"I was not one of her customers. In the _The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes

the second, I have always been obliged to look upon eating and drinking

as a necessity, sometimes too much so, so that it has never entered my

head to take pleasure and delight in it. And so we took no notice of

each other. Only once, in order to tease me, my colleagues made her

believe that I wanted some of her cakes. She stepped up to my desk and

held her basket out to me. 'I don't want anything, my dear young woman,'

I said. 'Well, why do you send for me then?' she cried angrily. I

excused myself, and as I saw at once that a practical joke had been

played, I explained the situation as best I could. 'Well then, at least

give me a sheet of paper to put my cakes on,' she said. I tried to make

her understand that it was chancery paper and didn't belong to me, but

that I had some paper at home which was mine and that I would bring her

some of it. 'I have enough myself at home,' she said mockingly, and

broke into a little laugh as she went away.

"That had happened only a few days before and I was thinking of turning

the acquaintance to immediate account for the fulfilment of my wish. The

next morning, therefore, I buttoned a whole ream of paper--of which

there was never a scarcity in our home--under my coat, and went to the

office. In order not to betray myself, I kept my armor with great

personal inconvenience upon my body until, toward noon, I knew from the

going and coming of my colleagues and from the sound of the munching

jaws that the cake-vender had arrived. I waited until I had reason to

believe that the rush of business was over, then I went out, pulled out

my paper, mustered up sufficient courage, and stepped up to the girl.

With her basket before her on the ground and her right foot resting on a

low stool, on which she usually sat, she stood there humming a soft

melody, beating time with her right foot. As I approached she measured

me from head to foot, which only added to my confusion. 'My dear young

woman,' I finally began, 'the other day you asked me for paper and I had

none that belonged to me. Now I have brought some from home, and'--with

that I held out the paper. 'I told you the other day,' she replied,

'that I have plenty of paper at home. However, I can make use of

everything.' Saying this, she accepted my present with a slight nod

and put it into her basket. 'Perhaps you'll take some cake?' she asked,

sorting her wares, 'although the best have been sold.' I declined, but

told her that I had another wish. 'And what may that be?' she asked,

putting her arm through the handle of her basket, drawing herself up to

her full height, and flashing her eyes angrily at me. I lost no time

telling her that I was a lover of music, although only a recent convert,

and that I had heard her singing such beautiful songs, especially one.

'You--heard me--singing?' she flared up. 'Where?' I then told her that I

lived near her, and that I had been listening to her while she was at

work in the courtyard; that one of her songs had pleased me

particularly, and that I had tried to play it after her on my violin.

'Can you be the man,' she exclaimed, 'who scrapes so on the fiddle?' As

I mentioned before, I was only a beginner at that time and not until

later, by dint of much hard work, did I acquire the necessary

dexterity;" the old man interrupted himself, while with the fingers of

his left hand he made movements in the air, as though he were playing

the violin. "I blushed violently," he continued the narrative, "and I

could see by the expression of her face that she repented her harsh

words. 'My dear young woman,' I said, 'the scraping arises from the fact

that I do not possess the music of the song, and for this reason I

should like to ask you most respectfully for a copy of it.' 'For a

copy?' she exclaimed. 'The song is printed and is sold at every

street-corner.' 'The song?' I replied. 'You probably mean only the

words!' 'Why, yes; the words, the song.' 'But the melody to which it is

sung--' 'Are such things written down?' she asked. 'Surely,' was my

reply, 'that is the most important part.' 'And how did you learn it, my

dear young woman?' 'I heard some one singing it, and then I sang it

after her.' I was astonished at this natural gift. And I may add in

passing that uneducated people often possess the greatest natural

talent. But, after all, this is not the proper thing, not real art. I

was again plunged into despair. 'But which song do you want?' she asked.

'I know so many.' 'All without the notes?' 'Why, of course. Now which

was it?' 'It is so very beautiful,' I explained. 'Right at the beginning

the melody rises, then it becomes fervent, and finally it ends very

softly. You sing it more frequently than the others.' 'Oh, I suppose

it's this one,' she said, setting down her basket, and placing her foot

on the stool. Then, keeping time by nodding her head, she sang the song

in a very low, yet clear voice, so beautifully and so charmingly that,

before she had quite finished, I tried to grasp her hand, which was

hanging at her side. 'What do you mean!' she cried, drawing back her

arm, for she probably thought I intended to take her hand immodestly. I

wanted to kiss it, although she was only a poor girl.--Well, after all,

I too am poor now!

"I ran my fingers through my hair in my eagerness to secure the song and

when she observed my anxiety, she consoled me and said that the organist

of St. Peter's visited her father's store frequently to buy nutmeg, that

she would ask him to write out the music of the song, and that I might

call for it in a few days. Thereupon she took up her basket and went,

while I accompanied her as far as the staircase. As I was making a final

bow on the top step, I was surprised by the director, who bade me go to

my work and railed against the girl, in whom, he asserted, there wasn't

a vestige of good. I was very angry at this and was about to retort that

I begged to differ with him, when I realized that he had returned to his

office. Therefore I calmed myself and also went back to my desk. But

from that time on he was firmly convinced that I was a careless employee

and a dissipated fellow.

