, the place where once Troy stood, in a state of melancholy +nakedness. She had the same wondrous loveliness, the same enrapturing +look of ill-humour, and I was irresistibly drawn towards her, till at +last I stood behind her chair, burning with desire to speak to her, and +yet held back by a trembling delicacy.</p> + +<p>"I must have been standing silently behind her for some time, when she +suddenly drew a flower from her bouquet and, without looking round, held +it to me over her shoulder. The perfume of that flower was strong, and +it exercised a peculiar enchantment over me. I felt myself<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a> freed from +all social formality, and I seemed in a dream, where one does and says +all kinds of things at which oneself wonders, and when one's words have +an altogether childish, familiar, and simple character. Quiet, +indifferent, negligent, as one does with old friends, I leant over the +arm of the chair, and whispered in the youthful lady's ear, +'Mademoiselle Laurence, where is, then, the mother with the drum?'</p> + +<p>'She is dead,' answered she, in just the same tone—as quiet, +indifferent, negligent.</p> + +<p>"After a short pause, I again leant over the arm of the chair, and +whispered in the youthful lady's ear, 'Mademoiselle Laurence, where is +the learned dog?'</p> + +<p>"'He has run away into the wide world,' she answered, in the same quiet, +indifferent, negligent tone.</p> + +<p>"And again, after a short pause, I leant over the arm of the chair, and +whispered in the youthful lady's ear, 'Mademoiselle Laurence, where, +then, is Monsieur Turlutu, the dwarf?'</p> + +<p>"'He is among the giants in the Boulevard du Temple,' she answered. She +had hardly spoken these words, and in just the same quiet, indifferent, +negligent tone, when a serious old man, with a tall military figure, +came towards her and announced that her carriage was ready. Slowly +rising from her seat, she leant upon his arm, and without casting one +glance back to me, left the company.</p> + +<p>"When I inquired of the lady of the house, who had been standing all the +evening at the entrance of the principal saloon, presenting her smiles +to those who came or went, the name of the young lady who had just gone +out with the old man, she laughed gaily in my face, and exclaimed—'Mon +Dieu! who can know everybody! I know her as little.'—She stopped, for +she was about to say as little as<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> myself, whom she had that evening +seen for the first time. 'Perhaps,' I remarked, 'your husband can give +me some information; where shall I find him?'</p> + +<p>"'At the hunt at Saint Germain,' answered the lady, with a yet louder +laugh; 'he went early yesterday morning, and will return to-morrow +evening. But wait. I know somebody who has been talking a good deal with +the lady you inquire after; I do not know his name, but you can easily +find him out by inquiring after the young man whom M. Casimir Perrier +kicked, I don't know where.'</p> + +<p>"Although it is rather difficult to recognise anyone by the fact of his +having received a kick from a minister, I soon discovered my man, and I +desired from him a more intimate knowledge of the singular creature who +had so interested me, and whom I could describe to him clearly enough. +'Yes,' said the young man, 'I know her very well; I have spoken to her +at several soirées'—and he repeated to me a mass of meaningless things +with which he had entertained her. What especially surprised him was her +earnest look whenever he said anything complimentary to her. He also +wondered not a little that she always declined his invitation to a +<i>contre danse</i>, assuring him that she was unable to dance. Of name and +condition he knew nothing. And nobody, as much as I inquired, could give +me any more distinct information on the subject. In vain I ran through +all possible soirées; nowhere could I find Mademoiselle Laurence."</p> + +<p>"And that is the whole story?" exclaimed Maria, as she slowly turned +round and yawned sleepily—"that is the whole memorable story? And you +have never again seen either Mademoiselle Laurence, or the mother with +the drum, or the dwarf Turlutu, or the learned dog?"<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a></p> + +<p>"Remain lying still," replied Maximilian. "I have seen them all again, +even the learned dog. The poor rascal was certainly in a very sad state +of necessity when I came across him at Paris. It was in the Quartier +Latin. I had just passed the Sorbonne, when out of its gates rushed a +dog, and behind him with sticks a dozen students, who were soon joined +by two dozen old women, who all cried in chorus, 'The dog is mad!' The +animal looked almost human in his death agony, tears flowed from his +eyes, and as he ran panting by and lifted his moist glance towards me, I +recognised my old friend the learned dog, the Duke of Wellington's +panegyrist, who had once filled the people of England with wonderment. +Was he really mad? Had he been driven mad by mere learning while +pursuing his studies in the Quartier Latin? Or had he in the Sorbonne, +by his growling and scratching, marked his disapprobation of the +puffed-up charlatanry of some professor, who sought to free himself from +his unfavourable hearer by proclaiming him to be mad? And, alas! the +youths are not long investigating whether it is the wounded conceit of +learning or envy that first called out, 'The dog is mad!' and they +strike with their thoughtless sticks, and the old women are ready with +their howling, and cry down the voice of innocence and reason. My poor +friend must yield; before my eyes he was miserably struck to death, +insulted, and at last thrown on a dunghill! Poor martyr of learning!</p> + +<p>"Not much more pleasant was the condition of the dwarf, Monsieur +Turlutu, when I found him on the Boulevard du Temple. Mademoiselle +Laurence had certainly told me that he had gone there, but whether I had +not thought of actually seeing him there, or that the crowd had hindered +me, it was some time before I noted the place where the<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a> giants were to +be seen. When I entered I found two tall fellows who lay idly on +benches, and quickly sprang up and placed themselves in giant posture +before me. They were, in truth, not as large as they boasted on the +placards hanging outside. These two long fellows, who were dressed in +pink <i>tricots</i>, had very black, perhaps false, whiskers, and brandished +hollow wooden clubs over their heads. When I asked after the dwarf, whom +the placards also announced, they replied that for four weeks he had not +been exhibited on account of his increasing illness—that I could see +him, however, on paying double the price of admission. How willingly one +pays double admission-fee to see a friend again! And, alas, this was a +friend who lay on his death-bed. This death-bed was properly a cradle, +and the poor dwarf lay inside with his yellow shrivelled old face. A +little girl of some fourteen years sat beside him, and rocked the cradle +with her foot, and sang in a laughing, roguish tone—</p> + +<p>"'Sleep, little Turlutu, sleep!'</p> + +<p>"When the little fellow saw me, he opened his glassy pale eyes as wide +as possible, and a melancholy smile played on his white lips; he seemed +to recognise me again, stretched his shrunken little hand towards me, +and gently rattled—'Old friend!'</p> + +<p>"It was, in fact, a sad condition in which I found the man who, in his +eighth year, had had a long conversation with Louis XVI., whom the Czar +Alexander had fed with bon-bons, whom the Princess von Kyritz had taken +on her lap, who had ridden on the Duke of Brunswick's dogs, whom the +King of Bavaria had read his poems to, who had smoked out of the same +pipe with German princes, whom the Pope had idolised, and Napoleon never +loved! This last circumstance troubled him on his death-bed, or, as I<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a> +said, in his death-cradle, and he wept over the tragic fate of the great +Emperor, who had never loved him, but who died in such a sorrowful way +at Saint Helena—'just as I am dying,' he added, 'solitary, +misunderstood, forsaken by all kings and princes, a caricature of former +magnificence!'</p> + +<p>"Although I could not rightly understand how a dwarf who died among +giants could compare himself with a giant who died among dwarfs, I was +nevertheless moved by poor Turlutu's words and by his forsaken condition +at the last moment. I could not help expressing my astonishment that +Mademoiselle Laurence, who was now so grand, gave herself no trouble +about him. I had scarcely uttered this name than the dwarf in the cradle +was seized by the most fearful spasms, and he whispered with his white +lips—'Ungrateful child! that I brought up, that I would elevate to be +my wife, that I taught to move and behave among the great of this world, +how to smile, how to bow at court, how to act—you have used my +instructions well, and you are now a great lady, and you have a coach +and footmen, and plenty of money, and plenty of pride, and no heart. You +leave me here to die—to die alone and in misery, as Napoleon died at +Saint Helena! O Napoleon! you never loved me.' What he added I could not +catch. He raised his head, made some movements with his hand, as if +fighting against somebody, perhaps against death. But that is an +opponent whose scythe neither a Napoleon nor a Turlutu can withstand. No +skill in fencing avails here. Faint, as if overcome, the dwarf let his +head sink down again, looked at me a long time with an indescribable, +ghostly stare, suddenly crowed like a cock, and expired.</p> + +<p>"His death troubled me the more since he had been<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a> unable to give me any +more exact information about Mademoiselle Laurence. Where should I now +find her again? I was not in love with her, nor did I feel my former +inclination towards her; yet a mysterious desire spurred me to seek her +everywhere. When I entered a drawing-room and examined the company, and +could not find the well-known face, I soon lost all repose and was +driven away. Reflecting over this feeling, I stood one day at a remote +entrance to the Great Opera, waiting for a carriage, and waiting with +considerable annoyance, for it was raining very fast. But no carriage +came, or, rather, only carriages which belonged to other people, who +placed themselves comfortably inside, and the place around me became +gradually solitary. "Then you must come with me," said at last a lady, +who, concealed in her black mantilla, had stood for a little time near +me, and was now on the point of getting into a carriage. The voice sent +a quiver through my heart, the well-known side-glance again exercised +its charm, and I was again as in a dream on finding myself beside +Mademoiselle Laurence in a cosy warm carriage. We did not speak, indeed +we could not have understood each other, as the carriage rattled noisily +through the streets of Paris for a long time, till it stopped at last +before a great gateway.</p> + +<p>"Servants in gorgeous livery lighted us up the steps and through a +succession of rooms. A lady's-maid met us with sleepy face, and +stammering many excuses, said that there was only a fire in the red +room. Motioning to the woman to go away, Laurence said, with a laugh, +'Chance is leading you a long way to-night; there is only a fire in my +bed-room.'</p> + +<p>"In this bed-room, in which we soon found ourselves alone, blazed a +large open fire, which was the pleasanter<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a> since the room was of immense +size and height. This large sleeping-room, which rather deserved the +name of a sleeping-hall, had a similarly desolate appearance. Furniture +and decoration, all bore the impress of a time whose brilliance seems to +us now so bedimmed, its sublimity so <i>jejune</i>, that its remains raise a +certain dislike within us, if not indeed a smile. I speak of the time of +the Empire, of the time of the golden eagle, of high-flying plumes, of +Greek coiffures, of glory, of great drum-majors, of military masses, of +official immortality (conferred by the <i>Moniteur</i>), of continental +coffee prepared from chickory, of bad sugar manufactured from beet root, +and of princes and dukes made from nothing at all. But it had its charm, +though, that time of pathetic materialism. Talma declaimed, Gros +painted, Bigottini danced, Grassini sang, Maury preached, Rovigo had the +police, the Emperor read Ossian, Pauline Borghese let herself be moulded +as Venus, and quite naked too,<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> for the room was well warmed, like +the bed-room in which I found myself with Mademoiselle Laurence.</p> + +<p>"We sat by the fire chatting familiarly, and she told me with a sigh +that she was married to a Buonopartist hero, who enlivened her every +evening before going to bed with a description of one of his battles; a +few days ago, before going away, he had fought for her the battle of +Jena; he was very ill, and with difficulty survived the Prussian +campaign. When I asked her how long her father had been dead, she +laughed, and confessed that she had never known a father, and that her +so-called mother had never been married.</p> + +<p>"'Not married!' I exclaimed; 'I saw her myself in<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> London in the deepest +mourning on account of her husband's death!'</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' replied Laurence, 'for twelve years she had always dressed +herself in black, to excite people's compassion as an unhappy widow, as +well as to allure any donkey desirous of marrying, for she hoped to +reach the haven of marriage quicker under black flags. But only death +had pity on her, and she died of a hæmorrhage. I never loved her, for +she always, gave me plenty of beating and little to eat. I should have +died of starvation if Monsieur Turlutu had not often given me a little +piece of bread on the sly; but the dwarf wished to marry me on that +account, and when his hopes were frustrated he made common cause with my +mother—I say 'mother' from custom—and both agreed to torment me. They +always said that I was a superfluous creature, and that the learned dog +was worth a thousand times more than I with my bad dancing. And then +they praised the dog at my expense, extolled him to the skies, caressed +him, fed him with cakes, and threw me the crumbs. The dog, they said, +was their best support; he delighted the public, who were not in the +least interested in me; the dog must support me by his work. I ate the +bread of the dog. The cursed dog!'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, do not curse him any more,' I broke in upon her passion; 'he is +dead now; I saw him die.'</p> + +<p>"'Is the beast dead?' exclaimed Laurence, springing up with a red glow +of joy over her face.</p> + +<p>"'And the dwarf is also dead,' I added.</p> + +<p>"'Monsieur Turlutu?' cried Laurence, also with joy. But this joy +gradually died from her face, and in a milder, almost melancholy tone, +she added, 'Poor Turlutu!'</p> + +<p>"When I told her, without any concealment, that the dwarf had complained +of her very bitterly on his death-bed<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>, she became passionately +disturbed, and assured me, with many protestations, that she had had the +foresight to care for him as well as possible, that she had offered him +a pension if he would go and live quietly somewhere in the country. 'But +ambitious as he was,' Laurence pursued, "he wished to stay in Paris, and +even to live at my house; he could then, he thought, through my +interposition, renew his connections in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and +again take his former brilliant position in society. When I flatly +refused him this, he told me that I was a cursed ghost, a vampyre, a +death-child."</p> + +<p>"Laurence suddenly stopped, shuddered violently, and said at last, with +a deep sigh, 'Ah, I wish they had left me in the grave with my mother!' +As I pressed her to explain these mysterious words, a stream of tears +flowed from her eyes, and, trembling and sobbing, she confessed to me +that the black woman with the drum, who gave herself out as her mother, +had once herself told her that the rumour which went about concerning +her birth was no mere story. 'For in the town where we lived,' pursued +Laurence, 'they always called me the death-child! The old woman +maintained that I was the daughter of a Count who lived there, and who +constantly ill-treated his wife, and when she died buried her very +magnificently; she was, however, near her confinement, and only +apparently dead, and when some churchyard thieves opened the grave to +strip the richly-adorned corpse, they found the countess alive and in +child-birth; and as she expired immediately after delivery, the thieves +placed her again quietly in her grave, took away the child, and gave it +to the receiver of the stolen goods, the great ventriloquist's +sweetheart, to be brought up. This poor child, who had been buried +before it was born, was everywhere called the death-child. Ah!<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> you +cannot understand how much sorrow I felt even as a little girl when +anyone called me by that name. While the great ventriloquist was alive, +whenever he was discontented with me, he always called out, 'Cursed +death-child, I wish you had never been taken out of the grave!' He was a +skilful ventriloquist, and could so modulate his voice that it seemed to +come up out of the earth, and he told me that that was the voice of my +dead mother telling me her fate. He might well know that horrible fate, +for he had been a valet of the Count's. He took a cruel pleasure in the +horrible fright which I, poor little girl, received from the words which +seemed to ascend from the earth. These words, which seemed to ascend +from the earth, mingled together fearful tales—tales which I never +understood in their connection, and which later on I gradually forgot; +but when I danced they would again come into my mind with living power. +Yes, when I danced a singular remembrance seized me; I forgot myself, +and I seemed to be quite another person, and as if all the sorrows and +secrets of this person were poisoning me, and as soon as I left off +dancing it was all extinguished in my memory.'</p> + +<p>"While Laurence said this, slowly and as if questioning, she stood +before me at the fireplace, where the fire was burning pleasanter than +ever; and I sat in the easy-chair, which was apparently the seat of her +husband, where he told her his battles before going to bed of an +evening. Laurence looked at me with her large eyes as if she was asking +my advice; she moved her head to and fro in such a melancholy, +reflective way; she filled me with such a sweet compassion; she was so +slender, so young, so lovely, this lily that had sprung out of the +grave, this daughter of death, this ghost with the face of an angel and +the body of a bayadere! I do not know how it came to<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> pass; perhaps it +was the influence of the easy-chair on which I was sitting, but it +suddenly came into my mind that I was the old general who had described +the battle of Jena yesterday from this place, and as if I must go on +with my narrative, and I said, 'After the battle of Jena all the +Prussian fortresses yielded themselves up within a few weeks, almost +without drawing a sword. First Magdeburg yielded; it was the strongest +fortress, and had three hundred cannon. Was not that disgraceful?'</p> + +<p>"But Mademoiselle Laurence allowed me to say no more; the troubled mood +had vanished from her face; she laughed like a child, and cried, 'Yes, +that was disgraceful, more than disgraceful! If I was a fortress and had +three hundred guns, I would never yield myself!'</p> + +<p>"But as Mademoiselle Laurence was not a fortress, and had not three +hundred guns——"</p> + +<p>At these words Maximilian suddenly stopped in his story, and, after a +short pause, asked gently, "Are you asleep, Maria?"</p> + +<p>"I'm asleep," answered Maria.</p> + +<p>"So much the better," said Maximilian, with a smile; "then I need not be +afraid of wearying you if I describe the furniture of the room in which +I found myself, as novelists are accustomed to do rather at length +now-a-days."</p> + +<p>"Say what you like, dear friend; I'm asleep."</p> + +<p>"It was," continued Maximilian, "a very magnificent bed. The feet, as in +all the beds of the Empire, consisted of caryatides and sphinxes; it +gleamed with richly-gilt eagles, billing like turtle doves, perhaps an +emblem of love under the Empire. The curtains of the bed were of red +silk, and as the flames from the fireplace shone brightly through them, +I found myself with Laurence in a fiery red illumination, and I seemed +to be the god Pluto with the<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> flames of hell blazing round him as he +held the sleeping Proserpine in his arms. She was asleep, and in this +condition I gazed on her sweet face, and sought in her features a clue +to that sympathy which my soul felt for her. What was the meaning of +this woman? What sense lurked under the symbolism of that beautiful +form? I held the charming enigma in my arms now as my own property, and +yet I could not find the solution of it.</p> + +<p>"But is it not folly to wish to sound the inner meaning of any +phenomenon outside us, when we cannot even solve the enigma of our own +souls? We hardly know even whether outside phenomena really exist! We +are often unable to distinguish reality from mere dream-faces. Was it a +shape of my fancy, or was it horrible reality that I heard and saw on +that night? I know not. I only remember that as the wildest thoughts +were flowing through my heart, a singular sound came to my ear. It was a +crazy melody, peculiarly soft. It seemed known to me, and at last I +distinguished the tones of a triangle and a drum. This music, whirring +and humming, seemed to come from afar, and yet as I looked up I saw near +me in the middle of the room a well-known performance. It was Monsieur +Turlutu the dwarf who played the triangle, and Madame beating the great +drum, while the learned dog was scratching about on the floor, as if +searching for his wooden letters. The dog appeared to move with +difficulty, and his skin was spotted with blood. Madame still wore her +black mourning, but her belly was no longer so spaciously protuberant, +but repulsively pendant. Her face, too, was no longer red, but pale. The +dwarf, who still wore the embroidered coat of an old French marquis and +a powdered toupet, appeared to have grown somewhat, perhaps because he +was so horribly lean. He again exhibited his skill in<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a> fencing, and +seemed to be again spinning off his old vaunts; but he spoke so softly +that I was unable to understand a word, and only by the movements of his +lips could I sometimes observe that he was again crowing like a cock.</p> + +<p>"While this ludicrous, horrible caricature moved like a magic lantern +with confused haste before my eyes, I felt Mademoiselle Laurence +breathing more and more uneasily. A cold paroxysm froze her whole body, +and her sweet limbs writhed as if with unbearable agony. At last, +however, supple as an eel, she glided from my arms, stood suddenly in +the middle of the room, and began to dance, while the mother with the +drum and the dwarf with the triangle continued their deadened soft +music. She danced just as formerly on Waterloo Bridge and in the squares +of London. There were the same mysterious pantomimes, the same outbreaks +of passionate leaping, the same Bacchante-like throwing of the head +backwards, often also the same leaning towards the earth, as if she +wished to hear somebody speaking beneath, then also the trembling, the +pallor, the benumbed stiffness, and again the listening with ear bent to +the earth. Again also she rubbed her hands as if washing herself. At +last she appeared again to cast her intense, sorrowful, imploring glance +upon me, but now only in the features of her death-pale countenance +could I recognise that glance—not in her eyes, for they were shut. In +ever softer sounds the music died away; the mother with the drum and the +dwarf, gradually growing pale and breaking like mist, vanished at last +altogether; but Mademoiselle Laurence still stood and danced with closed +eyes. This dance with closed eyes in the silent nocturnal chamber gave +this sweet being so ghostly an appearance that a disagreeable feeling +seized me; I shuddered, and was<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> heartily glad when she finished her +dance, and as easily as she had slipped away again glided into my arms.