trust oneself to time, and wait for opportunity, there are, on the
contrary, other things which in youth must be enjoyed at once, fresh,
like ripe fruits. Let me be permitted, with this sudden turn, to
mention dancing, of which the ear is reminded, as the eye is of the
minster, every day and every hour in Strasburg and all Alsace. From
early youth my father himself had given my sister and me instruction
in dancing, a task which must have comported strangely enough with
so stern a man; but he did not suffer his composure to be put out by
it; he drilled us in the positions and steps in a manner the most
precise, and when he had brought us far enough to dance a minuet, he
played for us something easily intelligible in three-four time, on a
_flute-douce_, and we moved to it as well as we could. On the French
theatre, likewise, I had seen from my youth upwards, if not ballets,
yet _pas seuls_ and _pas de deux_, and had noticed in them various
strange motions of the feet, and all sorts of springs. When now we had
enough of the minuet, I begged my father for other dancing music, of
which our music-books, in their jigs and murkies,[2] offered us a rich
supply; and I immediately found out, of myself, the steps and other
motions for them, the time being quite suitable to my limbs, and, as
it were, born with them. This pleased my father to a certain degree;
indeed, he often, by way of joke for himself and us, let the "monkies"
dance in this way. After my misfortune with Gretchen, and during the
whole of my residence in Leipzig, I did not make my appearance again
on the floor; on the contrary, I still remember that when, at a ball,
they forced me into a minuet, both measure and motion seemed to have
abandoned my limbs, and I could no more remember either the steps or
the figures, so that I should have been put to disgrace and shame if
the greater part of the spectators had not maintained that my awkward
behaviour was pure obstinacy, assumed with the view of depriving the
ladies of all desire to invite me and draw me into their circle against
my will.
[Side-note: The Dancing-Master's Daughters.]
During my residence in Frankfort, I was quite cut off from such
pleasures; but in Strasburg, with other enjoyments of life, there
soon arose in my limbs the faculty of keeping time. On Sundays and
week-days, one sauntered by no pleasure-ground without finding
there a joyous crowd assembled for the dance, and for the most part
revolving in the circle. Moreover, there were private balls in the
country-houses, and people were already talking of the brilliant
masquerades of the coming winter. Here, indeed, I should have been
out of my place, and useless to the company; when a friend, who
waltzed very well, advised me to practise myself first in parties of
a lower rank, so that afterwards I might be worth something in the
highest. He took me to a dancing-master, who was well known for his
skill; this man promised me that, when I had in some degree repeated
the first elements, and made myself master of them, he would then
lead me further. He was one of the dry, ready French characters, and
received me in a friendly manner. I paid him a month in advance, and
received twelve tickets, for which he agreed to give me certain hours'
instruction. The man was strict and precise, but not pedantic; and as
I already had some previous practice, I soon gave him satisfaction and
received his commendation.
One circumstance, however, greatly facilitated the instruction of this
teacher; he had two daughters, both pretty, and both yet under twenty.
Having been instructed in this art from their youth upwards, they
showed themselves very skilful, and might have been able, as partners,
soon to help even the most clumsy scholars into some cultivation. They
were both very polite, spoke nothing but French, and I, on my part,
did my best, that I might not appear awkward or ridiculous before
them. I had the good fortune that they likewise praised me, and were
always willing to dance a minuet to their father's little violin, and,
what indeed was more difficult for them, to initiate me, by degrees,
into waltzing and whirling. Their father did not seem to have many
customers, and they led a lonely life. For this reason they often
asked me to remain with them after my hour, and to chat away the time
a little; which I the more willingly did, as the younger one pleased
me well, and generally they both altogether behaved very becomingly.
I often read aloud something from a novel, and they did the same. The
elder, who was as handsome, perhaps even handsomer, than the second,
but who did not correspond with my taste so well as the latter, always
conducted herself towards me more obligingly, and more kindly in every
respect. She was always at hand during the hour, and often protracted
it; hence I sometimes thought myself bound to offer back a couple of
tickets to her father, which, however, he did not accept. The younger
one, on the contrary, although she did nothing unfriendly towards me,
was yet rather reserved, and waited till she was called by her father
before she relieved the elder.