"As a matter of fact, I was unable to do any decent work on that day or

on the following days, for the song kept running through my head. I

seemed to be in a trance. Several days passed and I was in doubt whether

to call for the music or not. The girl had said that the organist came

to her father's store to buy nutmeg; this he could use only for his

beer. Now the weather had been cold for some time, and therefore it was

probable that the good organist would rather drink wine and thus not be

in need of nutmeg so soon. A too hasty inquiry might seem impolite and

obtrusive, while, on the other hand, a delay might be interpreted as

indifference. I didn't dare address the girl in the corridor, since our

first meeting had been noised broad among my colleagues, and they were

thirsting for an opportunity to play a practical joke on me.

"In the meantime I had again taken up my violin eagerly and devoted

myself to a thorough study of the fundamental principles. Occasionally I

permitted myself to improvise, but always closed my window carefully in

advance, knowing that my playing had found disfavor. But even when I did

open the window, I never heard my song again. Either my neighbor did not

sing at all, or else she sang softly and behind closed doors, so that I

could not distinguish one note from another.

"At last, about three weeks having passed, I could wait no longer. Two

evenings in succession I had even stolen out upon the street, without a

hat, so that the servants might think I was looking for something in the

house, but whenever I came near the grocery store such a violent

trembling seized me that I was obliged to turn back whether I wanted to

or not. At last, however, as I said, I couldn't wait any longer. I took

courage, and one evening left my room, this time also without a hat,

went downstairs and walked with a firm step through the street to the

grocery store, in front of which I stopped for a moment, deliberating

what was to be done next. The store was lighted and I heard voices

within. After some hesitation I leaned forward and peered in from the

side. I saw the girl sitting close before the counter by the light,

picking over some peas or beans in a wooden bowl. Before her stood a

coarse, powerful man, who looked like a butcher; his jacket was thrown

over his shoulders and he held a sort of club in his hand. The two were

talking, evidently in good humor, for the girl laughed aloud several

times, but without interrupting her work or even looking up. Whether it

was my unnatural, strained position, or whatever else it may have been,

I began to tremble again, when I suddenly felt myself seized by a rough

hand from the back and dragged forward. In a twinkling I was in the

store, and when I was released and looked about me, I saw that it was

the proprietor himself, who, returning home, had caught me peering

through his window and seized me as a suspicious character. 'Confound

it!' he cried, 'now I understand what becomes of my prunes and the

handfuls of peas and barley which are taken from my baskets in the dark.

Damn it all!' With that he made for me, as though he meant to strike me.

"I felt utterly crushed, but the thought that my honesty was being

questioned soon brought me back to my senses. I therefore made a curt

bow and told the uncivil man that my visit was not intended for his

prunes or his barley, but for his daughter. At these words the butcher,

who was standing in the middle of the store, set up a loud laugh and

turned as if to go, having first whispered a few words to the girl, to

which she laughingly replied with a resounding slap of her flat hand

upon his back. The grocer accompanied him to the door. Meanwhile all my

courage had again deserted me, and I stood facing the girl, who was

indifferently picking her peas and beans as though the whole affair

didn't concern her in the least. 'Sir,' he said, 'what business have you

with my daughter?' I tried to explain the circumstance and the cause of

my visit. 'Song! I'll sing you a song!' he exclaimed, moving his right

arm up and down in rather threatening fashion. 'There it is,' said the

girl, tilting her chair sideways and pointing with her hand to the

counter without setting down the bowl. I rushed over and saw a sheet of

music lying there. It was the song. But the old man got there first, and

crumpled the beautiful paper in his hand. 'What does this mean?' he

said. 'Who is this fellow?' 'He is one of the gentlemen from the

chancery,' she replied, throwing a worm-eaten pea a little farther away

than the rest. 'A gentleman from the chancery,' he cried, 'in the dark,

without a hat?' I accounted for the absence of a hat by explaining that

I lived close by; at the same time I designated the house. 'I know the

house,' he cried. 'Nobody lives there but the Court Councilor'--here he

mentioned the name of my father--'and I know all the servants.' 'I am

the son of the Councilor,' I said in a low voice, as though I were

telling a lie. I have seen many changes during my life, but none so

sudden as that which came over the man at these words. His mouth, which

he had opened to heap abuse upon me, remained open, his eyes still

looked threatening, but about the lower part of his face a smile began

to play which spread more and more. The girl remained indifferent and

continued in her stooping posture. Without interrupting her work, she

pushed her loose hair back behind her ears. 'The son of the Court

Councilor!' finally exclaimed the old man, from whose face the clouds

had entirely disappeared. 'Won't you make yourself comfortable, sir?