</p> + +<p>"In truth, this scene was not pleasant to me. But we accustom ourselves +to everything. And it is even possible that what was mysterious in this +woman lent her a more peculiar charm, that an awful tenderness mingled +with my emotions. In any case, after some weeks I ceased to wonder in +the least when the low sounds of the drum and triangle were heard at +night, and my dear Laurence suddenly started up and danced a solo with +closed eyes. Her husband, the old Buonapartist, commanded in the +neighbourhood of Paris, and his duties allowed him to pass the day only +in the city. Of course he became my most intimate friend, and he wept +when later on he bade me farewell. He travelled with his wife to Sicily, +and I have seen neither of them again since."</p> + +<p>When Maximilian had finished this narrative, he hastily seized his hat +and slipped out of the room.<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="DON_QUIXOTE" id="DON_QUIXOTE"></a>DON QUIXOTE.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The following admirable account of <i>Don Quixote</i>—here given +chiefly in Mr. Fleishman's translation—was written in 1837, as the +introduction to an <i>edition de luxe</i> of Cervantes's masterpiece.]</p></div> + +<p class="nind">T<small>HE</small> first book that I read after I arrived at boyhood's years of +discretion, and had tolerably mastered my letters, was <i>The Life and +Deeds of the Sagacious Knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha</i>, written by +Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra. Well do I remember the time, when, early +in the morning, I stole away from home and hastened to the court-garden, +that I might read Don Quixote without being disturbed. It was a +beautiful day in May, the blooming Spring lay basking in the silent +morning light, listening to the compliments of that sweet flatterer, the +nightingale, who sang so softly and caressingly, with such a melting +fervour, that even the shyest of buds burst into blossom, and the lusty +grasses and the fragrant sunshine kissed more rapturously, and the trees +and flowers trembled from very ecstasy. But I seated myself on an old +moss-covered stone bench in the so-called Avenue of Sighs, not far from +the water-fall, and feasted my little heart with the thrilling +adventures of the valiant knight. In my childish simplicity I took +everything in sober earnest; no matter how ridiculous the mishaps which +fate visited upon the poor hero, I thought it must be just so, and +imagined that<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a> to be laughed at was as much a part of heroism as to be +wounded; and the former vexed me just as sorely as the latter grieved my +heart. I was a child, and knew nothing of the irony God has interwoven +into the world, and which the great poet has imitated in his miniature +world;—and I wept most bitterly, when for all his chivalry and +generosity the noble knight gained only ingratitude and cudgels. As I +was unpracticed in reading, I spoke every word aloud, and so the birds +and the trees, the brooks and the flowers, could hear all I read, and as +these innocent beings know as little as children of the irony of the +world, they too took it all for sober earnest, and wept with me over the +sorrows of the unfortunate knight; an old worn-out oak sobbed even; and +the water-fall shook more vehemently his white beard, and seemed to +scold at the wickedness of the world. We felt that the heroism of the +knight was none the less worthy of admiration because the lion turned +tail without fighting, and that if his body was weak and withered, his +armour rusty, his steed a miserable jade, his deeds were all the more +worthy of praise. We despised the vulgar rabble who beat the poor hero +so barbarously, and still more the rabble of higher rank, who were +decked in silk attire, gay courtly phrases, and grand titles, and jeered +at the man who was so far their superior in powers of mind and nobility +of soul. Dulcinea's knight rose ever higher in my esteem, and my love +for him grew stronger and stronger the longer I read in that wonderful +book, which I continued to do daily in that same garden, so that when +autumn came I had reached the end of the story,—and I shall never +forget the day when I read the sorrowful combat, in which the knight +came to so ignominious an end.</p> + +<p>It was a gloomy day; dismal clouds swept over a leaden<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> sky, the yellow +leaves fell sorrowfully from the trees, heavy tear-drops hung on the +last flowers that drooped down in a sad faded way their dying little +heads, the nightingales had long since died away, from every side the +image of transitoriness stared at me—and my heart was ready to break as +I read how the noble knight lay on the ground, stunned and bruised, and +through his closed visor said, in tones faint and feeble, as if he was +speaking from the grave, "Dulcinea is the fairest lady in the world, and +I the unhappiest knight on earth, but it is not meet that my weakness +should disown this truth—strike with your lance, Sir Knight."</p> + +<p>Ah me! that brilliant knight of the silver moon, who vanquished the +bravest and noblest man in the world, was a disguised barber!</p> + +<p>That was long ago. Many new springs have bloomed forth since then, yet +their mightiest charm has always been wanting, for, alas! I no longer +believe the sweet deceits of the nightingale, Spring's flatterer; I know +how soon his magnificence fades, and when I look at the youngest +rosebuds I see them in spirit bloom to a sorrowful red, grow pale, and +be scattered by the winds. Everywhere I see a disguised Winter.</p> + +<p>In my breast, however, still blooms that flaming love, which soared so +ardently above the earth, to revel adventurously in the broad yawning +spaces of heaven, and which, pushed back by the cold stars, and sinking +home again to the little earth, was forced to confess, with sighing and +triumph, that there is in all creation nothing fairer or better than the +heart of man. This love is the inspiration that fills me, always divine, +whether it does foolish or wise deeds.—And so the tears the little boy +shed over the sorrows of the silly knight were in no wise spent in vain, +any<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a> more than the later tears of the youth, as on many a night he wept +in the study over the deaths of the holy heroes of freedom—over King +Agis of Sparta, over Caius and Tiberius Gracchus of Rome, over Jesus of +Jerusalem, and over Robespierre and Saint Just of Paris. Now that I have +put on the <i>toga virilis</i>, and myself desire to be a man, the tears have +come to an end, and it is necessary to act like a man, imitating my +great predecessors; in the future, if God will, to be wept also by boys +and youths. Yes, upon these one can still reckon in our cold age; for +they can still be kindled by the breezes that blow to them from old +books, and so they can comprehend the flaming hearts of the present. +Youth is unselfish in its thoughts and feelings, and on that account it +feels truth most deeply, and is not sparing, where a bold sympathy is +wanted, with confession or deed. Older people are selfish and +narrow-minded; they think more of the interest of their capital than of +the interest of mankind; they let their little boat float quietly down +the gutter of life, and trouble themselves little about the sailor who +battles with the waves on the open sea; or they creep with clinging +tenacity up to the heights of mayoralty or the presidency of their club, +and shrug their shoulders over the heroic figures which the storm throws +down from the columns of fame; and then they tell, perhaps, how they +themselves also in their youth ran their heads against the wall, but +that later on they reconciled themselves to the wall, for the wall was +the absolute, existing by and for itself, which, because it was, was +also reasonable, on which account he is unreasonable who will not endure +a high, reasonable, inevitable, eternally-ordained absolutism. Ah, these +objectionable people, who wish to philosophise us into a gentle slavery, +are yet more worthy of esteem than those depraved ones who do not even +admit<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> reasonable grounds for the defence of despotism, but being +learned in history fight for it as a right of custom, to which men in +the course of time have gradually accustomed themselves, and which has +so become incontestably valid and lawful.</p> + +<p>Ah, well! I will not, like Ham, lift up the garment of my fatherland's +shame; but it is terrible how slavery has been made with us a matter for +prating about, and how German philosophers and historians have tormented +their brains to defend despotism, however silly or awkward, as +reasonable and lawful. Silence is the honour of slaves, says Tacitus; +these philosophers and historians maintain the contrary, and exhibit the +badge of slavery in their button-holes.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, after all, you are right, and I am only a Don Quixote, and the +reading of all sorts of wonderful books has turned my head, as it was +with the Knight of La Mancha, and Jean Jacques Rousseau was my Amadis of +Gaul, Mirabeau my Roland or Agramanto; and I have studied too much the +heroic deeds of the French Paladins and the round table of the National +Convention. Indeed, my madness and the fixed ideas that I created out of +books are of a quite opposite kind to the madness and the fixed ideas of +him of La Mancha. He wished to establish again the expiring days of +chivalry; I, on the contrary, wish to annihilate all that is yet +remaining from that time, and so we work with altogether different +views. My colleague saw windmills as giants; I, on the contrary, can see +in our present giants only vaunting windmills. He took leather +wine-skins for mighty enchanters, but I can see in the enchanters of +to-day only leather wine-skins. He held beggarly pot-houses for castles, +donkey-drivers for cavaliers, stable wenches for court ladies; I, on the +contrary, hold<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> our castles for beggarly pot-houses, our cavaliers for +mere donkey-drivers, our court ladies for ordinary stable wenches. As he +took a puppet-show for a state ceremony, so I hold our state ceremonies +as sorry puppet-shows, yet as bravely as the brave Knight of La Mancha I +strike out at the clumsy machinery. Alas! such heroic deeds often turn +out as badly for me as for him, and like him I must suffer much for the +honour of my lady. If I denied her from mere fear or base love of gain, +I might live comfortably in this reasonably-constructed world, and I +should lead a fair Maritorna to the altar, and let myself be blessed by +fat enchanters, and banquet with noble donkey-drivers, and engender +harmless romances as well as other little slaves! Instead of that, +wearing the three colours of my lady, I must strike through unspeakable +opposition, and fight battles, everyone of which costs me my heart's +blood. Day and night I am in straits, for those enemies are so artful +that many I struck to death still give themselves the appearance of +being alive, changing themselves into all forms, and spoiling day and +night for me. How many sorrows have I suffered by such fatal spectres! +Where anything lovely bloomed for me then they crept in, those cunning +ghosts, and broke even the most innocent buds. Everywhere, and when I +should least suspect it, I discovered on the ground the traces of their +silvery slime, and if I took no care, I might have a dangerous fall even +in the house of my love. You may smile and hold such anxieties for idle +fancies like those of Don Quixote. But fancied pains hurt all the same; +and if one fancies that he has drunk hemlock he may get into a +consumption, and he certainly will not get fat. And the report that I +have got fat is a calumny; at least I have not yet received any fat +sinecure, even if I possess the requisite talents. I fancy<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> that +everything has been done to keep me lean; when I was hungry they fed me +with snakes, when I was thirsty they gave me wormwood to drink; they +poured hell into my heart, so that I wept poison and sighed fire; they +crouched near me even in my dreams; and I see horrible spectres, noble +lackey faces with gnashing teeth and threatening noses, and deadly eyes +glaring from cowls, and white ruffled hands with gleaming knives.</p> + +<p>And even the old woman who lives near me in the next room considers me +to be mad, and says that I talk the maddest nonsense in my sleep; and +the other night she plainly heard me calling out—"Dulcinea is the +fairest woman in the world, and I the unhappiest knight on earth; but it +is not meet that my weakness should disown this truth. Strike with your +lance, Sir Knight!"</p> + +<p class="cb">——</p> + +<p>It is now eight years since I wrote the foregoing lines<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> for the +Fourth Part of the <i>Reisebilder</i>, in which I described the impression +which the reading of <i>Don Quixote</i> had made on my mind many years ago. +Good Heavens! how swiftly time flies! It seems to me as if it were but +yesterday that, in the Avenue of Sighs, in the court-garden at +Düsseldorf, I finished reading the book, and my heart is still moved +with admiration for the deeds and sufferings of the noble knight. Has my +heart remained constant in this ever since, or has it, after passing +through a wonderful cycle, returned to the emotions of childhood? The +latter may well be the case, for I remember that during each lustrum of +my life <i>Don Quixote</i> has made a different impression upon me. When<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a> I +was blossoming into adolescence, and with inexperienced hands sought to +pluck the roses of life, climbed the loftiest peaks in order to be +nearer to the sun, and at night dreamed of naught else but eagles and +chaste maidens, then Don Quixote was to me a very unsatisfactory book, +and if it chanced to fall in my way I involuntarily shoved it aside. At +a later period, when I had ripened into manhood, I became to a certain +degree reconciled to Dulcinea's luckless champion, and I began to laugh +at him. The fellow is a fool, said I. And yet, strange to say, the +shadowy forms of the lean knight and his fat squire have ever followed +me in all the journeyings of my life, particularly when I came to any +critical turning-point. Thus I recollect that while making the journey +to France, one morning in the post-chaise I awakened from a +half-feverish slumber, and saw in the early morning mist two well-known +figures riding by my side. The one on my right was Don Quixote de la +Mancha, mounted on his lean, abstract Rosinante, the other on my left +was Sancho Panza, on his substantial, positive grey donkey. We had just +reached the French frontier. The noble Manchean bowed his head +reverently before the tri-coloured flag, which fluttered towards us from +the high post that marks the boundary line. Our good Sancho saluted with +a somewhat less cordial nod the first French <i>gendarmes</i> whom we saw +approaching near by. At last my two friends pushed on ahead, and I lost +sight of them, only now and then I caught the sound of Rosinante's +spirited neighing, and the donkey's responsive bray.</p> + +<p>At that time I was of the opinion that the ridiculousness of Don +Quixotism consisted in the fact that the noble knight endeavoured to +recall a long-perished past back to life, and his poor limbs and back +came into painful contact<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> with the harsh realities of the present. +Alas! I have since learned that it is an equally ungrateful folly to +endeavour to bring the future prematurely into the present, and that for +such an assault upon the weighty interests of the day, one possesses but +a very sorry steed, a brittle armour, and an equally frail body! And the +wise man dubiously shakes his sage head at the one, as well as at the +other, of these Quixotisms. But Dulcinea del Toboso is still the most +beautiful woman in the world; although I lie stretched upon the earth, +helpless and miserable, I will never take back that assertion, I cannot +do otherwise—on with your lances, ye Knights of the Silver Moon, ye +disguised barbers!</p> + +<p>What leading idea guided Cervantes when he wrote his great book? Was his +purpose merely the destruction of the romances of knight-errantry, the +reading of which at that time was so much the rage in Spain that both +clerical and secular ordinances against them were powerless? Or did he +seek to hold up to ridicule all manifestations of human enthusiasm in +general, military heroism in particular? Ostensibly he aimed only to +satirise the romances above referred to, and through the exposition of +their absurdities deliver them over to universal derision, and thus put +an end to them. In this he succeeded most brilliantly; for that which +neither the exhortations from the pulpit, nor the threats of the +authorities could effect, that a poor writer accomplished with his pen. +He destroyed the romances of chivalry so effectually that soon after the +appearance of <i>Don Quixote</i> the taste for that class of literature +wholly died out in Spain, and no more of that order were printed. But +the pen of a man of genius is always greater than he himself; it extends +far beyond his temporary purpose, and without being himself clearly +conscious of it, Cervantes wrote the<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a> greatest satire against human +enthusiasm. He had not the least presentiment of this, for he himself +was a hero, who had spent the greater portion of his life in chivalrous +conflicts, and who in his old age was wont to rejoice that he had +participated in the battle of Lepanto, although he paid for this glory +with the loss of his left hand.</p> + +<p>The biographers can tell us but little concerning the person or private +life of the poet who wrote <i>Don Quixote</i>. We do not lose much by the +omission of such details, which are generally picked up from the female +gossips of the neighbourhood. They see only the outer shell; but we see +the man, his true, sincere, unslandered self.</p> + +<p>He was a handsome, powerful man, Don Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra. He +had a high forehead, and a large heart. His eyes possessed a wonderful +magic; just as there are people who can look into the earth, and see the +hidden treasures and the dead that lie buried there, so the eye of the +great poet could penetrate the breasts of men, and see distinctly all +that was concealed there. To the good his look was as a ray of sunlight +gladdening and illuminating the heart; to the bad his glance was a +sword, sharply piercing their souls. His searching eyes penetrated to +the very soul of a person, and questioned it, and if it refused to +answer, he put it to the torture, and the soul lay stretched bleeding on +the rack, while perhaps the body assumed an air of condescending +superiority. Is it to be wondered at that many formed a dislike for him, +and gave him but scant assistance in his journey through life? He never +achieved rank or position, and from all his toilsome pilgrimages he +brought back no pearls, but only empty shells. It is said that he could +not appreciate the value of money, but I assure you he fully appreciated +its worth when he had no more. But he never prized it as highly as<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> he +did his honour. He had debts, and in one of his writings, in which +Apollo is supposed to grant to the poets a charter of privileges, the +first paragraph declares: When a poet says he has no money, his simple +assurance shall suffice, and no oath shall be required of him. He loved +music, flowers, and women, but in his love for the latter he sometimes +fared very badly, particularly in his younger days. Did the +consciousness of future greatness console him, when pert young roses +stung him with their thorns?—Once on a bright summer afternoon, while +yet a young gallant, he walked along the banks of the Tagus in company +with a pretty girl of sweet sixteen, who continually mocked at his +tender speeches. The sun had not yet set, it still glowed with all its +golden splendour, but high up in the heavens was the moon, pale and +insignificant, like a little white cloud. "See'st thou," said the young +poet to his sweetheart, "see'st thou yonder small pale disk? The river +by our side in which it mirrors itself seems to receive its pitiful +reflex on its proud bosom merely out of compassion, and the curling +billows at times cast it disdainfully aside towards the shore. But wait +until day fades into twilight; as soon as darkness descends, yonder pale +orb will grow brighter and brighter, and will flood the whole stream +with its silvery light, and the haughty billows that before were so +scornful will then tremble with ecstasy at sight of the lovely moon, and +roll rapturously towards it."</p> + +<p>The history of poets must be sought for in their works, for there are to +be found their most confidential confessions. In all his writings, in +his dramas even more than in <i>Don Quixote</i>, we see, as I have before +mentioned, that Cervantes had long been a soldier. In fact, the Roman +proverb, "Living means fighting," finds a double application in his +case. He took part as a common soldier in<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> most of those fierce games of +war which King Philip II. carried on in all countries for the honour of +God and his own pleasure. The circumstance that Cervantes devoted his +whole youth to the service of the greatest champion of Catholicism, and +that he fought to advance Catholic interests, warrants the assumption +that he had those interests at heart, and hence refutes the +widely-spread opinion that only the fear of the Inquisition withheld him +from discussing in <i>Don Quixote</i> the great Protestant questions of the +time. No, Cervantes was a faithful son of the Roman church, and he not +only bled physically in knightly combats for her blessed banner, but his +whole soul suffered a most painful martyrdom during his many years of +captivity among the Unbelievers.</p> + +<p>We are indebted to accident for most of the details of Cervantes's +doings while in Algiers, and here we recognise in the great poet an +equally great hero. The history of his captivity gives a most emphatic +contradiction to the melodious lie of that polished man of the world, +who made Augustus and the German pedants believe that he was a poet, and +that poets are cowards. No, the true poet is also a true hero, and in +his breast dwells that God-like patience, which, as the Spaniards say, +is a second fount of courage. There is no more elevating spectacle than +that of the noble Castilian who serves the Dey of Algiers as a slave, +constantly meditating an escape, with unflagging energy preparing his +bold plans, composedly facing all dangers, and when the enterprise +miscarries, is ready to submit to torture and death rather than betray +his accomplices. The blood-thirsty master of his body becomes disarmed +by such grand magnanimity and virtue. The tiger spares the fettered +lion, and trembles before the terrible "One-Arm," whom with but a single +word he could dispatch to his<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a> death. Cervantes is known in all Algiers +as "One-Arm," and the Dey confesses that only when he knows that the +one-armed Spaniard is in safe-keeping can he sleep soundly at night, +assured of the safety of his city, his army, and his slaves.</p> + +<p>I have referred to the fact that Cervantes was always a common soldier, +but even in so subordinate a position he succeeded in distinguishing +himself to such a degree as to attract the notice of the great general, +Don John of Austria, and on his return from Italy to Spain he was +furnished with the most complimentary letters of recommendation to the +king, in which his advancement was most emphatically urged. When the +Algerine corsairs, who captured him on the Mediterranean Sea, beheld +these letters, they took him to be a person of the highest rank and +importance, and hence demanded so large a ransom that notwithstanding +all their efforts and sacrifices his family were not able to purchase +his freedom, and the unfortunate poet's captivity was thereby prolonged +and embittered. Thus the recognition of his merits became an additional +source of misfortune, and thus to the very end of his days was he mocked +by that cruel dame, the Goddess Fortuna, who never forgives genius for +having achieved fame and honour without her assistance.</p> + +<p>But are the misfortunes of a man of genius always the work of blind +chance, or do they necessarily follow from his inner nature and +environment? Does his soul enter into strife with the world of reality, +or do the coarse realities begin the unequal conflict with his noble +soul?