[Side-note: The Fortune-Teller.]
The cause of this became manifest to me one evening. For when, after
the dance was done, I was about to go into the sitting-room with the
elder, she held me back and said, "Let us remain here a little longer;
for I will confess to you that my sister has with her a woman who tells
fortunes from cards, and who is to reveal to her how matters stand with
an absent lover, on whom her whole heart hangs, and upon whom she has
placed all her hope. Mine is free," she continued, "and I must accustom
myself to see it despised." I thereupon said sundry pretty things to
her, replying that she could at once convince herself on that point
by consulting the wise woman likewise; that I would do so myself, for
I had long wished to learn something of the kind, but lacked faith.
She blamed me for this, and assured me that nothing in the world was
surer than the responses of this oracle, only it must be consulted,
not out of sport and mischief, but solely in real affairs. However, I
at last compelled her to go with me into that room, as soon as she had
ascertained that the consultation was over. We found her sister in a
very cheerful humour, and even towards me she was kinder than usual,
sportive, and almost witty; for since she seemed to be secure of an
absent friend, she may have thought it no treachery to be a little
gracious with a present friend of her sister's, which she thought me
to be. The old woman was now flattered, and good payment was promised
her, if she would tell the truth to the elder sister and to me. With
the usual preparations and ceremonies she began her business, in order
to tell the fair one's fortune first. She carefully considered the
situation of the cards, but seemed to hesitate, and would not speak out
what she had to say. "I see now," said the younger, who was already
better acquainted with the interpretation of such a magic tablet,
"you hesitate, and do not wish to disclose anything disagreeable to
my sister; but that is a cursed card!" The elder one turned pale, but
composed herself, and said, "Only speak out; it will not cost one's
head!" The old woman, after a deep sigh, showed her that she was in
love, that she was not beloved, that another person stood in the way,
and other things of like import. We saw the good girl's embarrassment.
The old woman thought somewhat to improve the affair by giving hopes
of letters and money. "Letters," said the lovely child, "I do not
expect, and money I do not desire. If it is true, as you say, that I
love, I deserve a heart that loves me in return." "Let us see if it
will not be better," replied the old woman, as she shuffled the cards
and laid them out a second time; but before the eyes of all of us, it
had only become still worse. The fair one stood not only more lonely,
but surrounded with many sorrows; her lover had moved somewhat farther,
and the intervening figures nearer. The old woman wished to try it the
third time, in hopes of a better prospect; but the beautiful girl could
restrain herself no longer, she broke out into uncontrollable weeping,
her lovely bosom heaved violently, she turned round, and rushed out
of the room. I knew not what I should do. Inclination kept me with
the one present; compassion drove me to the other; my situation was
painful enough. "Comfort Lucinda," said the younger; "go after her."
I hesitated: how could I comfort her without at least assuring her of
some sort of affection, and could I do that at such a moment in a cool,
moderate manner? "Let us go together," said I to Emilia. "I know not
whether my presence will do her good," replied she. Yet we went, but
found the door bolted. Lucinda made no answer; we might knock, shout,
entreat, as we would. "We must let her have her own way," said Emilia;
"she will not have it otherwise now!" And, indeed, when I called to
my mind her manner from our very first acquaintance, she always
had something violent and unequal about her, and chiefly showed her
affection for me by not behaving to me with rudeness. What should I do?
I paid the old woman richly for the mischief she had caused, and was
about to go, when Emilia said, "I stipulate that the cards shall now be
cut for you too." The old woman was ready. "Do not let me be present,"
cried I, and hastened down stairs.
[Side-note: Scene with the Two Sisters.]