Barbara, bring a chair!' The girl stirred reluctantly on hers. 'Never

mind, you sneak!' he said, taking a basket from a stool and wiping the

dust from the latter with his handkerchief. 'This is a great honor,' he

continued. 'Has His Honor, the Councilor--I mean His Honor's son, also

taken up music? Perhaps you sing like my daughter, or rather quite

differently, from notes and according to rule?' I told him that nature

had not gifted me with a voice. 'Oh, perhaps you play the piano, as

fashionable people do?' I told him I played the violin. 'I used to

scratch on the fiddle myself when I was a boy,' he said. At the word

'scratch' I involuntarily looked at the girl and saw a mocking smile on

her lips, which annoyed me greatly.

"'You ought to take an interest in the girl, that is, in her music,' he

continued. 'She has a good voice, and possesses other good qualities;

but refinement--good heavens, where should she get it?' So saying, he

repeatedly rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together. I

was quite confused at being undeservedly credited with such a

considerable knowledge of music, and was just on the point of explaining

the true state of affairs, when some one passing the store called in

'Good evening, all!' I started, for it was the voice of one of our

servants. The grocer had also recognized it. Putting out the tip of his

tongue and raising his shoulders, he whispered: 'It was one of the

servants of His Honor, your father, but he couldn't recognize you,

because you were standing with your back to the door.' This was so, to

be sure, but nevertheless the feeling of doing something on the sly,

something wrong, affected me painfully. I managed to mumble a few words

of parting, and went out. I should even have left the song behind had

not the old man run into the street after me and pressed it into my

hand.

"I reached my room and awaited developments. And I didn't have to wait

long. The servant had recognized me after all. A few days later my

father's private secretary looked me up in my room and announced that I

was to leave my home. All my remonstrances were in vain. A little room

had been rented for me in a distant suburb and thus I was completely

banished from my family. Nor did I see my singer again. She had been

forbidden to vend her cakes in the chancery, and I couldn't make up my

mind to visit her father's store, since I knew that this would displease

mine. Once, when accidentally I met the old grocer on the street, he

even turned away from me with an angry expression, and I was stunned.

And so I got out my violin and played and practised, being frequently

alone half the day.

"But even worse things were in store for me. The fortunes of our house

were declining. My youngest brother, a headstrong, impetuous fellow, was

an officer in a regiment of dragoons. As the result of a reckless wager,

he foolishly swam the Danube, mounted and in full armor, while heated

from the exertion of a ride. This escapade, which occurred while he was

far away in Hungary, cost him his life. My older brother, my father's

favorite, held an appointment as a member of provincial council. In

constant opposition to the governor of the province, he even went so

far as to promulgate untruthful statements in order to injure his

opponent, being secretly incited thereto, as rumor had it, by our

father. An investigation followed, and my brother took French leave of

the country. Our father's enemies, of whom there were many, utilized

this circumstance to bring about his downfall. Attacked on all sides,

and at the same time enraged at the waning of his influence, he

delivered daily the most bitter speeches at the meetings of the council,

and it was in the middle of a speech that he suffered a stroke of

apoplexy. They brought him home, bereft of the power of speech. I myself

heard nothing of all this. The next day in the chancery I noticed that

the men were whispering secretly and pointing at me with their fingers.

But I was accustomed to such treatment and paid no further attention to

it. On the following Friday--the sad event had occurred on a

Wednesday--a black suit of clothes with crepe was suddenly brought to my

room. I was naturally astonished, asked for the reason, and was informed

of what had taken place. Ordinarily my body is strong and capable of

resistance, but then I was completely overcome. I fell to the floor in a

swoon. They carried me to bed, where I lay in a fever and was delirious

throughout the day and the entire night. The next morning my strong

constitution had conquered, but my father was dead and buried.

"I had not been able to speak to him again, to ask his forgiveness for

all the sorrow I had brought upon him, or to thank him for all the

undeserved favors--yes, favors, for his intentions had been good; and

some time I hope to meet him again where we are judged by our intentions

and not by our acts.

"For several days I kept my room and scarcely touched any food. At last

I went out, but came home again immediately after dinner. Only in the

evening I wandered about the dark streets like Cain, the murderer of his

brother. My father's house appeared to me a dreadful phantom, and I

avoided it most carefully. But once, staring vacantly before me, I found

myself unexpectedly in the vicinity of the dreaded house. My knees

trembled so that I was obliged to seek support. Leaning against the wall

behind me, I recognized the door of the grocery store. Barbara was

sitting inside, a letter in her hand, the light upon the counter beside

her, and standing up straight close by was her father, who seemed to be

urging something upon her. I should have entered, even though my life

had been at stake. You have no idea how awful it is to have no one to

pour out one's heart to, no one to look to for sympathy. The old man, I

knew very well, was angry with me, but I thought the girl would say a

kind word to me. But it turned out just the other way. Barbara rose as I

entered, looked at me haughtily, and went into the adjoining room,

locking the door behind her. The old man, however, shook hands with me,

bade me sit down and consoled me, at the same time intimating that I was

now a rich man and my own master. He wanted to know how much I had

inherited. I couldn't tell him. He urged me to go to court about it,

which I promised to do. He was of the opinion that no fortune could be

made in a chancery. He then advised me to invest my inheritance in a

business, assured me that gallnuts and fruit would yield a good profit

and that a partner who understood this particular business could turn

dimes into dollars, and said that he himself had at one time done well

in that line.