</p> + +<p>Society is a republic. When an individual strives to rise, the +collective masses press him back through ridicule and abuse. No one +shall be wiser or better than the rest. But against him, who by the +invincible power of genius<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> towers above the vulgar masses, society +launches its ostracism, and persecutes him so mercilessly with scoffing +and slander, that he is finally compelled to withdraw into the solitude +of his own thoughts.</p> + +<p>Verily, society is republican in its very essence. Every sovereignty, +intellectual as well as material, is hated by it. The latter oftener +gives aid to the former than is generally imagined. We ourselves came to +this conclusion soon after the revolution of July, when the spirit of +republicanism manifested itself in all social relations. Our republicans +hated the laurels of a great poet even as they hated the purple of a +great king. They sought to level the intellectual inequalities of +mankind, and in as much as they regarded all ideas that had been +produced on the soil of the state as general property, nothing remained +to be done but to decree an equality of style also. In sooth, a good +style was decried as something aristocratic, and we heard manifold +assertions: "A true democrat must write in the style of the +people—sincere, natural, crude." Most of the Party of Action succeeded +easily in doing this, but not every one possesses the gift of writing +badly, especially if one has previously formed the habit of writing +well, and then it was at once said, "That is an aristocrat, a lover of +style, a friend of art, an enemy of the people." They were surely honest +in their views, like Saint Hieronymus, who considered his good style a +sin, and gave himself sound scourgings for it.</p> + +<p>Just as little as we find anti-Catholic, so also do we fail to discover +anti-absolutist strains in <i>Don Quixote</i>. The critics who think that +they scent such sentiments therein are clearly in error. Cervantes was +the son of a school which went so far as to poetically idealise the idea +of unquestioning obedience to the sovereign. And that<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> sovereign was the +King of Spain at a time when its majesty dazzled the whole world. The +common soldier felt himself a ray in that halo of glory, and willingly +sacrificed his individual freedom to gratify the national pride of the +Castilian.</p> + +<p>The political grandeur of Spain at that time contributed not a little to +exalt and enlarge the hearts of her poets. In the mind of a Spanish +poet, as in the realm of Charles V., the sun never set. The fierce wars +against the Moors were ended, and as after a storm the flowers are most +fragrant, so poesy ever blooms most grandly after a civil war. We +witness the same phenomenon in England at the time of Elizabeth, and at +the same time as in Spain there arose a galaxy of poets, which invites +the most remarkable parallelisms. There we see Shakespeare, here +Cervantes, as the flower of the school.</p> + +<p>Like the Spanish poets under the three Philips, so also the English +poets under Elizabeth present a certain family likeness, and neither +Shakespeare nor Cervantes have claim to originality in our sense of the +word. They by no means differ from their contemporaries through peculiar +modes of thought or feeling, or by an especial manner of portrayal, but +only through greater depth, fervour, tenderness, and power. Their +creations are more infused and penetrated with the divine spark of +poetry.</p> + +<p>But both poets were not only the flowers of their time, but they were +also the germs of the future. As Shakespeare, by the influence of his +works, particularly on Germany and the France of to-day, is to be +regarded as the creator of the later dramatic art, so must we honour in +Cervantes the author of the modern novel. I shall allow myself a few +passing observations on the subject.</p> + +<p>The older novels, the so-called romances of chivalry<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a> sprang from the +poetry of the middle ages. They were at first prose versions of those +epic poems whose heroes are derived from the mythical traditions of +Charlemagne and the Holy Grail. The subject was always knightly +adventures. It was the romance of the nobility, and the personages that +figured therein were either fabulous, fantastic beings, or knights with +golden spurs; nowhere an allusion to the people. These romances of +knighthood, which degenerated into the most ridiculous absurdities, +Cervantes overthrew by his <i>Don Quixote</i>. But while by his satire he +destroyed the earlier romances, he also furnished a model for a new +school of fiction, which we call the Modern Novel. Such is always the +wont of great poets; while they tear down the old, they at the same time +build up the new; they never destroy without replacing. Cervantes +created the modern novel by introducing into his romances of knighthood +a faithful description of the lower classes, by intermingling with it +phases of folk-life. This partiality for describing the doings of the +common rabble, of the vilest tatterdemalions, is not only found in +Cervantes, but in all his literary contemporaries, and among the Spanish +painters as well as among the poets of that period. A Murillo, who stole +heaven's loveliest tints with which to paint his beautiful Madonnas, +painted with the same love the filthiest creatures of this earth. It was +perhaps the enthusiasm for art itself that made these noble Spaniards +find equal pleasure in the faithful portrayal of a beggar lad scratching +his head as in the representation of the Blessed Virgin. Or, perhaps, it +was the charm of contrast that led noblemen of the highest rank, a +dapper courtier like Quevedo, or a powerful minister like Mendoza, to +fill their romances with ragged beggars and vagabonds. They perhaps +sought to relieve the monotony of their lofty<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> rank by putting +themselves in imagination into a quite different sphere of life, just as +we find a similar tendency among some of our German authors, whose +novels contain naught else but descriptions of the nobility, and who +always make their heroes counts and barons. We do not find in Cervantes +this one-sided tendency to portray the vulgar only; he intermingles the +ideal and the common; one serves as light or as shade to the other, and +the aristocratic element is as prominent in it as the popular. But this +noble, chivalrous, aristocratic element disappears entirely from the +novels of the English, who were the first to imitate Cervantes, and to +this day always keep him in view as a model. These English novelists +since Richardson's reign are prosaic natures; to the prudish spirit of +their time even pithy descriptions of the life of the common people are +repugnant, and we see on yonder side of the channel those <i>bourgeois</i> +novels arise, wherein the petty, humdrum life of the middle classes is +depicted. The public were surfeited with this deplorable class of +literature until recently, when appeared the great Scot, who effected a +revolution, or rather a restoration, in novel-writing. As Cervantes +introduced the democratic element into romance, at a time when one-sided +knight-errantry ruled supreme, so Walter Scott restored the aristocratic +element to romance when it had wholly disappeared, and only a prosaic +bourgeoisie was to be found there. By an opposite course Walter Scott +again restored to romance that beautiful symmetry which we admire in +Cervantes's <i>Don Quixote</i>.</p> + +<p>I believe that the merits of England's second great poet have never in +this respect been recognised. His Tory proclivities, his partiality for +the past, were wholesome for literature, and for those masterpieces of +his genius that everywhere found favour and imitators, and which drove<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a> +into the darkest corners of the circulating libraries those ashen-grey, +ghostly remains of the <i>bourgeoisie</i> romances. It is an error not to +recognise Walter Scott as the founder of the so-called Historical +Romance, and to endeavour to trace the latter to German initiative. This +error arises from the failure to perceive that the characteristic +feature of the Historical Romance consists just in the harmony between +the aristocratic and democratic elements, and that Walter Scott, through +the re-introduction of the aristocratic element, most beautifully +restored that harmony which had been overthrown during the absolutism of +the democratic element, whereas our German romanticists eliminated the +democratic element entirely from their novels, and returned again to the +ruts of those crazy romances of knight-errantry that flourished before +Cervantes. Our De la Motte-Fouqué is only a straggler from the ranks of +those poets who gave to the world <i>Amadis de Gaul</i>, and similar +extravagant absurdities. I admire not only the talent, but also the +courage of the noble Baron who, two centuries after the appearance of +<i>Don Quixote</i>, has written his romances of chivalry. It was a peculiar +period in Germany when the latter appeared and found favour with the +public. What was the significance in literature of that partiality for +knight-errantry, and for those pictures of the old feudal times? I +believe that the German people desired to bid an eternal farewell to the +middle ages, but moved with emotion as we Germans are so apt to be, we +took our leave with a kiss. For the last time we pressed our lips to the +old tombstone. True, some of us behaved in a very silly manner on that +occasion. Ludwig Tieck, the smallest boy in school, dug the dead +ancestors out of their grave, rocked the coffin as if it were a cradle, +and in childish, lisping accents sang, "Sleep, little grandsire, +sleep."<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a></p> + +<p>I have called Walter Scott England's second great poet, and his novels +masterpieces; but it is to his genius only that I would give the highest +praise. His novels I can by no means place on an equality with the great +romance of Cervantes. The latter surpasses him in epic spirit. Cervantes +was, as I have already stated, a Catholic poet, and it is perhaps to +this circumstance that he is indebted for that grand epic composure of +soul, which, like a crystalline firmament, overarches those picturesque +and poetical creations; nowhere is there a rift of scepticism. Added to +this is the calm dignity which is the national characteristic of the +Spaniard. But Walter Scott belongs to a church which subjects even +divine matters to a sharp examination; as an advocate and as a Scotchman +he is accustomed to action and to debate, and we find the dramatic +element most prominent in his novels, as well as in his life and his +temperament. Hence his works can never be regarded as the pure model of +that style of fiction which we denominate the Romance. To the Spaniards +is due the honour of having produced the best novel, as England is +entitled to the credit of having achieved the highest rank in the drama.</p> + +<p>And the Germans, what palm remains for them? Well, then, we are the best +lyric poets on earth. No people possesses such beautiful songs as the +Germans. At present the nations are too much occupied with political +affairs, but when these are once laid aside, then let us Germans, +English, Spaniards, French, Italians, all go out into the green forests +and chant our lays, and the nightingale shall be umpire. I am convinced +that in this tournament of minstrelsy the songs of Wolfgang Goethe will +win the prize.</p> + +<p>Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Goethe form the triumvirate<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> of poets, who, +in the three great divisions of poetry, epic, dramatic, and lyric, have +achieved the greatest success. The writer of these pages is perhaps +peculiarly fitted to sound the praises of our great countryman as the +most perfect of lyric poets. Goethe stands midway between the two +classes of song-writers, between those two schools, of which one, alas! +is known by my own name, the other as the Suabian school. Both have +their merits; they have indirectly promoted the welfare of German +poetry. The first effected a wholesome reaction against the one-sided +idealism of German poetry, it led the intellect back to stern realities, +and uprooted that sentimental Petrarchism that has always seemed to us +as a Quixotism in verse. The Suabian school also contributed indirectly +to the weal of German poetry. If in Northern Germany strong and healthy +poetical productions came to light, thanks are perhaps due to the +Suabian school, which attracted to itself all the sickly chlorotic, +mawkishly-pious, clumsy votaries of the German muse. Stuttgart was the +fontanel, as it were, for the German muse.</p> + +<p>While I ascribe the highest achievements in drama, in romance, and in +lyric poetry to this great triumvirate, far be it from me to depreciate +the poetical merits of other great poets. Nothing is more foolish than +the query, "Which poet is greater than the other?" Flame is flame, and +its weight cannot be determined in pounds and ounces. Only a narrow +shopkeeper mind will attempt to weigh genius in its miserable cheese +scales. Not only the ancients, but some of the moderns, have written +works in which the fire of poetry burns with a splendour equal to that +of the masterpieces of Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Goethe. Nevertheless, +these names hold together as if through some secret bond. A kindred +spirit shines forth from their<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a> creations, an immortal tenderness +exhales from them like the breath of God, the modesty of nature blooms +in them. Goethe not only constantly reminds one of Shakespeare, but also +of Cervantes, and he resembles the latter even in the details of style, +and in that charming prose diction which is tinged with a vein of the +sweetest and most harmless irony. Cervantes and Goethe resemble each +other even in their faults, in diffusiveness of style, in those long +sentences that we occasionally find in their writings, and which may be +compared to a procession of royal equipages. Not infrequently but a +single thought sits in one of those long, wide-spreading sentences that +rolls majestically along like a great, gilded court-chariot, drawn by +six plumed steeds. But that single idea is always something exalted, +perhaps even royal.</p> + +<p>My remarks concerning the genius of Cervantes and the influence of his +book have been necessarily scant. Concerning the true value of his +romance from an artistic standpoint, I must express myself still more +briefly, as otherwise questions might arise which would lead to wide +digressions into the sphere of æsthetics. I may only call attention in a +general way to the form of the romance, and to the two figures that +constitute its central point. The form is that of a description of +travels which has ever been the most natural for this class of writings. +I am reminded of The Golden Ass of Apuleius, the first romance of +antiquity. Later poets sought to relieve the monotony of this form +through what we to-day call <i>fabliaux</i>. But on account of poverty of +invention the majority of romance writers have borrowed each other's +fables; at least, part have always used the same tales, making but +slight variations. Hence, through the resulting sameness of characters, +situations, and complications, the public became at last<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a> somewhat +wearied of romance-reading. To escape from the tediousness of hackneyed +tales and fables, they sought refuge in the ancient, original form of +narratives of travels. But this form will again be wholly supplanted +just as soon as some creative genius shall arise with a new and original +style of romance. In literature, as well as in politics, all things are +subject to the law of action and reaction.</p> + +<p>As regards the two figures that are called Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, +that so constantly burlesque, and yet so wonderfully complement each +other, so that together they form the one true hero of the +romance,—these two figures give evidence equally of the poet's artistic +taste and of his intellectual profundity. If other authors, in whose +romances the hero journeys solitary and alone through the world, are +compelled to have recourse to monologues, letters, or diaries in order +to communicate the thoughts and emotions of their heroes, Cervantes can +always let a natural dialogue arise; and, inasmuch as the one figure +always parodies the other, the author's purpose is the more clearly +shown. Manifold have been the imitations of this double figure which +lends to the romance of Cervantes such an artistic naturalness, and out +of which, as from a single seed, has grown the whole novel, with all its +wild foliage, its fragrant blossoms, its glowing fruits, its apes and +marvellous birds that cluster amid its branches, resembling one of those +giant trees of India.</p> + +<p>But it would be unjust to charge all this to a servile imitation; on the +surface, as it were, lay the introduction of two such figures as Don +Quixote and Sancho Panza, of which the one, the poetical nature, seeks +adventures, and the other, half out of affection, half out of selfish +motives, follows through sunshine and rain, as we often meet them<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a> in +real life. In order to recognise this couple anywhere, under the most +varied disguises, in art as well as in life, one must keep in view only +the essential, the spiritual characteristics, not the incidental or +external. I could offer innumerable instances of this. Do we not find +Don Quixote and Sancho Panza clearly repeated in Don Juan and Leporello, +and to a certain degree also in the persons of Lord Byron and his +servant Fletcher? Do we not recognise these two types and their changed +relations in the figures of the Knight von Waldsee and his Caspar +Larifari, as also in the form of many an author and his publisher? The +latter clearly discerns his author's follies, but in order to reap +pecuniary profit out of them, faithfully accompanies him in all his +ideal vagaries. And Master Publisher Sancho, even if at times he gains +only buffets in the transaction, yet always remains fat, while the noble +knight grows daily more and more emaciated. But not only among men, but +also among women, have I often met the counterparts of Don Quixote and +his henchman. I particularly remember a beautiful English lady, an +impulsive, enthusiastic blonde, who, accompanied by her friend, had run +away from a London boarding-school, to roam the wide world over in +search of a noble, true-hearted lover, such as she had dreamed of on +soft moonlight nights. Her friend, a short, plump brunette, also hoped +through this opportunity to gain, if not so rare and high an ideal, at +least a husband of good appearance. Still do I see her, with her slender +figure, and blue, love-longing eyes, standing on the beach at Brighton, +casting wistful glances over the billowy sea towards the French coast; +meanwhile her companion cracked hazel-nuts, munched the sweet kernels +with relish, and threw the shells into the water.</p> + +<p>And yet neither in the masterpieces of other artists, nor<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> in nature +herself, do we find these two types in their varying relations so +minutely elaborated as in Cervantes. Every trait in the character and +appearance of the one answers to a contrasting, and yet kindred, trait +in the other. Here every detail has a burlesque signification; yes, even +between Rosinante and Sancho's grey donkey there exists the same ironic +parallelism as between the squire and the knight, and the two beasts are +made to convey symbolically the same idea. As in their modes of thought, +so also in their speech, do master and servant reveal a most marvellous +contrast, and I cannot here omit to refer to the difficulties with which +the translator has had to contend in order to reproduce in German the +homely, gnarled dialect of our good Sancho. Through his blunt, +frequently vulgar speeches, and his fondness for proverbialising, our +good Sancho reminds us of King Solomon's fool, and of Marculfe, who, +also, in opposition to a somewhat pathetic idealism, expresses in short +and pithy sayings the practical wisdom of the common people. Don +Quixote, on the contrary, speaks the language of culture, of the higher +classes, and in the solemn gravity of his well-rounded periods, he +fairly represents the high-born Hidalgo. At times his sentences are spun +out too broadly, and the knight's language resembles a haughty court +dame, attired in a much bepuffed silken robe, with a long rustling +train. But the graces, disguised as pages, laughingly carry the tips of +this train, and the long sentences end with the most charming turns.</p> + +<p>The character of Don Quixote's language and that of Sancho Panza may be +briefly summarised in the words: the former, when he speaks, seems +always mounted on his high horse; the latter, as if seated on his humble +donkey.</p> + +<p>It is remarkable that a book which is so rich as <i>Don</i><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> Quixote in +picturesque matter has as yet found no painter who has taken from it +subjects for a series of independent art works. Is the spirit of the +book so volatile and fanciful that the variegated colours elude the +artist's skill? I do not think so, for <i>Don Quixote</i>, light and fanciful +as it is, is still based on rude, earthly realities, as must necessarily +be the case to make it a book of the people. Is it, perhaps, because +behind the figures brought before us by the poet, deeper ideas lie +hidden, which the artist cannot produce again, so that he can give only +the outward features, salient though they be, but fails to grasp and +reproduce the deeper meaning?<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="GODS_IN_EXILE" id="GODS_IN_EXILE"></a>GODS IN EXILE.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Gods in Exile</i>, in which Heine has gathered up some of the +mediæval legends concerning the later history of the Greek and +Roman gods, was written in the early spring of 1853 (a few pages, +however, had been written so long before as 1836), and published in +the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i> for that year. The translation, by Mr. +Fleishman, here used, has been carefully revised, and in part +rewritten.</p> + +<p>It will be observed that the years between 1837 and 1853 are +unrepresented in this volume. During that period—with the +exception of the fragment of <i>The Rabbi of Bacharach</i> (which was, +however, written earlier) and his book on Börne, both published in +1840—Heine produced very little prose.]</p></div> + +<p class="nind">...I <small>AM</small> speaking here of that metamorphosis into demons which the Greek +and Roman gods underwent when Christianity achieved supreme control of +the world. The superstition of the people ascribed to those gods a real +but cursed existence, coinciding entirely in this respect with the +teaching of the Church. The latter by no means declared the ancient gods +to be myths, inventions of falsehood and error, as did the philosophers, +but held them to be evil spirits, who, through the victory of Christ, +had been hurled from the summit of their power, and now dragged along +their miserable existences in the obscurity of dismantled temples or in +enchanted groves, and by their diabolic arts, through lust and beauty, +particularly through dancing and singing, lured to apostasy unsteadfast<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> +Christians who had lost their way in the forest.... I will remind the +reader that the perplexities into which the poor old gods fell at the +time of the final triumph of Christendom—that is, in the third +century—offer striking analogies to former sorrowful events in their +god-lives; for they found themselves plunged into the same sad +predicament in which they had once before been placed in that most +ancient time, in that revolutionary epoch when the Titans broke loose +from their confinement in Orcus and, piling Pelion on Ossa, scaled high +Olympus. At that time the poor gods were compelled to flee ignominiously +and conceal themselves under various disguises on earth. Most of them +repaired to Egypt, where, as is well known, for greater safety, they +assumed the forms of animals. And in a like manner, when the true Lord +of the universe planted the banner of the cross on the heavenly heights, +and those iconoclastic zealots, the black band of monks, hunted down the +gods with fire and malediction and razed their temples, then these +unfortunate heathen divinities were again compelled to take to flight, +seeking safety under the most varied disguises and in the most retired +hiding-places. Many of these poor refugees, deprived of shelter and +ambrosia, were now forced to work at some plebeian trade in order to +earn a livelihood. Under these circumstances several, whose shrines had +been confiscated, became wood-choppers and day-labourers in Germany, and +were compelled to drink beer instead of nectar. It appears that Apollo +was reduced to this dire plight, and stooped so low as to accept service +with cattle-breeders, and as once before he had tended the cows of +Admetus, so now he lived as a shepherd in Lower Austria. Here, however, +he aroused suspicion through the marvellous sweetness of his singing +and, being recognised by a learned monk as one of the<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a> ancient +magic-working heathen gods, he was delivered over to the ecclesiastical +courts. On the rack he confessed that he was the god Apollo. Before his +execution he begged that he might be permitted for the last time to play +the zither and sing to its accompaniment. But he played so touchingly +and sang so enchantingly, and was so handsome in face and form, that all +the women wept; and many of them indeed afterwards sickened. After some +lapse of time, it was decided to remove his body from the grave under +the impression that he was a vampire, and impale it upon a stake, this +being an approved domestic remedy certain to effect the cure of the sick +women; but the grave was found empty.