The next day I had not courage to go there. The third day, early in the
morning, Emilia sent me word by a boy who had already brought me many
a message from the sisters, and had carried back flowers and fruits to
them in return, that I should not fail that day. I came at the usual
hour, and found the father alone, who, in many respects, improved my
paces and steps, my goings and comings, my bearing and behaviour, and,
moreover, seemed to be satisfied with me. The younger daughter came in
towards the end of the hour, and danced with me a very graceful minuet,
in which her movements were extraordinarily pleasing, and her father
declared that he had rarely seen a prettier and more nimble pair upon
his floor. After the lesson, I went as usual into the sitting-room;
the father left us alone; I missed Lucinda. "She is in bed," said
Emilia, "and I am glad of it; do not be concerned about it. Her mental
illness is first alleviated when she fancies herself bodily sick; she
does not like to die, and therefore she then does what we wish. We
have certain family medicines which she takes, and reposes; and thus,
by degrees, the swelling waves subside. She is, indeed, too good and
amiable in such an imaginary sickness, and as she is in reality very
well, and is only attacked by passion, she imagines various kinds
of romantic deaths, with which she frightens herself in a pleasant
manner, like children when we tell them ghost-stories. Thus, yesterday
evening, she announced to me with great vehemence, that this time she
should certainly die, and that only when she was really near death,
they should bring again before her the ungrateful false friend, who
had at first acted so handsomely to her, and now treated her so ill;
she would reproach him bitterly, and then give up the ghost." "I know
not that I am guilty," exclaimed I, "of having expressed any sort of
affection for her. I know somebody who can best bear me witness in this
respect." Emilia smiled and rejoined, "I understand you; and if we
are not discreet and determined, we shall all find ourselves in a bad
plight together. What will you say if I entreat you not to continue
your lessons? You have, I believe, four tickets yet of the last month,
and my father has already declared that he finds it inexcusable to take
your money any longer, unless you wish to devote yourself to the art
of dancing in a more serious manner; what is required by a young man
of the world you possess already." "And do you, Emilia, give me this
advice, to avoid your house?" replied I. "Yes, I do," said she, "but
not of myself. Only listen. When you hastened away, the day before
yesterday, I had the cards cut for you, and the same response was
repeated thrice, and each time more emphatically. You were surrounded
by everything good and pleasing, by friends and great lords, and there
was no lack of money. The ladies kept themselves at some distance. My
poor sister in particular stood always the farthest off; one other
advanced constantly nearer to you, but never came up to your side, for
a third person, of the male sex, always came between. I will confess
to you that I thought that I myself was meant by the second lady, and
after this confession you will best comprehend my well-meant counsel.
To an absent friend I have promised my heart and my hand, and, until
now, I loved him above all; yet it might be possible for your presence
to become more important to me than hitherto, and what kind of a
situation would you have between two sisters, one of whom you had made
unhappy by your affection, and the other by your coldness, and all this
ado about nothing and only for a short time? For if we had not known
already who you are and what are your expectations, the cards would
have placed it before my eyes in the clearest manner. Fare you well!"
said she, and gave me her hand. I hesitated. "Now," said she, leading
me towards the door, "that it may really be the last time that we shall
speak to each other, take what I would otherwise have denied you." She
fell upon my neck, and kissed me most tenderly. I embraced her, and
pressed her to my bosom.
At this moment the side-door flew open, and her sister, in a light
but becoming night-dress, sprang out and cried, "You shall not be the
only one to take leave of him!" Emilia let me go, and Lucinda seized
me, clasped herself fast to my heart, pressed her black locks upon my
cheeks, and remained in this position for some time. And thus I found
myself in the dilemma between two sisters which Emilia had prophesied
to me a moment before. Lucinda let me loose, and looked earnestly into
my face. I would have taken her hand and said something friendly to
her, but she turned herself away, walked with violent steps up and down
the room for some time, and then threw herself into a corner of the
sofa. Emilia went to her, but was immediately repulsed, and here began
a scene which is yet painful to me in the recollection, and which,
although really it had nothing theatrical about it, but was quite
suitable to a lively young Frenchwoman, could only be properly repeated
in the theatre by a good and feeling actress.
[Side-note: Lucinda's Curse.]