"While he was telling me all this, he repeatedly called for the girl,

who gave no sign of life, however, although it seemed to me as though I

sometimes heard a rustling near the door. But since she did not put in

an appearance, and since the old man talked of nothing but money, I

finally took my leave, the grocer regretting that he could not accompany

me, as he was alone in the store. I was grievously disappointed that my

hopes had not been fulfilled, and yet I felt strangely consoled. As I

stopped in the street and looked over toward my father's house, I

suddenly heard a voice behind me saying in a subdued and indignant

tone: 'Don't be too ready to trust everybody; they're after your money.'

Although I turned quickly, I saw no one. Only the rattling of a window

on the ground floor of the grocer's house told me, even if I had not

recognized the voice, that the secret warning had come from Barbara. So

she had overheard what had been said in the store! Did she intend to

warn me against her father? Or had it come to her knowledge that

immediately after my father's death colleagues of the chancery as well

as utter strangers had approached me with requests for support and aid,

and that I had promised to help them as soon as I should be in

possession of the money? My promises I was obliged to keep, but I

resolved to be more careful in future. I applied for my inheritance. It

was less than had been expected, but still a considerable sum, nearly

eleven thousand gulden. The whole day my room was besieged by people

demanding financial assistance. I had almost become hardened, however,

and granted a request only when the distress was really great. Barbara's

father also came. He scolded me for not having been around for three

days, whereupon I truthfully replied that I feared I was unwelcome to

his daughter. But he told me with a malicious laugh that alarmed me, not

to worry on that score; that he had brought her to her senses. Thus

reminded of Barbara's warning, I concealed the amount of the inheritance

when the subject came up in the course of the conversation and also

skilfully evaded his business proposals.

"As a matter of fact, I was already turning other prospects over in my

mind. In the chancery, where I had been tolerated only on account of my

father, my place had already been filled by another, which troubled me

little, since no salary was attached to the position. But my father's

secretary, whom recent events had deprived of his livelihood, informed

me of a plan for the establishment of a bureau of information, copying,

and translation. For this undertaking I was to advance the initial cost

of equipment, he being prepared to undertake the management. At my

request the field of copying was extended so as to include music, and

now I was perfectly happy. I advanced the necessary sum, but, having

grown cautious, demanded a written receipt. The rather large bond for

the establishment, which I likewise furnished, caused me no worry, since

it had to be deposited with the court, where it was as safe as though it

were locked up in my strong-box.

"The affair was settled, and I felt relieved, exalted; for the first

time in my life I was independent--I was a man at last. I scarcely gave

my father another thought. I moved into a better apartment, procured

better clothes, and when it had become dark, I went through familiar

streets to the grocery store, with a swinging step and humming my song,

although not quite correctly. I never have been able to strike the B

flat in the second half. I arrived in the best of spirits, but an icy

look from Barbara immediately threw me back into my former state of

timidity. Her father received me most cordially; but she acted as if no

one were present, continued making paper bags, and took no part whatever

in our conversation. Only when we touched upon the subject of my

inheritance, she rose in her seat and exclaimed in an almost threatening

tone, 'Father!' Thereupon the old man immediately changed the subject.

Aside from that, she said nothing during the whole evening, didn't give

me a second look, and, when I finally took my leave, her 'good-night'

sounded almost like a 'thank heaven.'

"But I came again and again, and gradually she yielded--not that I ever

did anything that pleased her. She scolded me and found fault with me

incessantly. Everything I did she considered clumsy; God had given me

two left hands; my coat fitted so badly, it made me look like a

scarecrow; my walk was a cross between that of a duck and cock. What she

disliked especially was my politeness toward the customers. As I had

nothing to do until the opening of the copying bureau, where I should

have direct dealings with the public, I considered it a good preliminary

training to take an active part in the retail business of the grocery

store. This often kept me there half the day. I weighed spices, counted

out nuts and prunes for the children, and acted as cashier. In this

latter capacity I was frequently guilty of errors, in which event

Barbara would interfere by forcibly taking away whatever money I had in

my hand, and ridiculing and mocking me before the customers. If I bowed

to a customer or recommended myself to his kind consideration, she would

say brusquely, even before he had left the store, 'The goods carry their

own recommendation,' and turn her back upon me. At other times, however,

she was all kindness; she listened to me when I told her what was going

on in the city, or when I spoke of my early years, or of the business of

the chancery, where we had first met. But at such times she let me do

all the talking and expressed her approval or--as happened more

frequently--her disapproval only by casual words.