</p> + +<p>I have but little to communicate concerning the fate of Mars, the +ancient god of war. I am not disinclined to believe that during the +feudal ages he availed himself of the then prevailing doctrine that +might makes right. Lank Schimmelpennig, nephew of the executioner of +Münster, once met Mars at Bologna, and conversed with him. Shortly +before he had served as a peasant under Froudsberg, and was present at +the storming of Rome. Bitter thoughts must have filled his breast when +he saw his ancient, favourite city, and the temples wherein he and his +brother gods had been so revered, now ignominiously laid waste.</p> + +<p>Better than either Mars or Apollo fared the god Bacchus at the great +stampede, and the legends relate the following:—In Tyrol there are very +large lakes, surrounded by magnificent trees that are mirrored in the +blue waters. Trees and water murmur so that one experiences strange +feelings of awe when one wanders there alone. On the bank of such a lake +stood the hut of a young fisherman, who lived by fishing, and who also +acted as ferryman to any travellers<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a> who wished to cross the lake. He +had a large boat, that was fastened to the trunk of an old tree not far +from his dwelling. Here he lived quite alone. Once, about the time of +the autumnal equinox, towards midnight, he heard a knocking at his +window, and on opening the door he saw three monks, with their heads +deeply muffled in their cowls, who seemed to be in great haste. One of +them hurriedly asked him for the boat, promising to return it within a +few hours. The monks were three, and the fisherman could not hesitate; +so he unfastened the boat, and when they had embarked and departed, he +went back to his hut and lay down. He was young, and soon fell asleep; +but in a few hours he was awakened by the returning monks. When he went +out to them, one of them pressed a silver coin into his hand, and then +all three hastened away. The fisherman went to look at his boat, which +he found made fast. Then he shivered, but not from the night-air. A +peculiarly chilling sensation had passed through his limbs, and his +heart seemed almost frozen, when the monk who paid the fare touched his +hand; the monk's fingers were cold as ice. For some days the fisherman +could not forget this circumstance; but youth will soon shake off +mysterious influences, and the fisherman thought no more of the +occurrence until the following year, when, again just at the time of the +autumnal equinoxes, towards midnight, there was a knocking at the window +of the hut, and again the three cowled monks appeared, and again +demanded the boat. The fisherman delivered up the boat with less anxiety +this time, but when after a few hours they returned, and one of the +monks again hastily pressed a coin into his hand, he again shuddered at +the touch of the icy cold fingers. This happened every year at the same +time and in the same manner. At last, as the seventh year drew near, an<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a> +irresistible desire seized on the fisherman to learn, at all costs, the +secret that was hidden under these three cowls. He piled a mass of nets +into the boat, so as to form a hiding-place into which he could slip +while the monks were preparing to embark. The sombre expected travellers +came at the accustomed time, and the fisherman succeeded in hiding +himself under the nets unobserved. To his astonishment, the voyage +lasted but a short time, whereas it usually took him over an hour to +reach the opposite shore; and greater yet was his surprise when here, in +a locality with which he had been quite familiar, he beheld a wide +forest-glade which he had never before seen, and which was covered with +flowers that, to him, were of quite strange kind. Innumerable lamps hung +from the trees, and vases filled with blazing rosin stood on high +pedestals; the moon, too, was so bright that the fisherman could see all +that took place, as distinctly as if it had been mid-day. There were +many hundreds of young men and young women, most of them beautiful as +pictures, although their faces were all as white as marble, and this +circumstance, together with their garments, which consisted of white, +very white, tunics with purple borders, girt up, gave them the +appearance of moving statues. The women wore on their heads wreaths of +vine leaves, either natural or wrought of gold and silver, and their +hair was partly plaited over the brow into the shape of a crown, and +partly fell in wild locks on their necks. The young men also wore +wreaths of vine leaves. Both men and women swinging in their hands +golden staffs covered with vine leaves, hastened joyously to greet the +new-comers. One of the latter threw aside his cowl, revealing an +impertinent fellow of middle age, with a repulsive, libidinous face, and +pointed goat-ears, and scandalously extravagant sexuality. The second +monk<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a> also threw aside his cowl, and there came to view a big-bellied +fellow, not less naked, whose bald pate the mischievous women crowned +with a wreath of roses. The faces of the two monks, like those of the +rest of the assemblage, were white as snow. White as snow also was the +face of the third monk, who laughingly brushed the cowl from his head. +As he unbound the girdle of his robe, and with a gesture of disgust +flung off from him the pious and dirty garment, together with crucifix +and rosary, lo! there stood, robed in a tunic brilliant as a diamond, a +marvellously beautiful youth with a form of noble symmetry, save that +there was something feminine in the rounded hips and the slender waist. +His delicately-curved lips, also, and soft, mobile features gave him a +somewhat feminine appearance; but his face expressed also a certain +daring, almost reckless heroism. The women caressed him with wild +enthusiasm, placed an ivy-wreath upon his head, and threw a magnificent +leopard-skin over his shoulders. At this moment came swiftly dashing +along, drawn by two lions, a golden two-wheeled triumphal chariot. +Majestically, yet with a merry glance, the youth leaped on the chariot, +guiding the wild steeds with purple reins. At the right of the chariot +strode one of his uncassocked companions, whose lewd gestures and +unseemly form delighted the beholders, while his comrade, with the bald +pate and fat paunch, whom the merry women had placed on an ass, rode at +the left of the chariot, carrying in his hand a golden drinking-cup, +which was constantly refilled with wine. On moved the chariot, and +behind it whirled the romping, dancing, vine-crowned men and women. At +the head of the triumphal procession marched the orchestra; the pretty, +chubby-cheeked youth, playing the double flute; then the nymph with the +high-girt<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a> tunic, striking the jingling tambourine with her knuckles; +then the equally gracious beauty, with the triangle; then the +goat-footed trumpeters, with handsome but lascivious faces, who blew +their fanfares on curious sea-shells and fantastically-shaped horns; +then the lute-players.</p> + +<p>But, dear reader, I forgot that you are a most cultured and +well-informed reader, and have long since observed that I have been +describing a Bacchanalia and a feast of Dionysius. You have often seen +on ancient bas-reliefs, or in the engravings of archæological works, +pictures of the triumphal processions held in honour of the god Bacchus; +and surely, with your cultivated and classic tastes, you would not be +frightened even if at dead of night, in the depths of a lonely forest, +the lonely spectres of such a Bacchanalian procession, together with the +customary tipsy personnel, should appear bodily before your eyes. At the +most you would only give way to a slight voluptuous shudder, an æsthetic +awe, at sight of this pale assemblage of graceful phantoms, who have +risen from their monumental sarcophagi, or from their hiding-places amid +the ruins of ancient temples, to perform once more their ancient, +joyous, divine service; once more, with sport and merry-making, to +celebrate the triumphal march of the divine liberator, the Saviour of +the senses; to dance once more the merry dance of paganism, the +<i>can-can</i> of the antique world—to dance it without any hypocritical +disguise, without fear of the interference of the police of a +spiritualistic morality, with the wild abandonment of the old days, +shouting, exulting, rapturous. Evoe Bacche!</p> + +<p>But alas, dear reader, the poor fisherman was not, like yourself, versed +in mythology; he had never made archæological studies; and terror and +fear seized upon him when he beheld the Triumphator and his two +wonderful acolytes<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a> emerge from their monks' garb. He shuddered at the +immodest gestures and leaps of the Bacchantes, Fauns, and Satyrs, who, +with their goats' feet and horns, seemed to him peculiarly diabolical, +and he regarded the whole assemblage as a congress of spectres and +demons, who were seeking by their mysterious rites to bring ruin on all +Christians. His hair stood on end at sight of the reckless impossible +posture of a Mænad, who, with flowing hair and head thrown back, only +balanced herself by the weight of her thyrsus. His own brain seemed to +reel as he saw the Corybantes in mad frenzy wounding their own bodies +with short swords, seeking voluptuousness in pain itself. The soft and +tender, yet so terrible, tones of the music seemed to penetrate to his +very soul, like a burning, consuming, excruciating flame. But when he +saw that defamed Egyptian symbol, of exaggerated size and crowned with +flowers, borne upon a tall pole by an unashamed woman, then sight and +hearing forsook the poor fisherman—and he darted back to the boat, and +crept under the nets, with chattering teeth and trembling limbs, as +though Satan already held him fast by the foot. Soon after, the three +monks also returned to the boat and shoved off. When they had +disembarked at the original starting-place, the fisherman managed to +escape unobserved from his hiding-place, so that they supposed he had +merely been behind the willows awaiting their return. One of the monks, +as usual, with icy-cold fingers pressed the fare into the fisherman's +hand, then all three hurried away.</p> + +<p>For the salvation of his own soul, which he believed to be endangered, +and also to guard other good Christians from ruin, the fisherman held it +his duty to communicate a full account of the mysterious occurrence to +the Church authorities; and as the superior of a neighbouring +Franciscan<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a> monastery was in great repute as a learned exorcist, the +fisherman determined to go to him without delay. The rising sun found +him on his way to the monastery, where, with modest demeanour, he soon +stood before his excellency the superior, who received him seated in an +easy-chair in the library, and with hood drawn closely over his face, +listened meditatively while the fisherman told his tale of horror. When +the recital was finished, the superior raised his head, and as the hood +fell back, the fisherman saw, to his dismay, that his excellency was one +of the three monks who annually sailed over the lake—the very one, +indeed, whom he had the previous night seen as a heathen demon riding in +the golden chariot drawn by lions. It was the same marble-white face, +the same regular, beautiful features, the same mouth with its +delicately-curved lips. And these lips now wore a kindly smile, and from +that mouth now issued the gracious and melodious words, "Beloved son in +Christ, we willingly believe that you have spent the night in company of +the god Bacchus. Your fantastic ghost-story gives ample proof of that. +Not that we would say aught unpleasant of this god: at times he is +undoubtedly a care-dispeller, and gladdens the heart of man. But he is +very dangerous for those who cannot bear much; and to this class you +seem to belong. We advise you to partake in future very sparingly of the +golden juice of the grape, and not again to trouble the spiritual +authorities with the fantasies of a drunken brain. Concerning this last +vision of yours, you had better keep a very quiet tongue in your head; +otherwise the secular arm of our beadle shall measure out to you +twenty-five lashes. And now, beloved son in Christ, go to the monastery +kitchen, where brother butler and brother cook will set before you a +slight repast."<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a></p> + +<p>With this, the reverend father bestowed the customary benediction on the +fisherman, and when the latter, bewildered, took himself off to the +kitchen and suddenly came face to face with brother cook and brother +butler, he almost fell to the earth in affright, for they were the same +monks who had accompanied the superior on his midnight excursions across +the lake. He recognised one by his fat paunch and bald head, and the +other by his lascivious grin and goat-ears. But he held his tongue, and +only in later years did he relate his strange story.</p> + +<p>Several old chronicles which contain similar legends locate the scene +near the city of Speyer, on the Rhine.</p> + +<p>Along the coast of East Friesland an analogous tradition is found, in +which the ancient conception of the transportation of the dead to the +realm of Hades, which underlies all those legends, is most distinctly +seen. It is true that none of them contain any mention of Charon, the +steersman of the boat: this old fellow seems to have entirely +disappeared from folk-lore, and is to be met with only in puppet-shows. +But a far more notable mythological personage is to be recognised in the +so-called forwarding agent, or dispatcher, who makes arrangements for +the transportation of the dead, and pays the customary passage-money +into the hands of the boatman; the latter is generally a common +fisherman, who officiates as Charon. Notwithstanding his quaint +disguise, the true name of this dispatcher may readily be guessed, and I +shall therefore relate the legend as faithfully as possible.</p> + +<p>The shores of East Friesland that border on the North Sea abound with +bays, which are used as harbours, and are called fiords. On the farthest +projecting promontory of land generally stands the solitary hut of some +fisherman, who here lives, peaceful and contented, with his family.<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a> +Here nature wears a sad and melancholy aspect. Not even the chirping of +a bird is to be heard, only now and then the shrill screech of a +sea-gull flying up from its nest among the sand-hills, that announces +the coming storm. The monotonous plashings of the restless sea harmonise +with the sombre, shifting shadows of the passing clouds. Even the human +inhabitants do not sing here, and on these melancholy coasts the strain +of a <i>volkslied</i> is never heard. The people who live here are an +earnest, honest, matter-of-fact race, proud of their bold spirit and of +the liberties which they have inherited from their ancestors. Such a +people are not imaginative, and are little given to metaphysical +speculations. Fishing is their principal support, added to which is an +occasional pittance of passage-money for transporting some traveller to +one of the adjacent islands.</p> + +<p>It is said that at a certain period of the year, just at mid-day, when +the fisherman and his family are seated at table eating their noonday +meal, a traveller enters and asks the master of the house to vouchsafe +him an audience for a few minutes to speak with him on a matter of +business. The fisherman, after vainly inviting the stranger to partake +of the meal, grants his request, and they both step aside to a little +table. I shall not describe the personal appearance of the stranger in +detail, after the tedious manner of novel-writers: a brief enumeration +of the salient points will suffice. He is a little man, advanced in +years, but well preserved. He is, so to say, a youthful greybeard: +plump, but not corpulent; cheeks ruddy as an apple; small eyes, which +blink merrily and continually, and on his powdered little head is set a +three-cornered little hat. Under his flaming yellow cloak, with its many +collars, he wears the old-fashioned dress of a well-to-do Dutch +merchant, such as we see depicted in old portraits—namely, a short silk +coat<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> of a parrot-green colour, a vest embroidered with flowers, short +black trousers, striped stockings, and shoes ornamented with buckles. +The latter are so brightly polished that it is hard to understand how +the wearer could trudge a-foot through the slimy mud of the coast and +yet keep them so clean. His voice is a thin, asthmatic treble, sometimes +inclining to be rather lachrymose; but the address and bearing of the +little man are as grave and measured as beseem a Dutch merchant. This +gravity, however, appears to be more assumed than natural, and is in +marked contrast with the searching, roving, swift-darting glances of the +eye, and with the ill-repressed fidgettiness of the legs and arms. That +the stranger is a Dutch merchant is evidenced not only by his apparel, +but also by the mercantile exactitude and caution with which he +endeavours to effect as favourable a bargain as possible for his +employers. He is, as he says, a forwarding agent, and has received from +some of his mercantile friends a commission to transport a certain +number of souls, as many as can find room in an ordinary boat, from the +coast of East Friesland to the White Island. In fulfilment of this +commission, he adds, he wishes to know if the fisherman will this night +convey in his boat the aforesaid cargo to the aforesaid island; in which +case he is authorised to pay the passage-money in advance, confidently +hoping that, in Christian fairness, the fisherman will make his price +very moderate. The Dutch merchant (which term is, in fact, a pleonasm, +since every Dutchman is a merchant) makes this proposition with the +utmost nonchalance, as if it referred to a cargo of cheeses, and not to +the souls of the dead. The fisherman is startled at the word "souls," +and a cold chill creeps down his back, for he immediately comprehends +that the souls of the dead are here meant, and that the stranger is none +other than the phantom Dutchman,<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a> who has already intrusted several of +his fellow-fishermen with the transportation of the souls of the dead, +and paid them well for it, too.</p> + +<p>These East Frieslanders are, as I have already remarked, a brave, +healthy, practical people; in them is lacking that morbid imagination +which makes us so impressible to the ghostly and supernatural. Our +fisherman's weird dismay lasts but a moment; suppressing the uncanny +sensation that is stealing over him, he soon regains his composure, and, +intent on securing as high a sum as possible, he assumes an air of +supreme indifference. But after a little chaffering the two come to an +understanding, and shake hands to seal the bargain. The Dutchman draws +forth a dirty leather pouch, filled entirely with little silver pennies +of the smallest denomination ever coined in Holland, and in these tiny +coins counts out the whole amount of the fare. With instructions to the +fisherman to be ready with his boat at the appointed place about the +midnight hour when the moon becomes visible, the Dutchman takes leave of +the whole family, and, declining their repeated invitations to dine, the +grave little figure, dignified as ever, trips lightly away.</p> + +<p>At the time agreed upon the fisherman appears at the appointed place. At +first the boat is rocked lightly to and fro by the waves; but by the +time the full moon has risen above the horizon the fisherman notices +that his bark is less easily swayed, and so it gradually sinks deeper +and deeper in the stream, until finally the water comes within a +hand's-breadth of the boat's bow. This circumstance apprises him that +his passengers, the souls, are now aboard, and he pushes off from shore +with his cargo. Although he strains his eyes to the utmost, he can +distinguish nothing but a few vapoury streaks that seem to be swayed +hither<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> and thither, and to intermingle with one another, but assume no +definite forms. Listen intently as he may, he hears nothing but an +indescribably-faint chirping and rustling. Only now and then a sea-gull +with a shrill scream flies swiftly over his head; or near him a fish +leaps up from out the stream, and for a moment stares at him with a +vacuous look. The night-winds sigh, and the sea-breezes grow more +chilly. Everywhere only water, moonlight, and silence! and silent as all +around him is the fisherman, who finally reaches the White Island and +moors his boat. He sees no one on the strand, but he hears a shrill, +asthmatic, wheezy, lachrymose voice, which he recognises as that of the +Dutchman. The latter seems to be reading off a list of proper names, +with a peculiar, monotonous intonation, as if rehearsing a roll-call. +Among the names are some which are known to the fisherman as belonging +to persons who have died that year. During the reading of the list, the +boat is evidently being gradually lightened of its load, and as soon as +the last name is called it rises suddenly and floats free, although but +a moment before it was deeply imbedded in the sand of the sea-shore. To +the fisherman this is a token that his cargo has been properly +delivered, and he calmly rows back to his wife and child, to his beloved +home on the fiord.</p> + +<p>...Notwithstanding this clever disguise, I have ventured to guess who +the important mythological personage is that figures in this tradition. +It is none other than the god Mercury, Hermes Psychopompos, the whilom +conductor of the dead to Hades. Verily, under that shabby yellow cloak +and prosaic tradesman's figure is concealed the youthful and most +accomplished god of heathendom, the cunning son of Maia. On his little +three-cornered hat not the slightest tuft of a feather is to be seen +which might<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a> remind the beholder of the winged cap, and the clumsy shoes +with steel buckles fail to give the least hint of the winged sandals. +This grave and heavy Dutch lead is quite different from the mobile +quicksilver, from which the god derived his very name. But the contrast +is so exceedingly striking as to betray the god's design, which is the +more effectually to disguise himself. Perhaps this mask was not chosen +out of mere caprice. Mercury was, as you know, the patron god of thieves +and merchants, and, in all probability, in choosing a disguise that +should conceal him, and a trade by which to earn his livelihood, he took +into consideration his talents and his antecedents.</p> + +<p>...And thus it came to pass that the shrewdest and most cunning of the +gods became a merchant, and, to adapt himself most thoroughly to his +rôle, became the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of merchants—a Dutch merchant. His +long practice in the olden time as Psychopompos, as conveyor of the dead +to Hades, marks him out as particularly fitted to conduct the +transportation of the souls of the dead to the White Island, in the +manner just described.</p> + +<p>The White Island is occasionally also called Brea, or Britannia. Does +this perhaps refer to White Albion, to the chalky cliffs of the English +coast? It would be a very humorous idea if England was designated as the +land of the dead, as the Plutonian realm, as hell. In such a form, in +truth, England has appeared to many a stranger.