Lucinda overwhelmed her sister with a thousand reproaches. "This is
not the first heart," she cried, "that was inclining itself to me, and
that you have turned away. Was it not just so with him who is absent,
and who at last betrothed himself to you under my very eyes? I was
compelled to look on; I endured it; but I know how many thousand tears
it has cost me. This one, too, you have now taken away from me, without
letting the other go; and how many do you not manage to keep at once?
I am frank and good-natured, and every one thinks he knows me soon,
and may neglect me. You are secret and quiet, and people think wonders
of what may be concealed behind you. Yet there is nothing behind but
a cold, selfish heart that can sacrifice everything to itself; this
nobody learns so easily, because it lies deeply hidden in your breast;
and just as little do they know of my warm, true heart, which I carry
about with me as open as my face."
Emilia was silent, and had sat down by her sister, who became
constantly more and more excited in her discourse, and let certain
private matters slip out, which it was not exactly proper for me to
know. Emilia, on the other hand, who was trying to pacify her sister,
made me a sign from behind that I should withdraw; but as jealousy and
suspicion see with a thousand eyes, Lucinda seemed to have noticed this
also. She sprang up and advanced to me, but not with vehemence. She
stood before me, and seemed to be thinking of something. Then she said,
"I know that I have lost you; I make no further pretensions to you. But
neither shall you have him, sister!"
With these words she grasped me very singularly by the head, thrusting
both her hands into my locks, pressing my face to hers, and kissed me
repeatedly on the mouth. "Now," cried she, "fear my curse! Woe upon
woe, for ever and ever, to her who kisses these lips for the first time
after me! Dare to have anything more to do with him! I know heaven
hears me this time. And you, Sir, hasten now, hasten away as fast as
you can!"
I flew down the stairs, with the firm determination never to outer the
house again.
[1] A Repetent is one of a class of persons to be found in the German
universities, and who assist students in their studies. They are
somewhat analogous to the English Tutors, but not precisely; for the
latter render their aid _before_ the recitation, while the Repetent
_repeats_ with the student, in private, the lectures he has previously
heard from the professor. Hence his name, which might be rendered
_Repeater_, had we any corresponding class of men in England or
America, which would justify an English word_.--American Note._
[2] A "murki" is defined as an old species of short composition
for the harpsichord, with a lively murmuring accompaniment in the
bass.--_Trans._
TENTH BOOK.
The German poets, since they, as members of a corporation, no longer
stood as one man, did not enjoy the smallest advantages in the
citizen-world. They had neither support, standing, nor respectability,
except in so far as their other position was favourable to them, and
therefore it was a matter of mere chance whether talent was born to
honour or to disgrace. A poor son of earth, with a consciousness of
mind and faculties, was forced to crawl along painfully through life,
and, from the pressure of momentary necessities, to squander the gifts
which perchance he had received from the Muses. Occasional poems, the
first and most genuine of all kinds of poetry, had become despicable
to such a degree, that the nation even now cannot attain a conception
of their high value; and a poet, if he did not strike altogether into
Günther's** path, appeared in the world in the most melancholy state of
subserviency, as a jester and parasite, so that both on the theatre and
on the stage of life he represented a character which any one and every
one could abuse at pleasure.
If, on the contrary, the Muse associated herself with men of
respectability, these received thereby a lustre which was reflected
back to the donor. Noblemen well versed in life, like Hagedorn,
dignified citizens, like Brockes, distinguished men of science, like
Haller, appeared among the first in the nation, to be equal with the
most eminent and the most prized. Those persons, too, were specially
honoured, who, together with this pleasing talent, distinguished
themselves as active, faithful men of business. In this way Uz,
Rabener, and Weisse enjoyed a respect of quite a peculiar kind; people
had here to value, when combined, those most heterogeneous qualities
which are seldom found united.
[Side-note: Klopstock.]