"We never spoke of music or singing. In the first place, she believed

one should either sing or keep quiet, that there was no sense in talking

about it. But it was not possible to do any singing--the store was not

the proper place for it, and the rear room, which she occupied with her

father, I was not allowed to enter. Once, however, when I entered

unnoticed, she was standing on tip-toe, her back turned toward me, with

her hands raised above her head, groping along one of the upper shelves

as if looking for something. At the same time she was singing softly to

herself--it was the song, my song! She was warbling like a hedge-sparrow

when it bathes its breast in the brook, tosses its head, ruffles its

feathers, and smoothes them again with its little beak. I seemed to be

walking in a green meadow. I crept nearer and nearer, and was so close

that the melody seemed no longer to come from without, but out of my own

breast--a song of souls. I was unable to contain myself any longer, and

as she stood there straining forward, her shoulders thrown slightly back

towards me, I threw both arms around her body. But then the storm broke.

She whirled around like a top. Her face livid with rage, she stood

before me; her hand twitched, and before I could utter a word of

apology, the blow came.

"As I have said before, my colleagues in the chancery used to tell a

story of a box on the ear, which Barbara, when she was still vending

cakes, had dealt out to an impertinent fellow. What they then said of

the strength of this rather small girl and of the power of her hand,

seemed greatly and humorously exaggerated. But it was a fact; her

strength was tremendous. I stood as though I had been struck by a

thunderbolt. The lights were dancing before my eyes, but they were the

lights of heaven. It seemed like sun, moon and stars, like angels

playing hide-and-seek and singing at the same time. I had visions; I was

entranced. She, however, scarcely less astonished than I, passed her

hand gently over the place she had struck. 'I'm afraid I struck more

violently than I intended,' she said, and, like a second thunderbolt, I

suddenly felt her warm breath and her lips upon my cheeks. She kissed

me--only gently, but it was a kiss, a kiss upon this very cheek." As he

said this, the old man put his hand to his cheek, and tears came to his

eyes. "What happened after that I do not know," he continued. "I only

remember that I rushed toward her and that she ran into the sitting room

and threw herself against the glass door, while I pushed against it from

the other side. As she pressed forward with all her might against the

glass panel, I took courage, dear sir, and returned her kiss with great

fervor--through the glass!

"'Well, this is a jolly party,' I heard some one call out behind me. It

was the grocer, just returning home. 'People who love each other are

fond of teasing each other,' he said. 'Come out, Barbara, don't be

foolish. There's naught amiss in an honest kiss.' But she didn't come

out. I took my leave after having stammered a few words of apology,

scarcely knowing what I was saying. In my confusion I took the grocer's

hat instead of my own, and he laughingly corrected the mistake. This

was, as I called it before, the happiest day of my life--I had almost

said, the only happy day. But that wouldn't be true, for man receives

many favors from God.

"I didn't know exactly what the girl's feelings toward me were. Was she

angry or had I conciliated her? The next visit cost me a great effort.

But I found her amiable. She sat over her work, humble and quiet, not

irritable as usual, and motioned with her head toward a stool standing

near, intimating that I should sit down and help her. Thus we sat and

worked. The old man prepared to go out. 'You needn't go, Father,' she

said, 'what you want to do has already been attended to.' He stamped his

foot on the floor and remained. Walking up and down he talked of

different things, but I didn't dare take part in the conversation.

Suddenly the girl uttered a low scream. She had cut her finger slightly

and, although she didn't usually pay any attention to such trifles, she

shook her hand back and forth. I wanted to examine the cut, but she

beckoned to me to continue my work. 'There is no end to your

tomfoolery,' the old man grumbled; and, stepping before the girl, he

said in a loud voice, 'What I was going to do hasn't been attended to at

all,' and with a heavy tread he went out of the door. Then I started to

make apologies for the day before, but she interrupted me and said, 'Let

us forget that, and talk of more sensible things.'

"She raised her head, looked at me from head to foot, and continued in a

calm tone of voice, 'I scarcely remember the beginning of our

acquaintance, but for some time you have been calling more and more

frequently, and we have become accustomed to you. Nobody will deny that

you have an honest heart, but you are weak and always interested in

matters of secondary importance, so that you are hardly capable of

managing your own affairs. It is therefore the duty of your friends and

acquaintances to look out for you, in order that people may not take

advantage of you. Frequently you sit here in the store half the day,

counting and weighing, measuring and bargaining, but what good does

that do you? How do you expect to make your living in future?' I

mentioned the inheritance from my father. 'I suppose it's quite large,'

she said. I named the amount. 'That's much and little,' she replied.

'Much to invest, little to live upon. My father made you a proposition,

but I dissuaded you. For, on the one hand, he has lost money himself in

similar ventures, and on the other hand,' she added with lowered voice,

'he is so accustomed to take advantage of strangers that it's quite

possible he wouldn't treat friends any better. You must have somebody at

your side who has your interests at heart.' I pointed to her. 'I am

honest,' she said, laying her hand upon her heart. Her eyes, which were

ordinarily of a greyish hue, shone bright blue, the blue of the sky.

'But I'm in a peculiar position. Our business yields little profit, and

so my father intends to set himself up as an innkeeper. Now that's no

place for me, and nothing remains for me, therefore, but needlework, for

I will not go out as a servant.' As she said this she looked like a

queen. 'As a matter of fact I've had another offer,' she continued,

drawing a letter from her apron and throwing it half reluctantly upon

the counter. 'But in that case I should be obliged to leave the city.'