</p> + +<p>In my essay on the Faust legend I discussed at full length the popular +superstition concerning Pluto and his dominion. I showed how the old +realm of shadows became hell, and how its old gloomy ruler became more +and more diabolical. Neither Pluto, god of the nether regions, nor his +brother, Neptune, god of the sea, emigrated like the other gods. Even +after the final triumph of Christendom<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a> they remained in their domains, +their respective elements. No matter what silly fables concerning him +were invented here above on earth, old Pluto sat by his Proserpine, warm +and cosey down below.</p> + +<p>Neptune suffered less from calumny than his brother Pluto, and neither +church-bell chimes nor organ-strains could offend his ears in the depths +of old ocean, where he sat peacefully by the side of his white-bosomed +wife, Dame Amphitrite, surrounded by his court of dripping nereids and +tritons. Only now and then, when a young sailor crossed the equator, he +would dart up from the briny deep, in his hand brandishing the trident, +his head crowned with sea-weed, and his flowing, silvery beard reaching +down to the navel. Then he would confer on the neophyte the terrible +sea-water baptism, accompanying it with a long unctuous harangue, +interspersed with coarse sailor jests, to the great delight of the jolly +tars. The harangue was frequently interrupted by the spitting of amber +quids of chewed tobacco, which Neptune so freely scattered around him. A +friend, who gave me a detailed description of the manner in which such a +sea-miracle is performed, assured me that the very sailors that laughed +most heartily at the droll antics of Neptune never for a moment doubted +the existence of such a god, and sometimes when in great danger they +even prayed to him.</p> + +<p>Neptune, as we have seen, remained monarch of the watery realm; and +Pluto, notwithstanding his metamorphosis into Satan, still continued to +be prince of the lower regions. They fared better than did their brother +Jupiter, who, after the overthrow of their father, Saturn, became ruler +of heaven, and as sovereign of the universe resided at Olympus, where, +surrounded by his merry troop of gods, goddesses, and nymphs-of-honour, +he carried on his ambrosial<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a> rule of joy. But when the great catastrophe +occurred,—when the rule of the cross, that symbol of suffering, was +proclaimed,—then the great Kronides fled, and disappeared amid the +tumults and confusion of the transmigration of races. All traces of him +were lost, and I have in vain consulted old chronicles and old women: +none could give me the least information concerning his fate. With the +same purpose in view, I have ransacked many libraries, where I was shown +the magnificent codices ornamented with gold and precious stones, true +odalisques in the harem of science. To the learned eunuchs who, with +such affability, unlocked for me those brilliant treasures, I here +return the customary thanks. It appears as if no popular tradition of a +medieval Jupiter exists; and all that I could gather concerning him +consists of a story told me by my friend, Niels Andersen.</p> + +<p>...The events that I am about to relate, said Niels Andersen, occurred +on an island, the exact situation of which I cannot tell. Since its +discovery no one has been able again to reach it, being prevented by the +immense icebergs that tower like a high wall around the island, and +seldom, probably, permit a near approach. Only the crew of a Russian +whaling-vessel, which a storm had driven so far to the north, ever trod +its soil; and since then over a hundred years have elapsed. When the +sailors had, by means of a small boat, effected a landing, they found +the island to be wild and desolate. Sadly waved the blades of tall sedgy +grass over the quicksands; here and there grew a few stunted fir-trees, +or barren shrubs. They saw a multitude of rabbits springing around, on +which account they named it the Island of Rabbits. Only one miserable +hut gave evidence that a human being dwelt there. As the sailors entered +the hut they saw an old, very old man,<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a> wretchedly clad in a garment of +rabbit skins rudely stitched together. He was seated in a stone chair in +front of the hearth, trying to warm his emaciated hands and trembling +knees by the flaring brushwood fire. At his right side stood an immense +bird, evidently an eagle, but which had been roughly treated by time, +and shorn of all its plumage save the long bristly quills of its wings, +that gave it a highly grotesque, and, at the same time, hideous +appearance. At the old man's left, squatted on the earth, was an +extraordinarily large hairless goat, which seemed to be very old; +although full milky udders, with fresh, rosy nipples, hung at its belly.</p> + +<p>Among the sailors were several Greeks, one of whom, not thinking that +his words would be understood by the aged inhabitant of the hut, +remarked in the Greek language to a comrade, "This old fellow is either +a spectre or an evil demon." But at these words the old man suddenly +arose from his seat, and to their great surprise the sailors beheld a +stately figure, which, in spite of its advanced age, raised itself erect +with commanding, yes, with king-like dignity, his head almost touching +the rafters. The features, too, although rugged and weather-beaten, +showed traces of original beauty, they were so noble and +well-proportioned. A few silvery locks fell over his brow, which was +furrowed by pride and age. His eyes had a dim and fixed look, but +occasionally they would still gleam piercingly; and from his mouth were +heard in the melodious and sonorous words of the ancient Greek language, +"You are mistaken, young man; I am neither a spectre nor an evil demon; +I am an unhappy old man, who once knew better days. But who are ye?"</p> + +<p>The sailors explained the accident which had befallen them, and then +inquired concerning the island. The<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> information, however, was very +meagre. The old man told them that since time immemorial he had +inhabited this island, whose bulwark of ice served him as a secure +asylum against his inexorable foes. He subsisted principally by catching +rabbits, and every year, when the floating icebergs had settled, a few +bands of savages crossed over on sleds, and to them he sold +rabbit-skins, receiving in exchange various articles of indispensable +necessity. The whales, which sometimes came swimming close to the +island, were his favourite company. But it gave him pleasure to hear +again his native tongue, for he too was a Greek. He entreated his +countrymen to give him an account of the present condition of Greece. +That the cross had been torn down from the battlements of Grecian cities +apparently caused the old man a malicious satisfaction; but it did not +altogether please him when he heard that the crescent had been planted +there instead. It was strange that none of the sailors knew the names of +the cities concerning which the old man inquired, and which, as he +assured them, had flourished in his time. In like manner the names of +the present cities and villages in Greece, which were mentioned by the +sailors, were unknown to him; at this the old man would shake his head +sadly, and the sailors looked at one another perplexed. They noticed +that he knew exactly all the localities and geographical peculiarities +of Greece; and he described so accurately and vividly the bays, the +peninsulas, the mountain-ridges, even the knolls and most trifling rocky +elevations, that his ignorance of these localities was all the more +surprising. With especial interest, with a certain anxiety even, he +questioned them concerning an ancient temple, which in his time, he +assured them, had been the most beautiful in all Greece; but none of his +hearers knew<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a> the name, which he pronounced with a loving tenderness. +But finally, when the old man had again described the site of the +temple, with the utmost particularity, a young sailor recognised the +place by the description.</p> + +<p>The village wherein he was born, said the young man, was situated hard +by, and when a boy he had often tended his father's swine at the very +place where there had been found ruins of an ancient structure, +indicating a magnificent grandeur in the past. Now, only a few large +marble pillars remained standing; some were plain, unadorned columns, +others were surmounted by the square stones of a gable. From the cracks +of the masonry the blooming honeysuckle-vines and red bell-flowers +trailed downwards. Other pillars—among the number some of rose-coloured +marble—lay shattered on the ground, and the costly marble head-pieces, +ornamented with beautiful sculpture, representing foliage and flowers, +were overgrown by rank creepers and grasses. Half buried in the earth +lay huge marble blocks, some of which were squares, such as were used +for the walls; others were three-cornered slabs for roof-pieces. Over +them waved a large, wild fig-tree, which had grown up out of the ruins. +Under the shadow of that tree, continued the young man, he had passed +whole hours in examining the strange figures carved on the large marble +blocks; they seemed to be pictorial representations of all sorts of +sports and combats, and were very pleasing to look at, but, alas! much +injured by exposure, and overgrown with moss and ivy. His father, whom +he had questioned in regard to the mysterious signification of these +pillars and sculptures, told him that these were the ruins of an ancient +pagan temple, and had once been the abode of a wicked heathen god, who +had here wantoned in lewd debauchery, incest, and unnatural vices. +Notwithstanding<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a> this, the unenlightened heathen were accustomed to +slaughter in his honour a hundred oxen at a time, and the hollowed +marble block into which was gathered the blood of the sacrifices was yet +in existence. It was, in fact, the very trough which they were in the +habit of using as a receptacle for refuse wherewith to feed the swine.</p> + +<p>So spoke the young sailor. But the old man heaved a sigh that betrayed +the most terrible anguish. Tottering, he sank into his stone chair, +covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. The great, gaunt +bird, with a shrill screech, flapped its immense wings, and menaced the +strangers with claws and beak. The old goat licked its master's hands, +and bleated mournfully as in consolation.</p> + +<p>At this strange sight, an uncanny terror seized upon the sailors: they +hurriedly left the hut, and were glad when they could no longer hear the +sobbing of the old man, the screaming of the bird, and the bleating of +the goat. When they were safely on board the boat, they narrated their +adventure. Among the crew was a learned Russian, professor of philosophy +at the university of Kazan; and he declared the matter to be highly +important. With his forefinger held knowingly to the side of his nose, +he assured the sailors that the old man of the island was undoubtedly +the ancient god Jupiter, son of Saturn and Rhea. The bird at his side +was clearly the eagle that once carried in its claws the terrible +thunderbolts. And the old goat was, in all probability, none other than +Althea, Jupiter's old nurse, who had suckled him in Crete, and now in +exile again nourished him with her milk.</p> + +<p>This is the story as told to me by Niels Andersen; and I must confess +that it filled my soul with a profound melancholy. Decay is secretly +undermining all that is<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a> great in the universe, and the gods themselves +must finally succumb to the same miserable destiny. The iron law of fate +so wills it, and even the greatest of the immortals must submissively +bow his head. He of whom Homer sang, and whom Phidias sculptured in gold +and ivory, he at whose glance earth trembled, he, the lover of Leda, +Alcmena, Semele, Danaë, Callisto, Io, Leto, Europa, etc.—even he is +compelled to hide himself behind the icebergs of the North Pole, and in +order to prolong his wretched existence must deal in rabbit-skins, like +a shabby Savoyard!</p> + +<p>I do not doubt that there are people who will derive a malicious +pleasure from such a spectacle. They are, perhaps, the descendants of +those unfortunate oxen who, in hecatombs, were slaughtered on the altars +of Jupiter. Rejoice! avenged is the blood of your ancestors, those poor +martyrs of superstition. But we, who have no hereditary grudge rankling +in us, we are touched at the sight of fallen greatness, and withhold not +our holiest compassion.<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CONFESSIONS" id="CONFESSIONS"></a>CONFESSIONS.</h3> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/bar.png" width="80" height="11" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[Heine wrote these <i>Confessions</i>, which form one of his most +characteristic works, in the winter of 1853-4. They were originally +intended to form part of the book on Germany. The translation here +given is Mr. Fleishman's, revised by collation with the original.]</p></div> + +<p class="nind">A <small>WITTY</small> Frenchman—a few years ago these words would have been a +pleonasm—once dubbed me an unfrocked Romanticist. I have a weakness for +all that is witty; and spiteful as was this appelation, it nevertheless +delighted me highly. Notwithstanding the war of extermination that I had +waged against Romanticism, I always remained a Romanticist at heart, and +that in a higher degree than I myself realised. After I had delivered +the most deadly blows against the taste for Romantic poetry in Germany, +there stole over me an inexpressible yearning for the blue flower in the +fairy-land of Romanticism, and I grasped the magic lyre and sang a song +wherein I gave full sway to all the sweet extravagances, to all the +intoxication of moonlight, to all the blooming, nightingale-like fancies +once so fondly loved. I know it was "the last free-forest song of +Romanticism,"<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> and I am its last poet. With me the old German lyric +school ends; while with me, at the same time, the modern lyric school of +Germany begins. Writers<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a> on German literature will assign to me this +double rôle. It would be unseemly for me to speak at length on this +subject, but I may with justice claim a liberal space in the history of +German Romanticism. For this reason I ought to have included in my +account of the Romantic school a review of my own writings. By my +omission to do this, a gap has been left which I cannot easily fill. To +write a criticism of one's self is an embarrassing, even an impossible +task. I should be a conceited coxcomb to obtrude the good I might be +able to say of myself, and I should be a great fool to proclaim to the +whole world the defects of which I might also be conscious. And even +with the most honest desire to be sincere, one cannot tell the truth +about oneself. No one has as yet succeeded in doing it, neither Saint +Augustine, the pious bishop of Hippo, nor the Genevese Jean Jacques +Rousseau—least of all the latter, who proclaimed himself the man of +truth and nature, but was really much more untruthful and unnatural than +his contemporaries.</p> + +<p>...Rousseau, who in his own person also slandered human nature, was yet +true to it in respect to our primitive weakness, which consists in +always wishing to appear in the eyes of the world as something different +from what we really are. His self-portraiture is a lie, admirably +executed, but still only a brilliant lie.</p> + +<p>I recently read an anecdote concerning the King of Ashantee, which +illustrates in a very amusing manner this weakness of human nature. When +Major Bowditch was despatched by the English Governor of the Cape of +Good Hope as resident ambassador to the court of that powerful African +monarch, he sought to ingratiate himself with the courtiers, especially +with the court-ladies, by taking their portraits. The king, who was +astonished at the accuracy<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a> of the likenesses, requested that he also +might be painted, and had already had several sittings, when the artist +noticed in the features of the king, who had often sprung up to observe +the progress of the picture, the peculiar restlessness and embarrassment +of one who has a request on the tip of his tongue and yet hesitates to +express it. The painter pressed his majesty to tell his wish, until at +last the poor African king inquired, in a low voice, if he could not be +painted white.</p> + +<p>And so it is. The swarthy negro king wishes to be painted white. But do +not laugh at the poor African: every human being is such another negro +king, and all of us would like to appear before the public in a +different colour from that which fate has given us. Fully realising +this, I took heed not to draw my own portrait in my review of the +Romantic school. But in the following pages I shall have ample occasion +to speak of myself, and this will to a certain extent fill up the gap +caused by the lacking portrait; for I have here undertaken to describe, +for the reader's benefit and enlightenment, the philosophical and +religious changes which have taken place in the author's mind since my +book on Germany was written.</p> + +<p>Fear not that I shall paint myself too white and my fellow-beings too +black. I shall always give my own colours with exact fidelity, so that +it may be known how far my judgment is to be trusted when I draw the +portraits of others.</p> + +<p>...Madame de Staël's hate of the Emperor is the soul of her book, <i>De +l'Allemagne</i>, and, although his name is nowhere mentioned, one can see +at every line how the writer squints at the Tuilleries. I doubt not that +the book annoyed the Emperor more than the most direct attack; for +nothing so much irritates a man as a woman's petty<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a> needle-pricks. We +are prepared for great sabre-strokes, and instead we are tickled at the +most sensitive spots.</p> + +<p>Oh, the women! we must forgive them much, for they love much—and many. +Their hate is, in fact, only love turned the wrong way. At times they +try to injure us, but only because they hope thereby to please some +other man. When they write, they have one eye on the paper and the other +on a man. This rule applies to all authoresses, with the exception of +Countess Hahn-Hahn, who only has one eye. We male authors have also our +prejudices. We write for or against something, for or against an idea, +for or against a party; but women always write for or against one +particular man, or, to express it more correctly, on account of one +particular man. We men will sometimes lie outright; women, like all +passive creatures, seldom invent, but can so distort a fact that they +can thereby injure us more surely than by a downright lie. I verily +believe my friend Balzac was right when he once said to me, in a +sorrowful tone, "<i>La femme est un être dangereux</i>."</p> + +<p>Yes, women are dangerous; but I must admit that beautiful women are not +so dangerous as those whose attractions are intellectual rather than +physical; for the former are accustomed to have men pay court to them, +while the latter meet the vanity of men half-way, and through the bait +of flattery acquire a more powerful influence than the beautiful women. +I by no means intend to insinuate that Madame de Staël was ugly; but +beauty is something quite different. She had single points which were +pleasing; but the effect as a whole was anything but pleasing. To +nervous persons, like the sainted Schiller, her custom of continually +twirling between her fingers some fragment of paper or similar small +article was particularly annoying. This habit made poor Schiller dizzy, +and in<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a> desperation he grasped her pretty hand to hold it quiet. This +innocent action led Madame de Staël to believe that the tender-hearted +poet was overpowered by the magic of her personal charms. I am told that +she really had very pretty hands and beautiful arms, which she always +displayed. Surely the Venus of Milo could not show such beautiful arms! +Her teeth surpassed in whiteness those of the finest steed of Araby. She +had very large, beautiful eyes, a dozen amorets would have found room on +her lips, and her smile is said to have been very sweet: therefore she +could not have been ugly,—no woman is ugly. But I venture to say that +had fair Helen of Sparta looked so, the Trojan War would not have +occurred, and the strongholds of Priam would not have been burned, and +Homer would never have sung the wrath of Pelidean Achilles.</p> + +<p>...In my Memoirs I relate with more detail than is admissible here how, +after the French Revolution of July 1830, I emigrated to Paris, where I +have ever since lived quiet and contented. What I did and suffered +during the Restoration will be told when the disinterestedness of such a +publication is no longer liable to doubt or suspicion. I worked much and +suffered much; and about the time that the sun of the July revolution +arose in France, I had gradually become very weary, and needed +recreation. Moreover, the air of my native land was daily becoming more +unwholesome for me, and I was compelled to contemplate seriously a +change of climate. I had visions: in the clouds I saw all sorts of +horrible, grotesque faces, that annoyed me with their grimaces. It +sometimes seemed to me as if the sun were a Prussian cockade. At night I +dreamed of a hideous black vulture that preyed on my liver; and became +very melancholy. In addition to all this, I had become acquainted with +an old magistrate from<a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a> Berlin who had spent many years in the fortress +of Spandau, and who described to me how unpleasant it was in winter to +wear iron manacles. I thought it very un-Christian not to warm the irons +a little, for if our chains were only warmed somewhat, they would not +seem so very unpleasant, and cold natures could even endure them very +well. The chains ought also to be perfumed with the essence of roses and +laurels, as is the custom in France. I asked my magistrate if oysters +were often served at Spandau. He answered, no; Spandau was too far +distant from the sea. Meat, also, he said, was seldom to be had, and the +only fowls were the flies which fell into one's soup. About the same +time I became acquainted with a commercial traveller of a French wine +establishment, who was never tired of praising the merry life of +Paris,—how the air was full of music, how from morning until night one +heard the singing of the "Marseillaise" and "En avant, marchons!" and +"Lafayette aux cheveux blancs." He told me that at every street-corner +was the inscription, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity." He likewise +recommended the champagne of his firm, and gave me a large number of +business cards. He also promised to furnish me with letters of +introduction to the best Parisian restaurants, in case I should visit +Paris. As I really did need recreation, and as Spandau was at too great +a distance from the sea to procure oysters, and as the fowl-soup of +Spandau was not to my taste, and as, moreover, the Prussian chains were +very cold in winter and could not be conducive to my health, I +determined to go to Paris, the fatherland of champagne and the +"Marseillaise," there to drink the former, and to hear the latter sung, +together with "En avant, marchons!" and "Lafayette aux cheveux blancs."</p> + +<p>I crossed the Rhine on May 1st, 1831. I did not see<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a> the old river-god, +father Rhine, so I contented myself with dropping my visiting card into +the water. I am told that he was sitting down below, conning his French +grammar; for during the Prussian rule his French had grown rusty from +long disuse, and now he wished to practice it anew, in order to be +prepared for contingencies. I thought I could hear him, conjugating, +"J'aime, tu aimes, il aime; nous aimons"—but what does he love? Surely +not the Prussians!