But now the time was to come when poetic genius should become aware of
itself, should create for itself its own relations, and understand how
to lay the foundation of an independent dignity. Everything necessary
to found such an epoch was combined in KLOPSTOCK. Considered both
from the sensual and moral side, he was a pure young man. Seriously
and thoroughly educated, he places, from his youth upwards, a great
value upon himself and upon whatever he does, and while considerately
measuring out beforehand the steps of his life, turns, with a
presentiment of the whole strength of his internal nature, towards the
loftiest and most grateful theme. The _Messiah_, a name which betokens
infinite attributes, was to be glorified afresh by him. The Redeemer
was to be the hero whom the poet thought to accompany through earthly
lowliness and sorrows to the highest heavenly triumphs. Everything
Godlike, angelic, and human that lay in the young soul was here
called into requisition. Brought up by the Bible and nourished by its
strength, he now lives with patriarchs, prophets, and forerunners,
as if they were present; yet all these are only evoked from ages to
draw a bright halo round the One whose humiliation they behold with
astonishment, and in whose exaltation they are gloriously to bear a
part. For at last, after gloomy and horrible hours, the everlasting
Judge will uncloud his face, again acknowledge his Son and fellow-God,
who, on the other hand, will again lead to Him alienated men, nay,
even a fallen spirit. The living heavens shout with a thousand angel
voices round the throne, and a radiance of love gushes out over the
universe, which shortly before had fastened its looks upon a fearful
place of sacrifice. The heavenly peace which Klopstock felt in the
conception and execution of this poem, communicates itself even now
to every one who reads the first ten cantos, without allowing certain
requisitions to be brought forward, which an advancing cultivation does
not willingly abandon.
The dignity of the subject elevated in the poet the feeling of his own
personality. That he himself would enter hereafter into those choirs,
that the God-Man would distinguish him, nay, give him face to face the
reward for his labours, which even here every feeling, pious heart had
fondly paid in many a pure tear--these were such innocent, childlike
thoughts and hopes, as only a well-constituted mind can conceive and
cherish. Thus Klopstock gained the perfect right to regard himself
as a consecrated person, and thus in his actions he studied the most
scrupulous purity. Even in his old age it troubled him exceedingly that
he had given his earliest love to a lady who, by marrying another,
left him in uncertainty whether she had really loved him or been worthy
of him. The sentiments which bound him to Meta, their hearty, tranquil
affection, their short sacred married life, the aversion of the
surviving husband from a second union, all is of that kind which may
well be remembered hereafter in the circle of the blessed.
This honourable conduct towards himself was still further enhanced by
his being favourably received for a long time in well-minded Denmark,
in the house of a great, and, humanly speaking, excellent statesman.
Here, in a higher circle, which was exclusive indeed, but, at the same
time, devoted to external manners and attention towards the world, his
tendency became still more decided. A composed demeanour, a measured
speech, and a laconism even when he spoke openly and decidedly,
gave him, through his whole life, a certain diplomatic ministerial
consequence, which seemed to be at variance with his tender natural
feelings, although both sprang from one source. Of all this, his first
works give a clear transcript and type, and they thus could not but
gain an incredible influence. That, however, he personally assisted
others who were struggling in life and poetry, has scarcely been
mentioned, as one of his most decided characteristics.
[Side-note: Klopstock and Gleim.]
But just such a furtherance of young people in literary action and
pursuit, a hopeful pleasure in bringing forward men not favoured by
fortune, and making the way easy to them, has rendered illustrious one
German, who, in respect to the dignity which he gave himself, may be
named as the second, but, in regard to his living influence, as the
first. It will escape no one that GLEIM is here meant. In possession
of an obscure, indeed, but lucrative office, residing in a pleasantly
situated spot, not too large, and enlivened by military, civic, and
literary activity, whence proceeded the revenues of a great and wealthy
institution, not without a part of them remaining behind for the
advantage of the place, he felt within himself also a lively productive
impulse, which, however, with all its strength, was not quite enough
for him, and therefore he gave himself up to another, perhaps stronger
impulse, namely, that of making others produce something. Both these
activities were intertwined incessantly during his whole long life. He
could as easily have lived without taking breath, as without writing
poetry and making presents, and by helping needy talents of all kinds
through earlier or later embarrassments, contributing to the honour of
literature, he gained so many friends, debtors, and dependents, that
they willingly allowed his diffuse verses to pass, since they could
give him nothing in return for his rich benefits but endurance of his
poetry.