'Would you have to go far away?' I asked. 'Why? What difference would

that make to you?' I told her I should move to the same place. 'You're a

child,' she said. 'That wouldn't do at all, and there are quite

different matters to be considered. But if you have confidence in me and

like to be near me, buy the millinery store next door, which is for

sale. I understand the business, and you can count on a reasonable

profit on your investment. Besides, keeping the books and attending to

the correspondence would supply you with a proper occupation. What might

develop later on, we'll not discuss at present. But you would have to

change, for I hate effeminate men.' I had jumped up and seized my hat.

'What's the matter? Where are you going?' she asked. 'To countermand

everything!' I said breathlessly. 'Countermand what?' I then told her of

my plan for the establishment of a copying and information bureau.

'There isn't much in that,' she suggested. 'Information anybody can get

for himself, and everybody has learned to write in school.' I remarked

that music was also to be copied, which was something that not everybody

could do. 'So you're back at your old nonsense?' she burst out. 'Let

your music go, and think of more important matters. Besides, you're not

able to manage a business yourself.' I explained that I had found a

partner. 'A partner?' she exclaimed. 'You'll surely be cheated. I hope

you haven't advanced any money?' I was trembling without knowing why.

'Did you advance any money?' she asked once more. I admitted that I had

advanced the three thousand gulden for the initial equipment. 'Three

thousand gulden!' she exclaimed; 'as much as that?' 'The rest,' I

continued, 'is deposited with the court, and that's safe at all events.'

'What, still more?' she screamed. I mentioned the amount of the bond.

'And did you pay it over to the court personally?' 'My partner paid it.'

'But you have a receipt for it.' 'I haven't.' 'And what is the name of

your fine partner?' she asked. It was a relief to be able to mention my

father's secretary.

"'Good heavens!' she cried, starting up and wringing her hands. 'Father!

Father!' The old man entered. 'What was that you read in the papers

today?' 'About the secretary?' he asked. 'Yes, yes!' 'Oh, he absconded,

left nothing but debts, and swindled everybody. A warrant for his arrest

has been issued.' 'Father,' she cried, 'here's one of his victims. He

intrusted his money to him. He is ruined!'

"'Oh, you blockhead! The fools aren't all dead yet,' cried the old man.

'Didn't I tell her so? But she always found an excuse for him. At one

time she ridiculed him, at another time he was honesty itself. But I'll

take a hand in this business! I'll show you who's master in this house.

You, Barbara, go to your room, and quickly. And you, sir, get out, and

spare us your visits in future. We're not in the charity business

here.' 'Father,' said the girl, 'don't be harsh with him; he's unhappy

enough as it is!' 'That's the very reason I don't want to become unhappy

too,' cried the old man. 'There, sir,' he continued, pointing to the

letter Barbara had thrown upon the table a short time before, 'there's a

man for you! He's got brains in his head and money in his purse. He

doesn't swindle any one, but he takes good care at the same time not to

let any one swindle him. And that's the main thing in being honest!' I

stammered something about the loss of the bond not being certain. 'Ha,

ha,' he cried, 'that secretary was no fool, the sly rascal! And now

you'd better run after him, perhaps you can still catch him.' As he said

this, he laid the palm of his hand on my shoulder and pushed me toward

the door. I moved to one side and turned toward the girl, who was

standing with her hands resting on the counter and her eyes fixed on the

ground. She was breathing heavily. I wanted to approach her, but she

angrily stamped her foot upon the floor; and when I held out my hand,

hers twitched as though she were going to strike me again. Then I went,

and the old man locked the door behind me.

"I tottered through the streets out of the city gate into the open

fields. Sometimes despair gripped me, but then hope returned. I

recollected having accompanied the secretary to the commercial court to

deposit the bond. There I had waited in the gateway while he had gone

upstairs alone. When he came down he told me that everything was in

order and that the receipt would be sent to my residence. As a matter of

fact I had received none, but there was still a possibility. At daybreak

I returned to the city, and made straightway for the residence of the

secretary. But the people there laughed and asked whether I hadn't read

the papers? The commercial court was only a few doors away. I had the

clerks examine the records, but neither his name nor mine could be

found. There was no indication that the sum had ever been paid, and thus

the disaster was certain. But that wasn't all, for inasmuch as a

partnership contract had been drawn up, several of his creditors

insisted upon seizing my person, which the court, however, would not

permit. For this decision I was profoundly grateful, although it

wouldn't have made much difference in the end.

"I may as well confess that the grocer and his daughter had, in the

course of these disagreeable developments, quite receded into the

background. Now that things had calmed down and I was considering what

steps to take next, the remembrance of that last evening came vividly

back to my mind. The old man, selfish as he was, I could understand very

well; but the girl! Once in a while it occurred to me that if I had

taken care of my money and been able to offer her a comfortable

existence, she might have even--but she wouldn't have accepted me." With

that he surveyed his wretched figure with hands outstretched. "Besides,

she disliked my courteous behavior toward everybody."