</p> + +<p>I awoke at St. Denis from a sweet morning sleep, and heard for the first +time the shout of the driver, "Paris! Paris!" Here we already inhaled +the atmosphere of the capital, now visible on the horizon. A rascally +lackey tried to persuade me to visit the royal sepulchre at St. Denis; +but I had not come to France to see dead kings.... In twenty minutes I +was in Paris, entering through the triumphal arch of the Boulevard St. +Denis, which was originally erected in honour of Louis XIV., but now +served to grace my entry into Paris. I was surprised at meeting such +multitudes of well-dressed people, tastefully arrayed like the pictures +of a fashion-journal. I was also impressed by the fact that they all +spoke French, which, in Germany, is the distinguishing mark of the +higher classes; the whole nation are as noble as the nobility with us. +The men were all so polite, and the pretty women all smiled so +graciously. If some one accidentally jostled me without immediately +asking pardon, I could safely wager that it was a fellow-countryman. And +if a pretty woman looked a little sour, she had either eaten sauerkraut +or could read Klopstock in the original. I found everything quite +charming. The skies were so blue, the air so balmy, and here and there +the rays of the sun of July were still glimmering. The cheeks of the +beauteous Lutetea were still flushed from the<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a> burning kisses of that +sun, and the bridal flowers on her bosom were not yet wilted. But at the +street-corners the words, "Liberté, égalité, fraternité," had already +been erased. Honeymoons fly so quickly!</p> + +<p>I immediately visited the restaurants to which I had been recommended. +The landlords assured me that they would have made me welcome even +without letters of introduction, for I had an honest and distinguished +appearance, which in itself was a sufficient recommendation. Never did a +German landlord so address me, even if he thought it. Such a churlish +fellow feels himself in duty bound to suppress all pleasant speeches, +and his German bluntness demands that he shall tell only the most +disagreeable things to our faces. In the manner, and even in the +language, of the French, there is so much delicious flattery, which +costs so little, and is yet so gratifying. My poor sensitive soul, which +had shrunk with shyness from the rudeness of the fatherland, again +expanded under the genial influence of French urbanity. God has given us +tongues that we may say something pleasant to our fellow-men.</p> + +<p>My French had grown rusty since the battle of Waterloo, but after +half-an-hour's conversation with a pretty flower-girl in the Passage de +l'Opéra it soon flowed fluently again. I managed to stammer forth +gallant phrases in broken French, and explained to the little charmer +the Linnæan system, in which flowers are classified according to their +stamens. The little one practised a different system, and divided +flowers into those which smelled pleasantly and those which smelled +unpleasantly. I believe that she applied a similar classification to +men. She was surprised that, notwithstanding my youth, I was so learned, +and spread the fame of my erudition through the whole Passage de +l'Opéra. I inhaled with rapturous delight the delicious aroma of<a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a> +flattery, and amused myself charmingly. I walked on flowers, and many a +roasted pigeon came flying into my gaping mouth.</p> + +<p>...Among the notabilities whom I met soon after my arrival in Paris was +Victor Bohain; and I love to recall to memory the jovial, intellectual +form of him who did so much to dispel the clouds from the brow of the +German dreamer, and to initiate his sorrow-laden heart into the gaieties +of French life. He had at that time already founded the <i>Europe +Littéraire</i>, and, as editor, solicited me to write for his journal +several articles on Germany, after the <i>genre</i> of Madame de Staël. I +promised to furnish the articles, particularly mentioning, however, that +I should write them in a style quite different from that of Madame de +Staël. "That is a matter of indifference to me," was the laughing +answer; "like Voltaire, I tolerate every <i>genre</i>, excepting only the +<i>genre ennuyeux</i>." And in order that I, poor German, should not fall +into the <i>genre ennuyeux</i>, friend Bohain often invited me to dine with +him, and stimulated my brain with champagne. No one knew better than he +how to arrange a dinner at which one should not only enjoy the best +<i>cuisine</i>, but be most pleasantly entertained. No one could do the +honours of host as well as he; and he was certainly justified in +charging the stockholders of the <i>Europe Littéraire</i> with one hundred +thousand francs as the expense of these banquets. Even his wooden leg +contributed to the humour of the man, and when he hobbled around the +table, serving out champagne to his guests, he resembled Vulcan +performing the duties of Hebe's office amidst the uproarious mirth of +the assembled gods. Where is Victor Bohain now? I have heard nothing of +him for a long period. The last I saw of him was about ten years ago, at +an inn at Granville. He had<a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a> just come over from England, where he had +been studying the colossal English national debt, in this occupation +smothering the recollection of his own little personal debts, to this +little town on the coast of Normandy, and here I found him seated at a +table with a bottle of champagne and an open-mouthed, stupid-looking +citizen, to whom he was earnestly explaining a business project by +which, as Bohain eloquently demonstrated, a million could be realised. +Bohain always had a great fondness for speculation, and in all his +projects there was always a million in progress—never less than a +million. His friends nicknamed him, on this account, Messer Millione.</p> + +<p>...The founding of the <i>Europe Littéraire</i> was an excellent idea. Its +success seemed assured, and I have never been able to understand why it +failed. Only one evening before the day on which the suspension +occurred, Victor Bohain gave a brilliant ball in the editorial <i>salons</i> +of the journal, at which he danced with his three hundred stockholders, +just like Leonidas with his three hundred Spartans the day before the +battle of Thermopylæ. Every time that I behold in the gallery of the +Louvre the painting by David which portrays that scene of antique +heroism, I am reminded of the last ball of Victor Bohain. Just like the +death-defying king in David's picture, so stood Victor Bohain on his +solitary leg; it was the same classic pose. Stranger, when thou +strollest in Paris through the Chaussée d'Antin towards the Boulevards, +and findest thyself in the low-lying, filthy street that was once called +the Rue Basse du Rempart, know that thou standest at the Thermopylæ of +the <i>Europe Littéraire</i>, where Victor Bohain with his three hundred +stockholders so heroically fell.</p> + +<p><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>...In my articles on German philosophy I blabbed without reserve the +secrets of the schools, which, draped in scholastic formulas, were +previously known only to the initiated. My revelations excited the +greatest surprise in France, and I remember that leading French thinkers +naively confessed to me that they had always believed German philosophy +to be a peculiar mystic fog, behind which divinity lay hidden as in a +cloud, and that German philosophers were ecstatic seers, filled with +piety and the fear of God. It is not my fault that German philosophy is +just the reverse of that which until now we have called piety and fear +of God, and that our latest philosophers have proclaimed absolute +atheism to be the last word of German philosophy. Relentlessly and with +bacchantic recklessness they tore aside the blue curtain from the German +heavens, and cried, "Behold! all the gods have flown, and there above +sits only an old spinster with leaden hands and sorrowful +heart—Necessity."</p> + +<p>Alas! what then sounded so strange is now being preached from all the +house-tops in Germany, and the fanatic zeal of many of these +propagandists is terrible! We have now bigoted monks of atheism, +grand-inquisitors of infidelity, who would have bound Voltaire to the +stake because he was at heart an obstinate deist. So long as such +doctrines remained the secret possession of an intellectual aristocracy, +and were discussed in a select coterie-dialect which was +incomprehensible to the lackeys in attendance, while we at our +philosophical <i>petit-soupers</i> were blaspheming, so long did I continue +to be one of the thoughtless free-thinkers, of whom the majority +resembled those grand-seigneurs who, shortly before the Revolution, +sought by means of the new revolutionary ideas to dispel the tedium of +their indolent court-life. But as soon as I saw that the rabble began to +discuss the same themes<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a> at their unclean symposiums, where instead of +wax-candles and chandeliers gleamed tallow-dips and oil-lamps; when I +perceived that greasy cobblers and tailors presumed in their blunt +mechanics' speech to deny the existence of God; when atheism began to +stink of cheese, brandy, and tobacco—then my eyes were suddenly opened, +and that which I had not comprehended through reason, I now learned +through my olfactory organs and through my loathing and disgust. Heaven +be praised! my atheism was at an end.</p> + +<p>To be candid, it was perhaps not alone disgust that made the principles +of the godless obnoxious to me, and induced me to abandon their ranks. I +was oppressed by a certain worldly apprehension which I could not +overcome, for I saw that atheism had entered into a more or less secret +compact with the most terribly naked, quite fig-leafless, communistic +communism. My dread of the latter has nothing in common with that of the +parvenu, who trembles for his wealth, or with that of well-to-do +tradesmen, who fear an interruption of their profitable business. No; +that which disquiets me is the secret dread of the artist and scholar, +who sees our whole modern civilisation, the laboriously-achieved product +of so many centuries of effort, and the fruit of the noblest works of +our ancestors, jeopardised by the triumph of communism. Swept along by +the resistless current of generous emotions, we may perhaps sacrifice +the cause of art and science, even all our own individual interests, for +the general welfare of the suffering and oppressed people. But we can no +longer disguise from ourselves what we have to expect when the great, +rude masses, which by some are called the people, by others the rabble, +and whose legitimate sovereignty was proclaimed long ago, shall obtain +actual dominion. The poet, in<a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a> particular, experiences a mysterious +dread in contemplating the advent to power of this uncouth sovereign. We +will gladly sacrifice ourselves for the people, for self-sacrifice +constitutes one of our most exquisite enjoyments—the emancipation of +the people has been the great task of our lives; we have toiled for it, +and in its cause endured indescribable misery, at home as in exile—but +the poet's refined and sensitive nature revolts at every near personal +contact with the people, and still more repugnant is the mere thought of +its caresses, from which may Heaven preserve us! A great democrat once +remarked that if a king had taken him by the hand, he would immediately +have thrust it into the fire to purify it. In the same manner I would +say, if the sovereign people vouchsafed to press my hand, I would hasten +to wash it. The poor people is not beautiful, but very ugly; only that +ugliness simply comes from dirt, and will disappear as soon as we open +public baths, in which His Majesty may gratuitously bathe himself.</p> + +<p>...It required no great foresight to foretell these terrible events so +long before their occurrence. I could easily prophesy what songs would +one day be whistled and chirped in Germany, for I saw the birds hatching +that in after-days gave tone to the new school of song. I saw Hegel, +with his almost comically serious face, like a setting hen, brooding +over the fatal eggs; and I heard his cackling; to tell the truth, I +seldom understood him, and only through later reflection did I arrive at +an understanding of his works. I believe he did not wish to be +understood.</p> + +<p>...One beautiful starlight night, Hegel stood with me at an open window. +I, being a young man of twenty-two, and having just eaten well and drunk +coffee, naturally spoke with enthusiasm of the stars, and called them +abodes<a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a> of the blest. But the master muttered to himself, "The stars! +Hm! hm! the stars are only a brilliant eruption on the firmament." +"What!" cried I; "then there is no blissful spot above, where virtue is +rewarded after death?" But he, glaring at me with his dim eyes, +remarked, sneering, "So you want a <i>pourboire</i> because you have +supported your sick mother and not poisoned your brother?" At these +words he looked anxiously around, but was reassured when he saw that it +was only Henry Beer.</p> + +<p>...I was never an abstract thinker, and I accepted the synthesis of the +Hegelian philosophy without examination, because its deductions +flattered my vanity. I was young and arrogant, and it gratified my +self-conceit when I was informed by Hegel that not, as my grandmother +had supposed, He who dwelt in the heavens, but I myself, here on earth, +was God. This silly pride had, however, by no means an evil influence on +me. On the contrary, it awoke in me the heroic spirit, and at that +period I practiced a generosity and self-sacrifice which completely cast +into the shade the most virtuous and distinguished deeds of the good +<i>bourgeoisie</i> of virtue, who did good merely from a sense of duty and in +obedience to the laws of morality. I was myself the living moral law, +and the fountain-head of all right and all authority. I myself was +morality personified; I was incapable of sin, I was incarnated +purity.... I was all love, and incapable of hate. I no longer revenged +myself on my enemies; for, rightly considered, I had no enemies; at +least, I recognised none as such. For me there now existed only +unbelievers who questioned my divinity. Every indignity that they +offered me was a sacrilege, and their contumely was blasphemy. Such +godlessness, of course, I could not always let pass unpunished; but in +those cases it was not human revenge, but divine<a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a> judgment upon sinners. +Absorbed in this exalted practice of justice, I would repress with more +or less difficulty all ordinary pity. As I had no enemies, so also there +existed for me no friends, but only worshippers, who believed in my +greatness, and adored me, and praised my works, those written in verse +as well as those in prose. Towards this congregation of truly devout and +pious ones I was particularly gracious, especially towards the +young-lady devotees.</p> + +<p>But the expense of playing the rôle of a God, for whom it were unseemly +to go in tatters, and who is sparing neither of body nor of purse, is +immense. To play such a rôle respectably, two things are above all +requisite—much money and robust health. Alas! it happened that one day +[in February 1848] both these essentials failed me, and my divinity was +at an end. Luckily, the highly-respected public was at that time +occupied with events so dramatic, so grand, so fabulous and +unprecedented, that the change in the affairs of so unimportant a +personage as myself attracted but little attention. Unprecedented and +fabulous were indeed the events of those crazy February days, when the +wisdom of the wisest was brought to naught, and the chosen ones of +imbecility were raised aloft in triumph. The last became the first, and +the lowliest became the highest. Matter, like thought, was turned upside +down, and the world was topsy-turvy. If in those mad days I had been +sane, those events would surely have cost me my wits; but, lunatic as I +then was, the contrary necessarily came to pass, and, strange to say, +just in the days of universal madness I regained my reason! Like many +other divinities of that revolutionary period, I was compelled to +abdicate ignominiously, and to return to the lowly life of humanity. I +came back into the humble fold of God's creatures. I again bowed in +homage to the almighty<a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a> power of a Supreme Being, who directs the +destinies of this world, and who for the future shall also regulate my +earthly affairs. The latter, during the time I had been my own +Providence, had drifted into sad confusion, and I was glad to turn them +over to a celestial superintendent, who with his omniscience really +manages them much better. The belief in God has since then been to me +not only a source of happiness, but it has also relieved me from all +those annoying business cares which are so distasteful to me. This +belief has also enabled me to practice great economies; for I need no +longer provide either for myself or for others, and since I have joined +the ranks of the pious I contribute almost nothing to the support of the +poor. I am too modest to meddle, as formerly, with the business of +Divine Providence. I am no longer careful for the general good; I no +longer ape the Deity; and with pious humility I have notified my former +dependants that I am only a miserable human being, a wretched creature +that has naught more to do with governing the universe, and that in +future, when in need and affliction, they must apply to the Supreme +Ruler, who dwells in heaven, and whose budget is as inexhaustible as His +goodness—whereas I, a poor ex-god, was often compelled, even in the +days of my godhead, to seek the assistance of the devil. It was +certainly very humiliating for a god to have to apply to the devil for +aid, and I am heartily thankful to be relieved from my usurped glory. No +philosopher shall ever again persuade me that I am a god. I am only a +poor human creature, that is not over well; that is, indeed, very ill. +In this pitiable condition it is a true comfort to me that there is some +one in the heavens above to whom I can incessantly wail out the litany +of my sufferings, especially after midnight, when Mathilde has sought +the repose that she oft<a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a> sadly needs. Thank God! in such hours I am not +alone, and I can pray and weep without restraint; I can pour out my +whole heart before the Almighty, and confide to Him some things which +one is wont to conceal even from one's own wife.</p> + +<p>After the above confession, the kindly-disposed reader will easily +understand why I no longer found pleasure in my work on the Hegelian +philosophy. I saw clearly that its publication would benefit neither the +public nor the author. I comprehended that there is more nourishment for +famishing humanity in the most watery and insipid broth of Christian +charity than in the dry and musty spider-web of the Hegelian philosophy. +I will confess all. Of a sudden I was seized with a mortal terror of the +eternal flames. I know it is a mere superstition; but I was frightened. +And so, on a quiet winter's night, when a glowing fire was burning on my +hearth, I availed myself of the good opportunity, and cast the +manuscript of my work on the Hegelian philosophy into the flames. The +burning leaves flew up the chimney with a strange and hissing sound.</p> + +<p>Thank God! I was rid of it! Alas! would that I could destroy in the same +manner all that I have ever published concerning German philosophy! But +that is impossible, and since I cannot prevent their republication, as I +lately learned to my great regret, no other course remains but to +confess publicly that my exposition of German philosophy contains the +most erroneous and pernicious doctrines.</p> + +<p>...It is strange! during my whole life I have been strolling through the +various festive halls of philosophy, I have participated in all the +orgies of the intellect, I have coquetted with every possible system, +without being satisfied,<a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a> like Messalina after a riotous night; and now, +after all this, I suddenly find myself on the same platform whereon +stands Uncle Tom. That platform is the Bible, and I kneel by the side of +my dusky brother in faith with the same devotion.</p> + +<p>What humiliation! With all my learning, I have got no farther than the +poor ignorant negro who can hardly spell! It is even true that poor +Uncle Tom appears to see in the holy book more profound things than I, +who am not yet quite clear, especially in regard to the second part.</p> + +<p>...But, on the other hand, I think I may flatter myself that I can +better comprehend, in the first part of the holy book, the character of +Moses. His grand figure has impressed me not a little. What a colossal +form! I cannot imagine that Og, King of Bashan, could have looked more +giant-like. How insignificant does Sinai appear when Moses stands +thereon! That mountain is merely a pedestal for the feet of the man +whose head towers in the heavens and there holds converse with God. May +God forgive the sacrilegious thought! but sometimes it appears to me as +if this Mosaic God were only the reflected radiance of Moses himself, +whom he so strongly represents in wrath and in love. It were a sin, it +were anthropomorphism, to assume such an identity of God and his +prophet; but the resemblance is most striking.</p> + +<p>I had not previously much admired the character of Moses, probably +because the Hellenic spirit was predominant in me, and I could not +pardon the lawgiver of the Jews for his hate of the plastic arts. I +failed to perceive that Moses, notwithstanding his enmity to art, was +nevertheless himself a great artist, and possessed the true artistic +spirit. Only, this artistic spirit with him, as with his Egyptian +countrymen, was applied to the colossal and the<a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a> imperishable. But not, +like the Egyptians, did he construct his works of art from bricks and +granite, but he built human pyramids and carved human obelisks. He took +a poor shepherd tribe and from it created a nation which should defy +centuries; a great, an immortal, a consecrated race, a God-serving +people, who to all other nations should be as a model and prototype: he +created Israel.</p> + +<p>I have never spoken with proper reverence either of the artist or of his +work, the Jews; and for the same reason—namely, my Hellenic +temperament, which was opposed to Jewish asceticism. My prejudice in +favour of Hellas has declined since then. I see now that the Greeks were +only beautiful youths, but that the Jews were always men, strong, +unyielding men, not only in the past, but to this very day, in spite of +eighteen centuries of persecution and suffering. Since that time I have +learned to appreciate them better, and, were not all pride of ancestry a +silly inconsistency in a champion of the revolution and its democratic +principles, the writer of these pages would be proud that his ancestors +belonged to the noble house of Israel, that he is a descendant of those +martyrs who gave the world a God and a morality, and who have fought and +suffered on all the battle-fields of thought.</p> + +<p>The histories of the middle ages, and even those of modern times, have +seldom enrolled on their records the names of such knights of the Holy +Spirit, for they generally fought with closed visors. The deeds of the +Jews are just as little known to the world as is their real character. +Some think they know the Jews because they can recognise their beards, +which is all they have ever revealed of themselves. Now, as during the +middle ages, they remain a wandering mystery, a mystery that may perhaps +be solved on the day which the prophet foretells, when there shall be +but one<a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a> shepherd and one flock, and the righteous who have suffered for +the good of humanity shall then receive a glorious reward.</p> + +<p>You see that I, who in the past was wont to quote Homer, now quote the +Bible, like Uncle Tom. In truth, I owe it much. It again awoke in me the +religious feeling; and this new birth of religious emotion suffices for +the poet, for he can dispense far more easily than other mortals with +positive religious dogmas.</p> + +<p>...The silliest and most contradictory reports are in circulation +concerning me. Very pious but not very wise men of Protestant Germany +have urgently inquired if, now that I am ill and in a religious frame of +mind, I cling with more devotion than heretofore to the Lutheran +evangelic faith, which, until now, I have only professed after a +luke-warm, official fashion. No, dear friends, in that respect no change +has taken place in me, and if I continue to adhere to the evangelic +faith at all, it is because now, as in the past, that faith does not at +all inconvenience me. I will frankly avow that when I resided in Berlin, +like several of my friends, I would have preferred to separate myself +from the bonds of all denominations, had not the rulers there refused a +residence in Prussia, and especially in Berlin, to any who did not +profess one of the positive religions recognised by the State. As Henry +IV. once laughingly said, "Paris vaut bien une messe," so could I say, +with equal justice, "Berlin is well worth a sermon." Both before and +after, I could easily tolerate the very enlightened Christianity which +at that time was preached in some of the churches of Berlin. It was a +Christianity filtered from all superstition, even from the doctrine of +the divinity of Christ, like mock-turtle soup without turtle. At that +time I myself was still a god, and no one of the positive<a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a> religions had +more value for me than another. I could wear any of their uniforms out +of courtesy, after the manner of the Russian Emperor, who, when he +vouchsafes the King of Prussia the honour to attend a review at Potsdam, +appears uniformed as a Prussian officer of the guard.</p> + +<p>Now that my physical sufferings, and the reawakening of my religious +nature, have effected in me many changes, does the uniform of +Lutheranism in some measure express my true sentiments? How far has the +formal profession become a reality? I do not propose to give direct +answers to these questions, but I shall avail myself of the opportunity +to explain the services which, according to my present views, +Protestantism has rendered to civilisation. From this may be inferred +how much more I am now in sympathy with this creed.</p> + +<p>At an earlier period, when philosophy possessed for me a paramount +interest, I prized Protestantism only for its services in winning +freedom of thought, which, after all, is the foundation on which in +later times Leibnitz, Kant, and Hegel could build. Luther, the strong +man with the axe, must, in the very nature of things, have preceded +these warriors, to open a path for them. For this service I have +honoured the Reformation as being the beginning of German philosophy, +which justified my polemical defence of Protestantism. Now, in my later +and more mature days, when the religious feeling again surges up in me, +and the shipwrecked metaphysician clings fast to the Bible,—now I +chiefly honour Protestantism for its services in the discovery and +propagation of the Bible. I say "discovery," for the Jews, who had +preserved the Bible from the great conflagration of the sacred temple, +and all through the middle ages carried it about with them like a +portable fatherland, kept their treasure carefully concealed in their<a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a> +ghettos. Here came by stealth German scholars, the predecessors and +originators of the Reformation, to study the Hebrew language and thus +acquire the key to the casket wherein the precious treasure was +enclosed. Such a scholar was the worthy Reuchlinus; and his enemies, the +Hochstraaten, in Cologne, who are represented as the party of darkness +and ignorance, were by no means such simpletons. On the contrary, they +were far-sighted Inquisitors, who foresaw clearly the disasters which a +familiar acquaintance with the Holy Scriptures would bring on the +Church. Hence the persecuting zeal with which they sought to destroy the +Hebrew writings, at the same time inciting the rabble to exterminate the +Jews, the interpreters of these writings. Now that the motives of their +actions are known, we see that, properly considered, each was in the +right. This reactionary party believed that the spiritual salvation of +the world was endangered, and that all means, falsehood as well as +murder, were justifiable, especially against the Jews. The lower +classes, pinched by poverty, and heirs of the primeval curse, were +embittered against the Jews because of the wealth they had amassed; and +what to-day is called the hate of the proletariate against the rich, was +then called hate against the Jews. In fact, as the latter were excluded +from all ownership of land and from every trade, and relegated to +dealing in money and merchandise, they were condemned by law to be rich, +hated, and murdered. Such murders, it is true, were in these days +committed under the mantle of religion, and the cry was, "We must kill +those who once killed our God." How strange! The very people who had +given the world a God, and whose whole life was inspired by the worship +of God, were stigmatised as deicides! The bloody parody of such madness +was witnessed at the outbreak of the<a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a> revolution in San Domingo, where a +negro mob devastated the plantations with murder and fire, led by a +negro fanatic who carried an immense crucifix, amid bloodthirsty cries +of "The whites killed Christ; let us slay all whites!"</p> + +<p>Yes, to the Jews the world is indebted for its God and His word. They +rescued the Bible from the bankruptcy of the Roman empire, and preserved +the precious volume intact during all the wild tumults of the migration +of races, until Protestantism came to seek it and translated it into the +language of the land and spread it broadcast over the whole world. This +extensive circulation of the Bible has produced the most beneficent +fruits, and continues to do so to this very day. The propaganda of the +Bible Society have fulfilled a providential mission, which will bring +forth quite different results from those anticipated by the pious +gentlemen of the British Christian Missionary Society. They expect to +elevate a petty, narrow dogma to supremacy, and to monopolise heaven as +they do the sea, making it a British Church domain—and see, without +knowing it, they are demanding the overthrow of all Protestant sects; +for, as they all draw their life from the Bible, when the knowledge of +the Bible becomes universal, all sectarian distinctions will be +obliterated.</p> + +<p>While by tricks of trade, smuggling, and commerce the British gain +footholds in many lands, with them they bring the Bible, that grand +democracy wherein each man shall not only be king in his own house, but +also bishop. They are demanding, they are founding, the great kingdom of +the spirit, the kingdom of the religious emotions, and the love of +humanity, of purity, of true morality, which cannot be taught by +dogmatic formulas, but by parable and example, such as are contained in +that beautiful, sacred, educational book for young and old—the Bible.<a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a></p> + +<p>To the observant thinker it is a wonderful spectacle to view the +countries where the Bible, since the Reformation, has been exerting its +elevating influence on the inhabitants, and has impressed on them the +customs, modes of thought, and temperaments which formerly prevailed in +Palestine, as portrayed both in the Old and in the New Testament. In the +Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon sections of Europe and America, especially +among the Germanic races, and also to a certain extent in Celtic +countries, the customs of Palestine have been reproduced in so marked a +degree that we seem to be in the midst of the ancient Judean life. Take, +for example, the Scotch Protestants: are not they Hebrews, whose names +even are biblical, whose very cant smacks of the Phariseeism of ancient +Jerusalem, and whose religion is naught else than a pork-eating Judaism? +It is the same in Denmark and in certain provinces of North Germany, not +to mention the majority of the new sects of the United States, among +whom the life depicted in the Old Testament is pedantically aped. In the +latter, that life appears as if daguerreotyped: the outlines are +studiously correct, but all is depicted in sad, sombre colours; the +golden tints and harmonising colours of the promised land are lacking. +But the caricature will disappear sooner or later. The zeal, the +imperishable and the true—that is to say, the morality—of ancient +Judaism will in those countries bloom forth just as acceptably to God as +in the old time it blossomed on the banks of Jordan and on the heights +of Lebanon. One needs neither palm-trees nor camels to be good; and +goodness is better than beauty.</p> + +<p>The readiness with which these races have adopted the Judaic life, +customs, and modes of thought is, perhaps, not entirely attributable to +their susceptibility of culture. The cause of this phenomenon is, +perhaps, to be sought in the<a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a> character of the Jewish people, which +always had a marked elective affinity with the character of the +Germanic, and also to a certain extent with that of the Celtic races. +Judea has always seemed to me like a fragment of the Occident misplaced +in the Orient. In fact, with its spiritual faith, its severe, chaste, +even ascetic customs,—in short, with its abstract inner life,—this +land and its people always offered the most marked contrasts to the +population of neighbouring countries, who, with their luxuriantly varied +and fervent nature of worship, passed their existence in a Bacchantic +dance of the senses.</p> + +<p>At a time when, in the temples of Babylon, Nineveh, Sidon, and Tyre, +bloody and unchaste rites were celebrated, the description of which, +even now, makes our hair stand on end, Israel sat under its fig-trees, +piously chanting the praises of the invisible God, and exercised virtue +and righteousness. When we think of these surroundings we cannot +sufficiently admire the early greatness of Israel. Of Israel's love of +liberty, at a time when not only in its immediate vicinity, but also +among all the nations of antiquity, even among the philosophical Greeks, +the practice of slavery was justified and in full sway,—of this I will +not speak, for fear of compromising the Bible in the eyes of the powers +that be. No Socialist was more of a terrorist than our Lord and Saviour. +Even Moses was such a Socialist; although, like a practical man, he +attempted only to reform existing usages concerning property. Instead of +striving to effect the impossible, and rashly decreeing the abolition of +private property, he only sought for its moralisation by bringing the +rights of property into harmony with the laws of morality and reason. +This he accomplished by instituting the jubilee, at which period every +alienated heritage, which among an agricultural people always consisted<a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a> +of land, would revert to the original owner, no matter in what manner it +had been alienated. This institution offers the most marked contrast to +the Roman statute of limitations, by which, after the expiration of a +certain period, the actual holder of an estate could no longer be +compelled to restore the estate to the true owner, unless the latter +should be able to show that within the prescribed time he had, with all +the prescribed formalities, demanded restitution. This last condition +opened wide the door for chicanery, particularly in a state where +despotism and jurisprudence were at their zenith, and where the unjust +possessor had at command all means of intimidation, especially against +the poor who might be unable to defray the expense of litigation. The +Roman was both soldier and lawyer, and that which he conquered with the +strong arm he knew how to defend by the tricks of law. Only a nation of +robbers and casuists could have invented the law of prescription, the +statute of limitations, and consecrated it in that detestable book which +may be called the bible of the Devil—I mean the codex of Roman civil +law, which, unfortunately, still holds sway.</p> + +<p>I have spoken of the affinity which exists between the Jews and the +Germans, whom I once designated as the two pre-eminently moral nations. +While on this subject, I desire to direct attention to the ethical +disapprobation with which the ancient German law stigmatises the statute +of limitations: this I consider a noteworthy fact. To this very day the +Saxon peasant uses the beautiful and touching aphorism, "A hundred years +of wrong do not make a single year of right."</p> + +<p>The Mosaic law, through the institution of the jubilee year, protests +still more decidedly. Moses did not seek to abolish the right of +property; on the contrary, it was<a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a> his wish that everyone should possess +property, so that no one might be tempted by poverty to become a +bondsman and thus acquire slavish propensities. Liberty was always the +great emancipator's leading thought, and it breathes and glows in all +his statutes concerning pauperism. Slavery itself he bitterly, almost +fiercely, hated; but even this barbarous institution he could not +entirely destroy. It was rooted so deeply in the customs of that ancient +time that he was compelled to confine his efforts to ameliorating by law +the condition of the slaves, rendering self-purchase by the bondsman +less difficult, and shortening the period of bondage.</p> + +<p>But if a slave thus eventually freed by process of law declined to +depart from the house of bondage, then, according to the command of +Moses, the incorrigibly servile, worthless scamp was to be nailed by the +ear to the gate of his master's house, and after being thus publicly +exposed in this disgraceful manner, he was condemned to life-long +slavery. Oh, Moses! our teacher, Rabbi Moses! exalted foe of all +slavishness! give me hammer and nails that I may nail to the gate of +Brandenburg our complacent, long-eared slaves in liveries of +black-red-and-gold.</p> + +<p>I leave the ocean of universal religious, moral, and historical +reflections, and modestly guide my bark of thought back again into the +quiet inland waters of autobiography, in which the author's features are +so faithfully reflected.</p> + +<p>In the preceding pages I have mentioned how Protestant voices from home, +in very indiscreet questions, have taken for granted that with the +reawakening in me of the religious feeling my sympathy for the Church +had also grown stronger. I know not how clearly I have shown that I am +not particularly enthusiastic for any dogma or for any creed; and in +this respect I have remained the same that<a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a> I always was. I repeat this +statement in order to remove an error in regard to my present views, +into which several of my friends who are zealous Catholics have fallen. +How strange! at the same time that in Germany Protestantism bestowed on +me the undeserved honour of crediting me with a conversion to the +evangelic faith, another report was circulating that I had gone over to +Catholicism. Some good souls went so far as to assert that this latter +conversion had occurred many years ago, and they supported this +statement by definitely naming time and place. They even mentioned the +exact date; they designated by name the church in which I had abjured +the heresy of Protestantism, and adopted the only true and saving faith, +that of the Roman Catholic Apostolic Church. The only detail that was +lacking was how many peals of the bell had been sounded at this +ceremony.</p> + +<p>From the newspapers and letters that reach me I learn how widely this +report has won credence; and I fall into a painful embarrassment when I +think of the sincere, loving joy which is so touchingly expressed in +some of these epistles. Travellers tell me that the salvation of my soul +has even furnished a theme for pulpit eloquence. Young Catholic priests +seek permission to dedicate to me the first fruits of their pen. I am +regarded as a shining light—that is to be—of the Church. This pious +folly is so well meant and sincere that I cannot laugh at it. Whatever +may be said of the zealots of Catholicism, one thing is certain: they +are no egotists; they take a warm interest in their fellow-men—alas! +often a little too warm an interest. I cannot ascribe that false report +to malice, but only to mistake. The innocent facts were in this case +surely distorted by accident only. The statement of time and place is +quite correct. I was really in the designated<a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a> church on the designated +day, and I did there undergo a religious ceremony; but this ceremony was +no hateful abjuration, but a very innocent conjugation. In short, after +being married according to the civil law, I also invoked the sanction of +the Church, because my wife, who is a strict Catholic, would not have +considered herself properly married in the eyes of God without such a +ceremony; and for no consideration would I shake this dear being's +belief in the religion which she has inherited.</p> + +<p>It is well, moreover, that women should have a positive religion. +Whether there is more fidelity among wives of the evangelic faith, I +shall not attempt to discuss. But the Catholicism of the wife certainly +saves the husband from many annoyances. When Catholic women have +committed a fault, they do not secretly brood over it, but confess to +the priest, and as soon as they have received absolution they are again +as merry and light-hearted as before. This is much pleasanter than +spoiling the husband's good spirits or his soup by downcast looks or +grieving over a sin for which they hold themselves in duty bound to +atone during their whole lives by shrewish prudery and quarrelsome +excess of virtue. The confessional is likewise useful in another +respect. The sinner does not keep her terrible secret preying on her +mind; and since women are sure, sooner or later, to babble all they +know, it is better that they should confide certain matters to their +confessor than that they should, in some moment of overpowering +tenderness, talkativeness, or remorse, blurt out to the poor husband the +fatal confession.</p> + +<p>Scepticism is certainly dangerous in the married state, and, although I +myself was a free-thinker, I permitted no word derogatory to religion to +be spoken in my house. In the midst of Paris I lived like a steady, +commonplace<a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a> townsman; and therefore when I married I desired to be +wedded under the sanction of the Church, although in this country the +civil marriage is fully recognised by society. My free-thinking friends +were vexed at me for this, and overwhelmed me with reproaches, claiming +that I had made too great concessions to the clergy. Their chagrin at my +weakness would have been still greater had they known the other +concessions that I had made to the hated priesthood. As I was a +Protestant wedding a Catholic, in order to have the ceremony performed +by a Catholic priest it was necessary to obtain a special dispensation +from the archbishop, who in these cases exacts from the husband a +written pledge that the offspring of the marriage shall be educated in +the religion of the mother. But, between ourselves, I could sign this +pledge with the lighter conscience since I knew the rearing of children +is not my specialty, and as I laid down my pen the words of the +beautiful Ninon de L'Enclos came into my mind—"O, le beau billet qu' a +Lechastre!"</p> + +<p>...I will crown my confessions by admitting that, if at that time it had +been necessary in order to obtain the dispensation of the archbishop, I +would have bound over not only the children but myself. But the ogre of +Rome, who, like the monster in the fairy tales, stipulates that he shall +have for his services the future births, was content with the poor +children who were never born. And so I remained a Protestant, as +before—a protesting Protestant; and I protest against reports which, +without being intended to be defamatory, may yet be magnified so as to +injure my good name.</p> + +<p>...There is not a particle of unkindly feeling in my breast against the +poor ogre of Rome. I have long since abandoned all feuds with +Catholicism, and the sword which I once drew in the service of an idea, +and not from private<a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a> grudge, has long rested in its scabbard. In that +contest I resembled a soldier of fortune, who fights bravely, but after +the battle bears no malice either against the defeated cause or against +its champions.</p> + +<p>Fanatical enmity towards the Catholic Church cannot be charged against +me, for there was always lacking in me the self-conceit which is +necessary to sustain such an animosity. I know too well my own +intellectual calibre not to be aware that with my most furious +onslaughts I could inflict but little injury on a colossus such as the +Church of St. Peter. I could only be a humble worker at the slow removal +of its foundation stones, a task which may yet require centuries. I was +too familiar with history not to recognise the gigantic nature of that +granite structure. Call it, if you will, the bastile of intellect; +assert, if you choose, that it is now defended only by invalids; but it +is therefore not the less true that the bastile is not to be easily +captured, and many a young recruit will break his head against its +walls.</p> + +<p>As a thinker and as a metaphysician, I was always forced to pay the +homage of my admiration to the logical consistency of the doctrines of +the Roman Catholic Church, and I may also take credit to myself that I +have never by witticism or ridicule attacked its dogmas or its public +worship. Too much and too little honour has been vouchsafed me in +calling me an intellectual kinsman of Voltaire. I was always a poet; and +hence the poesy which blossoms and glows in the symbolism of Catholic +dogma and culture must have revealed itself more profoundly to me than +to ordinary observers, and in my youthful days I was often touched by +the infinite sweetness, the mysterious, blissful ecstasy and +awe-inspiring grandeur of that poetry. There was a time when I went into +raptures over the blessed<a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a> Queen of Heaven, and in dainty verse told the +story of her grace and goodness. My first collection of poems shows +traces of this beautiful Madonna period, which in later editions I +weeded out with laughable anxiety.</p> + +<p>The time for vanity has passed, and everyone is at liberty to smile at +this confession.</p> + +<p>It will be unnecessary for me to say that, as no blind hate against the +Catholic Church exists in me, so also no petty spite against its priests +rankles in my heart. Whoever knows my satirical vein will surely bear +witness that I was always lenient and forbearing in speaking of the +human weaknesses of the clergy, although by their attacks they often +provoked in me a spirit of retaliation. But even at the height of my +wrath I was always respectful to the true priesthood; for, looking back +into the past, I remembered benefits which they had once rendered me; +for it is Catholic priests whom I must thank for my first instruction; +it was they who guided the first steps of my intellect.</p> + +<p>Pedagogy was the specialty of the Jesuits, and although they sought to +pursue it in the interest of their order, yet sometimes the passion for +pedagogy itself, the only human passion that was left in them, gained +the mastery; they forgot their aim, the repression of reason and the +exaltation of faith, and, instead of reducing men to a state of +childhood, as was their purpose, out of the children they involuntarily +made men by their instruction. The greatest men of the Revolution were +educated in Jesuit schools. Without the training there acquired, that +great intellectual agitation would perhaps not have broken out till a +century later.</p> + +<p>Poor Jesuit fathers! You have been the bugbear and the scapegoat of the +liberals. The danger that was in you was understood, but not your +merits. I could never join in the denunciations of my comrades, who at +the mere mention of<a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a> Loyola's name would always become furious, like +bulls when a red cloth is held before them. It is certainly noteworthy, +and may perhaps at the assizes in the valley of Jehoshaphat be set down +as an extenuating circumstance, that even as a lad I was permitted to +attend lectures on philosophy. This unusual favour was exceptional in my +case, because the rector Schallmeyer was a particular friend of our +family. This venerable man often consulted with my mother in regard to +my education and future career, and once advised her, as she afterwards +related to me, to devote me to the service of the Catholic Church, and +send me to Rome to study theology. He assured her that through his +influential friends in Rome he could advance me to an important position +in the Church. But at that time my mother dreamed of the highest worldly +honours for me. Moreover, she was a disciple of Rousseau, and a strict +deist. Besides, she did not like the thought of her son being robed in +one of those long black cassocks, such as are worn by Catholic priests, +and in which they look so plump and awkward. She knew not how +differently, how gracefully, a Roman <i>abbate</i> wears such a cassock, and +how jauntily he flings over his shoulders the black silk mantle, which +in Rome, the ever-beautiful, is the uniform of gallantry and wit.