"Thus I spent entire days thinking and planning. One evening at

twilight--it was the time I had usually spent in the store--I had

transported myself in spirit to the accustomed place. I could hear them

speaking, hear them abusing me; it even seemed as though they were

ridiculing me. Suddenly I heard a rustling at the door; it opened, and a

woman entered. It was Barbara. I sat riveted to my chair, as though I

beheld a ghost. She was pale, and carried a bundle under her arm. When

she had reached the middle of the room she remained standing, looked at

the bare walls and the wretched furniture, and heaved a deep sigh. Then

she went to the wardrobe which stood on one side against the wall,

opened her bundle containing some shirts and handkerchiefs--she had been

attending to my laundry during the past few weeks--and pulled out the

drawer. When she beheld the meagre contents she lifted her hands in

astonishment, but immediately began to arrange the linen and put away

the pieces she had brought, whereupon she stepped back from the bureau.

Then she looked straight at me and, pointing with her finger to the open

drawer, she said, 'Five shirts and three handkerchiefs. I'm bringing

back what I took away.' So saying she slowly closed the drawer, leaned

against the wardrobe, and began to cry aloud. It almost seemed as though

she were going to faint, for she sat down on a chair beside the wardrobe

and covered her face with her shawl. By her convulsive breathing I could

see that she was still weeping. I had approached her softly and took her

hand, which she willingly left in mine. But when, in order to make her

look up, I moved my hand up to the elbow of her limp arm, she rose

quickly, withdrew her hand, and said in a calm voice, 'Oh, what's the

use of it all? You've made yourself and us unhappy; but yourself most of

all, and you really don't deserve any pity'--here she became more

agitated--'since you're so weak that you can't manage your own affairs

and so credulous that you trust everybody, a rogue as soon as an honest

man--and yet I'm sorry for you! I've come to bid you farewell. You may

well look alarmed. And it's all your doing. I've got to go out among

common people, something that I've always dreaded; but there's no help

for it. I've shaken hands with you, so farewell, and forever!' I saw the

tears coming to her eyes again, but she shook her head impatiently and

went out. I felt rooted to the spot. When she had reached the door she

turned once more and said, 'Your laundry is now in order. Take good care

of it, for hard times are coming!' And then she raised her hand, crossed

herself, and cried, 'God be with you, James! Forever and ever, Amen!'

she added in a lower voice, and was gone.

"Not until then did I regain the use of my limbs. I hurried after her

and called to her from the landing, whereupon she stopped on the

stairway, but when I went down a step she called up, 'Stay where you

are,' descended the rest of the way, and passed out of the door.

"I've known hard days since then, but none to equal this one. The

following was scarcely less hard to bear, for I wasn't quite clear as to

how things stood with me. The next morning, therefore, I stole over to

the grocery store in the hope of possibly receiving some explanation. No

one seemed to be stirring, and so I walked past and looked into the

store. There I saw a strange woman weighing goods and counting out

change. I made bold to enter, and asked whether she had bought the

store. 'Not yet,' she said. 'And where are the owners?' 'They left this

morning for Langenlebarn.' [63] 'The daughter, too?' I stammered. 'Why,

of course,' she said, 'she went there to be married.'

"In all probability the woman told me then what I learned subsequently

from others. The Langenlebarn butcher, the same one I had met in the

store on my first visit, had been pursuing the girl for some time with

offers of marriage, which she had always rejected until finally, a few

days before, pressed by her father and in utter despair, she had given

her consent. Father and daughter had departed that very morning, and

while we were talking, Barbara was already the butcher's wife.

"As I said, the woman no doubt told me all this, but I heard nothing and

stood motionless, till finally customers came, who pushed me aside. The

woman asked me gruffly whether there was anything else I wanted,

whereupon I took my departure.

"You'll believe me, my dear sir," he continued, "when I tell you that I

now considered myself the most wretched of mortals, but it wasn't for

long, for as I left the store and looked back at the small windows at

which Barbara no doubt had often stood and looked out, a blissful

sensation came over me. I felt that she was now free of all care,

mistress of her own home, that she did not have to bear the sorrow and

misery that would have been hers had she cast in her lot with a homeless

wanderer--and this thought acted like a soothing balm, and I blessed her

and her destiny.

"As my affairs went from bad to worse, I decided to earn my living by

means of music. As long as my money lasted, I practised and studied the

works of the great masters, especially the old ones, copying all of the

music. But when the last penny had been spent, I made ready to turn my

knowledge to account. I made a beginning in private circles, a gathering

at the house of my landlady furnishing the first opportunity. But as the

compositions I rendered didn't meet with approval, I visited the

courtyards of houses, believing that among so many tenants there must be

a few who value serious music. Finally, I even stood on public

promenades, where I really had the satisfaction of having persons stop

and listen, question me and pass on, not without a display of sympathy.

The fact that they left was the very object of my playing, and then I

saw that famous artists, whom I didn't flatter myself I equaled,

accepted money for their performances, sometimes very large sums. In

this way I have managed to make a scanty, but honest, living to this

day.