</p> + +<p>Oh, what a happy mortal is such a Roman <i>abbate</i>! He serves not only the +Church of Christ, but also Apollo and the Muses, whose favourite he is. +The Graces hold his inkstand for him when he indites the sonnets which, +with such delicate cadences, he reads in the Accademia degli Arcadi. He +is a connoisseur of art, and needs only to taste the lips of a young +songstress in order to be able to foretell whether she will some day be +a celeberrima cantatrice, a diva, a world-renowned prima-donna. He +understands antiquities, and will write a treatise in the choicest<a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a> +Ciceronian Latin concerning some newly-unearthed torso of a Grecian +Bacchante, reverentially dedicating it to the supreme head of +Christendom, to the Pontifex Maximus, for so he addresses him. And what +a judge of painting is the Signor <i>Abbate</i>, who visits the painters in +their ateliers and directs their attention to the fine points of their +female models! The writer of these pages had in him just the material +for such an <i>abbate</i>, and was just suited for strolling in delightful +<i>dolce far niente</i> through the libraries, art galleries, churches, and +ruins of the Eternal City, studying among pleasures, and seeking +pleasure while studying. I would have read mass before the most select +audiences, and during Holy Week I would have mounted the pulpit as a +preacher of strict morality,—of course even then never degenerating +into ascetic rudeness. The Roman ladies, in particular, would have been +greatly edified, and through their favour and my own merit I would, +perhaps, have risen eventually to high rank in the hierarchy of the +Church. I would, perhaps, have become a monsignore, a violet-stocking; +perhaps even a cardinal's red hat might have fallen on my head. The +proverb says—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"There is no priestling, how small soe'er he be,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">That does not wish himself a Pope to be."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>And so it might have come to pass that I should attain the most exalted +position of all, for, although I am not naturally ambitious, I would yet +not have refused the nomination for Pope, had the choice of the conclave +fallen on me. It is, at all events, a very respectable office, and has a +good income attached to it; and I do not doubt that I could have +discharged the duties of my position with the requisite address. I would +have seated myself composedly on the throne of St. Peter, presenting my +toe for the kisses<a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a> of all good Christians, the priests as well as the +laity. With a becoming dignity I would have let myself be carried in +triumph through the pillared halls of the great basilica, and only when +it tottered very threateningly would I have clung to the arms of the +golden throne, which is borne on the shoulders of six stalwart camerieri +in crimson uniform. By their side walk bald-headed monks of the Capuchin +order, carrying burning torches. Then follow lackeys in gala dress, +bearing aloft immense fans of peacocks' feathers, with which they gently +fan the Prince of the Church. It is all just like Horace Vernet's +beautiful painting of such a procession. With a like imperturbable +sacerdotal gravity—for I can be very serious if it be absolutely +necessary—from the lofty Lateran I would have pronounced the annual +benediction over all Christendom. Here, standing on the balcony, <i>in +pontificalibus</i> and with the triple crown upon my head, surrounded by my +scarlet-hatted cardinals and mitred bishops, priests in suits of gold +brocade and monks of every hue, I would have presented my holiness to +the view of the swarming multitudes below, who, kneeling and with bowed +heads, extended farther than the eye could reach; and I could composedly +have stretched out my hands and blessed the city and the world.</p> + +<p>But, as thou well knowest, gentle reader, I have not become a Pope, nor +a cardinal, nor even a papal nuncio. In the spiritual as well as in the +worldly hierarchy I have attained neither office nor rank; I have +accomplished nothing in this beautiful world; nothing has become of +me—nothing but a poet.</p> + +<p>But no, I will not feign a hypocritical humility, I will not depreciate +that name. It is much to be a poet, especially to be a great lyric poet, +in Germany, among a people who in two things—in philosophy and in +poetry—have surpassed<a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a> all other nations. I will not with a sham +modesty—the invention of worthless vagabonds—depreciate my fame as a +poet. None of my countrymen have won the laurel at so early an age; and +if my colleague, Wolfgang Goethe, complacently writes that "the Chinese +with trembling hand paints Werther and Lotte on porcelain," I can, if +boasting is to be in order, match his Chinese fame with one still more +legendary, for I have recently learned that my poems have been +translated into the Japanese language.</p> + +<p>...But at this moment I am as indifferent to my Japanese fame as to my +renown in Finland. Alas! fame, once sweet as sugared pine-apple and +flattery, has for a long time been nauseous to me; it tastes as bitter +to me now as wormwood. With Romeo, I can say, "I am the fool of +fortune." The bowl stands filled before me, but I lack a spoon. What +does it avail me that at banquets my health is pledged in the choicest +wines, and drunk from golden goblets, when I, myself, severed from all +that makes life pleasant, may only wet my lips with an insipid potion? +What does it avail me that enthusiastic youths and maidens crown my +marble bust with laurel-wreaths, if meanwhile the shrivelled fingers of +an aged nurse press a blister of Spanish flies behind the ears of my +actual body. What does it avail me that all the roses of Shiraz so +tenderly glow and bloom for me? Alas! Shiraz is two thousand miles away +from the Rue d'Amsterdam, where, in the dreary solitude of my sick-room, +I have nothing to smell, unless it be the perfume of warmed napkins. +Alas! the irony of God weighs heavily upon me! the great Author of the +universe, the Aristophanes of Heaven, wished to show the petty, earthly, +so-called German Aristophanes that his mightiest sarcasms are but feeble +banter compared with His, and how immeasurably he excels me in humour +and in colossal wit.<a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a></p> + +<p>Yes, the mockery which the Master has poured out over me is terrible, +and horribly cruel is His sport. Humbly do I acknowledge His +superiority, and I prostrate myself in the dust before Him. But, +although I lack such supreme creative powers, yet in my spirit also the +eternal reason flames brightly, and I may summon even the wit of God +before its forum, and subject it to a respectful criticism. And here I +venture to offer most submissively the suggestion that the sport which +the Master has inflicted on the poor pupil is rather too long drawn out: +it has already lasted over six years, and after a time becomes +monotonous. Moreover, if I may take the liberty to say it, in my humble +opinion the jest is not new, and the great Aristophanes of Heaven has +already used it on a former occasion, and has, therefore, been guilty of +plagiarism on His own exalted self. In order to prove this assertion, I +will quote a passage from the Chronicle of Lüneberg. This chronicle is +very interesting for those who seek information concerning the manners +and customs of Germany during the middle ages. As in a fashion-journal, +it describes the wearing-apparel of both sexes which was in vogue at +each particular period. It also imparts information concerning the +popular ballads of the day, and quotes the opening lines of several of +them. Among others, it records that during the year 1480 there were +whistled and sung throughout all Germany certain songs, which for +sweetness and tenderness surpassed any previously known in German lands. +Young and old, and the women in particular, were quite bewitched by +these ballads, which might be heard the livelong day. But these songs, +so the chronicle goes on to say, were composed by a young priest who was +afflicted with leprosy, and lived a forlorn, solitary life, secluded +from all the world. You are surely aware, dear reader, what a horrible +disease leprosy<a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a> was during the middle ages, and how the wretched beings +afflicted with this incurable malady were driven out from all society +and from the abodes of men, and were forbidden to approach any human +being. Living corpses, they wandered to and fro, muffled from head to +foot, a hood drawn over the face, and carrying in the hand a bell, the +Lazarus-bell, as it was called, through which they were to give timely +warning of their approach, so that every one could get out of the way in +time. The poor priest whose fame as a lyric poet the chronicle praised +so highly was such a leper; and while all Germany, shouting and +jubilant, sang and whistled his songs, he, a wretched outcast, in the +desolation of his misery sat sorrowful and alone.</p> + +<p>Oh, that fame was the old, familiar scorn, the cruel jest of God, the +same as in my case, although there it appears in the romantic garb of +the middle ages. The <i>blasé</i> king of Judea said rightly, There is no new +thing under the sun. Perhaps that sun itself, which now beams so +imposingly, is only an old warmed-up jest.</p> + +<p>Sometimes among the gloomy phantasms that visit me at night I seem to +see before me the poor priest of the Lüneberg Chronicle, my brother in +Apollo, and his sorrowful eyes stare strangely out of his hood; but +almost at the same moment it vanishes, and, faintly dying away, like the +echo of a dream, I hear the jarring tones of the Lazarus-bell.</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c">Printed<span class="ov"> <i>by</i> W<small>ALTER</small> S<small>COTT</small>, </span><i><span class="ov">Felling, Newcastle-upon</span>-Tyne.</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cb"><big><big><big>The Canterbury Poets.</big></big></big></p> + +<p class="nind"><i>In</i> SHILLING <i>Monthly Volumes, Square 8vo. Well printed on fine toned +paper, with Red-line Border, and strongly bound in Cloth. Each Volume +contains from 300 to 350 pages. With Introductory Notices by</i> <span class="smcap">WILLIAM +SHARP</span>, <span class="smcap">MATHILDE BLIND</span>, <span class="smcap">WALTER LEWIN</span>, <span class="smcap">JOHN HOGBEN</span>, <span class="smcap">A. J. SYMINGTON</span>, +<span class="smcap">JOSEPH SKIPSEY</span>, <span class="smcap">EVA HOPE</span>, <span class="smcap">JOHN RICHMOND</span>, <span class="smcap">ERNEST RHYS</span>, <span class="smcap">PERCY E. +PINKERTON</span>, <span class="smcap">MRS. GARDEN</span>, <span class="smcap">DEAN CARRINGTON</span>, <span class="smcap">DR. J. BRADSHAW</span>, <span class="smcap">FREDERICK +COOPER</span>, <span class="smcap">HON. RODEN NOEL</span>, <span class="smcap">J. ADDINGTON SYMONDS</span>, <span class="smcap">G. WILLIS COOKE</span>, <span class="smcap">ERIC +MACKAY</span>, <span class="smcap">ERIC S. ROBERTSON</span>, <span class="smcap">WILLIAM TIREBUCK</span>, <span class="smcap">STUART J. REID</span>, <span class="smcap">MRS. +FREILIGRATH KROEKER</span>, <span class="smcap">J. LOGIE ROBERTSON</span>, M.A. <span class="smcap">SAMUEL WADDINGTON</span>, <i>etc., +etc.</i></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="2" summary=""> +<tr><td align="left"><i>Cloth, Red Edges</i></td><td align="left">-</td><td align="left">1s.</td><td align="left"><i>Red Roan, Gilt Edges</i></td><td align="left">2s. 6d.</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><i>Cloth, Uncut Edges</i></td><td align="left">-</td><td align="left">1s.</td><td align="left"><i>Silk Plush, Gilt Edges</i></td><td align="left">4s. 6d.</td></tr> +</table> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c"><i>THE FOLLOWING VOLUMES ARE NOW READY</i>.</p> + +<p class="nind"> +<b>CHRISTIAN YEAR</b>.<br /> +By Rev. John Keble.<br /> +<br /> +<b>COLERIDGE</b>.<br /> +Edited by Joseph Skipsey.<br /> +<br /> +<b>LONGFELLOW</b>.<br /> +Edited by Eva Hope.<br /> +<br /> +<b>CAMPBELL</b>. Edited by J. Hogben.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SHELLEY</b>. Edited by J. Skipsey.<br /> +<br /> +<b>WORDSWORTH</b>.<br /> +Edited by A. J. Symington.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BLAKE</b>. Edited by Joseph Skipsey.<br /> +<br /> +<b>WHITTIER</b>. Edited by Eva Hope.<br /> +<br /> +<b>POE</b>. Edited by Joseph Skipsey.<br /> +<br /> +<b>CHATTERTON</b>.<br /> +Edited by John Richmond.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BURNS</b>. Poems.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BURNS</b>. Songs.<br /> +Edited by Joseph Skipsey.<br /> +<br /> +<b>MARLOWE</b>.<br /> +Edited by P. E. Pinkerton.<br /> +<br /> +<b>KEATS</b>. Edited by John Hogben.<br /> +<br /> +<b>HERBERT</b>.<br /> +Edited by Ernest Rhys.<br /> +<br /> +<b>VICTOR HUGO</b>.<br /> +Translated by Dean Carrington.<br /> +<br /> +<b>COWPER</b>. Edited by Eva Hope.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SHAKESPEARE</b>:<br /> +<b>Songs, Poems, and Sonnets</b>.<br /> +Edited by William Sharp.<br /> +<br /> +<b>EMERSON</b>. Edited by W. Lewin.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SONNETS of this CENTURY</b>.<br /> +Edited by William Sharp.<br /> +<br /> +<b>WHITMAN</b>. Edited by E. Rhys.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SCOTT</b>. Marmion, etc.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SCOTT</b>. Lady of the Lake, etc.<br /> +Edited by William Sharp.<br /> +<br /> +<b>PRAED</b>. Edited by Fred. Cooper.<br /> +<br /> +<b>HOGG</b>.<br /> +By his Daughter, Mrs. Garden.<br /> +<br /> +<b>GOLDSMITH</b>.<br /> +Edited by William Tirebuck.<br /> +<br /> +<b>LOVE LETTERS OF A<br /> +VIOLINIST</b>. By Erin Mackay.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SPENSER</b>.<br /> +Edited by Hon. Roden Noel.<br /> +<br /> +<b>CHILDREN OF THE POETS</b>.<br /> +Edited by Eric S. Robertson.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BEN JONSON</b>.<br /> +Edited by J. A. Symonds.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BYRON</b> (2 Vols.)<br /> +Edited by Mathilde Blind.<br /> +<br /> +<b>THE SONNETS OF EUROPE</b>.<br /> +Edited by S. Waddington.<br /> +<br /> +<b>ALLAN RAMSAY</b>.<br /> +Edited by J. Logie Robertson.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SYDNEY DOBELL</b>.<br /> +Edited by Mrs. Dobell.<br /> +<br /> +<b>POPE</b>. Edited by John Hogben.<br /> +<br /> +<b>HEINE</b>. Edited by Mrs. Kroeker.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BEAUMONT & FLETCHER</b>.<br /> +Edited by J. S. Fletcher.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BOWLES, LAMB, AND<br /> +HARTLEY COLERIDGE</b>.<br /> +Edited by William Tirebuck.<br /> +<br /> +<b>EARLY ENGLISH POETRY</b>.<br /> +Edited by H. Macaulay Fitzgibbon.<br /> +<br /> +<b>SEA MUSIC</b>.<br /> +Edited by Mrs. Sharp.<br /> +<br /> +<b>HERRICK</b>. Edited by Ernest Rhys.<br /> +<br /> +<b>BALLADES AND RONDEAUS</b>.<br /> +Edited by J. Gleeson White.<br /> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="c"><i>MONTHLY SHILLING VOLUMES</i>.</p> + +<p class="c"><big><big>THE CAMELOT SERIES.</big></big></p> + +<p class="c"><i>ALREADY ISSUED</i>—</p> + +<p>ROMANCE OF KING ARTHUR. Edited by E. Rhys.</p> + +<p>THOREAU'S WALDEN. Edited by W. H. Dircks.</p> + +<p>CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER. Edited by William Sharp.</p> + +<p>LANDOR'S CONVERSATIONS. Edited by H. Ellis.</p> + +<p>PLUTARCH'S LIVES. Edited by B. J. Snell, M.A.</p> + +<p>SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI, etc. Edited by J. Addington Symonds.</p> + +<p>SHELLEY'S ESSAYS AND LETTERS. Edited by Ernest Rhys.</p> + +<p>PROSE WRITINGS OF SWIFT. Edited by W. Lewin.</p> + +<p>MY STUDY WINDOWS. Edited by R. Garnett, LL.D.</p> + +<p>GREAT ENGLISH PAINTERS. Edited by W. Sharp.</p> + +<p>LORD BYRON'S LETTERS. Edited by M. Blind.</p> + +<p>ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT. Edited by A. Symons.</p> + +<p>LONGFELLOW'S PROSE. Edited by W. Tirebuck.</p> + +<p>GREAT MUSICAL COMPOSERS. Edited, with Introduction, by Mrs. Sharp.</p> + +<p>MARCUS AURELIUS. Edited by Alice Zimmern.</p> + +<p>SPECIMEN DAYS IN AMERICA. By Walt Whitman.</p> + +<p>WHITE'S NATURAL HISTORY of SELBORNE. Edited, with Introduction, by +Richard Jefferies.</p> + +<p>DEFOE'S CAPTAIN SINGLETON. Edited, with Introduction, by H. Halliday +Sparling.</p> + +<p>ESSAYS: Literary and Political. By Joseph Mazzini. With Introduction by +William Clarke.</p> + +<p>THE PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINRICH HEINE. With Introduction by Havelock +Ellis.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="c"><i>MONTHLY SHILLING VOLUMES</i>.</p> + +<p class="c"><big><big>GREAT WRITERS.</big></big></p> + +<p class="c"><big>A NEW SERIES OF CRITICAL BIOGRAPHIES.</big></p> + +<p class="c">Edited by Professor E. S. ROBERTSON.</p> + +<p class="c"><i>ALREADY ISSUED</i>—</p> + +<p>LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. <span class="smcap">BY PROFESSOR</span> ERIC S. ROBERTSON.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"The story of the poet's life is well told.... The remarks on +Longfellow as a translator are excellent."—<i>Saturday Review</i>.</p> + +<p>"No better life of Longfellow has been published."—<i>Glasgow +Herald</i>.</p></div> + +<p>LIFE OF COLERIDGE. By HALL CAINE.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The <i>Scotsman</i> says—"It is a capital book.... Written throughout +with spirit and great literary skill. The bibliography is unusually +full, and adds to the value of the work."</p></div> + +<p>LIFE OF DICKENS. <span class="smcap">BY</span> FRANK T. MARZIALS.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"An interesting and well-written biography."—<i>Scotsman</i>.</p></div> + +<p>LIFE OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. <span class="smcap">BY</span> JOSEPH KNIGHT.</p> + +<p>LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. <span class="smcap">BY</span> COL. F. GRANT.</p> + +<p>LIFE OF DARWIN. <span class="smcap">BY</span> G. T. BETTANY.</p> + +<p>CHARLOTTE BRONTË. By AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.</p> + +<p>LIFE OF THOMAS CARLYLE. <span class="smcap">BY</span> RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.</p> + +<p>LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. <span class="smcap">BY</span> R. B. HALDANE, M.P.</p> + +<p><i>Ready September 26th</i>.</p> + +<p>LIFE OF KEATS. <span class="smcap">BY</span> W. M. ROSSETTI.</p> + +<p><i>To be followed on October 25th by</i></p> + +<p>LIFE OF SHELLEY. BY WILLIAM SHARP.</p> + +<p>Volumes in preparation by <span class="smcap">AUSTIN DOBSON</span>, <span class="smcap">CANON VENABLES</span>, <span class="smcap">JAMES SIME</span>, +<span class="smcap">EDMUND GOSSE</span>, <span class="smcap">PROFESSOR KNIGHT</span>, etc.</p> + +<p class="c">LIBRARY EDITION OF "GREAT WRITERS."</p> + +<p>An Issue of all the Volumes in this Series will be published, printed on +large paper of extra quality, in handsome binding, Demy 8vo, price 2s. +6d. per volume.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="c"><i>Now Ready, Part I., Price 6d.; by Post, 7d.</i></p> + +<p class="cb"><big><big>THE NATURALISTS' MONTHLY:</big></big></p> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">A Journal for Nature-Lovers and Nature-Thinkers.</span></p> + +<p class="c"><i>EDITED BY DR. J. W. WILLIAMS, M.A.</i></p> + +<p class="c">CONTENTS.</p> + +<p class="nind"> +Pathology of the Celandine.—Rev. Hilderic Friend, M.A., F.L.S.<br /> +<br /> +The Evolution of the Fishing-Hook from the Flint-Hook of<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Prehistoric Man to the Salmon-Hook of the Present Day.—Edward</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lovett.</span><br /> +<br /> +A Study in My Garden (Rose-Aphis).—H. W. S. Worsley-Benison,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">F.L.S.</span><br /> +<br /> +Binary Suns.—Herbert Sadler, F.R.A.S.<br /> +<br /> +Charles Robert Darwin (with a photograph).—B. Middleton<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Batchelor.</span><br /> +<br /> +Shell Collecting in Guernsey and Hern.—J. R. Brockton<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tomlin, B.A.</span><br /> +<br /> +A Chapter on the Centipedes and Millipedes.—T. D. Gibson-Carmichael,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">M.A., F.L.S.</span><br /> +<br /> +The Snails and Slugs of My Garden.—George Roberts.<br /> +<br /> +The Origin of our Fresh-water Faunas.—H. E. Quilter.<br /> +<br /> +Reviews. General Notes and Gleanings. Reports of the<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Learned Societies.</span><br /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"A sound journal, the monthly advent of which will be awaited with +feelings of satisfaction and pleasure."—<i>Bath Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>"To the student of nature who has had few opportunities of study, +just such a magazine as this supplies a felt want. We trust that an +appreciative public will ensure the success of this new +magazine."—<i>Midlothian Journal.</i></p> + +<p>"This neatly got-up magazine seems to supply a vacant place in the +ranks of serial literature, and to supply it well."—<i>Nottingham +Guardian.</i></p></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Part II</span>. Ready September 26th. Annual Subscription—Seven +Shillings. Post free.</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<p class="c">London: <span class="smcap">WALTER SCOTT</span>, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> There are three German biographies of Heine, those of +Strodtmann, Karpeles, and Proelss; a new edition of his works in six +volumes, with a biography and notes by Dr. Elster, has lately been +announced. Mr. Matthew Arnold, by his well-known essay and poem, has +done much to stimulate English interest in Heine. A careful critical +estimate by Mr. Charles Grant (<i>Contemporary</i>, Sept. 1880) may be +mentioned with praise.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> He lodged at 32, Craven Street, Strand.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> "C'est le Bible, plus que tout autre livre," a +distinguished French critic wrote lately, "qui a façonné le génie +poétique de Heine, en lui donnant sa forme et sa couleur. Ses véritables +maîtres, ses vrais inspirateurs sont les glorieux inconnus qui ont écrit +l'Ecclesiaste et les Proverbes, le Cantique des cantiques, le livre de +Job et ce chez d'œuvre d'ironie discrète intitulé: le livre du +prophète Jonas. Celui qui s'appelait un rossignol Allemand niché dans la +perruque de Voltaire fut à la fois le moins évangélique des hommes et le +plus vraiment biblique des poètes modernes."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> He committed suicide.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Or in English.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Heine at this period was never tired of laughing at +Göttingen, and here couples it with six particularly insignificant +towns.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> <i>Dumm</i> in German means stupid.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> In the French edition Heine rightly substituted "The +Emperor Maximilian."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> <i>i.e.</i> Ariosto.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Michel corresponds to John Bull.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> This is a common error. Faust the printer is quite a +distinct person.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> It must be remembered that Heine visited England in 1827.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> This is said to have been the response of Princess +Borghese to a friend who asked her how she had felt when sitting as a +model to Canova.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Heine only quotes the first part of the passage from the +<i>Reisebilder</i>, which has here been given in full.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Heine here alludes to <i>Atta Troll</i>.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +</div> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Prose Writings of Heinrich Heine, by +Heinrich Heine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINE *** + +***** This file should be named 37478-h.htm or 37478-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/4/7/37478/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/37478-h/images/bar.png b/37478-h/images/bar.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bdd09ef --- /dev/null +++ b/37478-h/images/bar.png diff --git a/37478-h/images/ill_h.png b/37478-h/images/ill_h.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e102356 --- /dev/null +++ b/37478-h/images/ill_h.png |