"After many years another piece of good fortune was granted to me.

Barbara returned. Her husband had prospered and acquired a butcher shop

in one of the suburbs. She was the mother of two children, the elder

being called James, like myself. My profession and the remembrance of

old times didn't permit me to intrude; but at last they sent for me to

give the elder boy lessons on the violin. He hasn't much talent to be

sure, and can play only on Sundays, since his father needs him in his

business during the week. But Barbara's song, which I have taught him,

goes very well, and when we practise and play in this way, the mother

sometimes joins in with her voice. She has, to be sure, changed greatly

in these many years; she has grown stout, and no longer cares much for

music; but the melody still sounds as sweet as of old."

With these words the old man took up his violin and began to play the

song, and kept on playing and playing without paying any further

attention to me. At last I had enough. I rose, laid a few pieces of

silver upon the table near me, and departed, while the old man continued

fiddling eagerly.

Soon after this incident I set out on a journey, from which I did not

return until the beginning of winter. New impressions had crowded out

the old, and I had almost forgotten my musician. It wasn't until the

ice broke up in the following spring and the low-lying suburbs were

flooded in consequence, that I was again reminded of him. The vicinity

of Gardener's Lane had become a lake. There seemed to be no need of

entertaining fears for the old man's life, for he lived high up under

the roof, whereas death had claimed its numerous victims among the

residents of the ground floor. But cut off from all help, how great

might not his distress be! As long as the flood lasted, nothing could be

done. Moreover, the authorities had done what they could to send food

and aid in boats to those cut off by the water. But when the waters had

subsided and the streets had become passable, I decided to deliver at

the address that concerned me most my share of the fund that had been

started for the benefit of the sufferers and that had assumed incredible

proportions.

The Leopoldstadt was in frightful condition. Wrecked boats and broken

tools were lying in the streets, while the cellars of some houses were

still filled with water covered with floating furniture. In order to

avoid the crowd I stepped aside toward a gate that stood ajar; as I

brushed by it yielded, and in the passageway I beheld a row of dead

bodies, which had evidently been picked up and laid out there for

official inspection. Here and there I could even see unfortunate victims

inside the rooms, still clinging to the iron window bars. For lack of

time and men it was absolutely impossible to take an official census of

so many fatalities.

Thus I went on and on. On all sides weeping and tolling of funeral

bells, anxious mothers searching for their children and children looking

for their parents. At last I reached Gardener's Lane. There also the

mourners of a funeral procession were drawn up, seemingly at some

distance, however, from the house I was bound for. But as I came nearer

I noticed by the preparations and the movements of the people that there

was some connection between the funeral procession and the gardener's

house. At the gate stood a respectable looking man, somewhat advanced in

years, but still vigorous. In his high top-boots, yellow leather

breeches, and long coat, he looked like a country butcher. He was giving

orders, but in the intervals conversed rather indifferently with the

bystanders. I passed him and entered the court. The old gardener's wife

came toward me, recognized me at once, and greeted me with tears in her

eyes. "Are you also honoring us?" she said, "Alas, our poor old man!

He's playing with the angels, who can't be much better than he was here

below. The good man was sitting up there safe in his room; but when the

water came and he heard the children scream, he jumped down and helped;

he dragged and carried them to safety, until his breathing sounded like

a blacksmith's bellows. And when toward the very last--you can't have

your eyes everywhere--it was found that my husband had forgotten his

tax-books and a few paper gulden in his wardrobe, the old man took an

axe, entered the water which by that time reached up to his chest, broke

open the wardrobe and fetched everything like the faithful creature he

was. In this way he caught a cold, and as we couldn't summon aid at

once, he became delirious and went from bad to worse, although we did

what we could and suffered more than he did himself. For he sang

incessantly, beating time and imagining that he was giving lessons. When

the water had subsided somewhat and we were able to call the doctor and

the priest, he suddenly raised himself in bed, turned his head to one

side as though he heard something very beautiful in the distance,

smiled, fell back, and was dead. Go right up stairs; he often spoke of

you. The lady is also up there. We wanted to have him buried at our

expense, but the butcher's wife would not allow it."

She urged me to go up the steep staircase to the attic-room. The door

stood open, and the room itself had been cleared of everything except

the coffin in the centre, which, already closed, was waiting for the

pall-bearers. At the head sat a rather stout woman no longer in the

prime of life, in a colored cotton dress, but with a black shawl and a

black ribbon in her bonnet. It seemed almost as though she could never

have been beautiful. Before her stood two almost grown-up children, a

boy and a girl, whom she was evidently instructing how to behave at the

funeral. Just as I entered she was pushing the boy's arm away from the

coffin, on which he had been leaning in rather awkward fashion; then she

carefully smoothed the projecting corners of the shroud. The gardener's

wife led me up to the coffin, but at that moment the trombones began to

play, and at the same time the butcher's voice was heard from the

street, "Barbara, it's time." The pall-bearers appeared and I withdrew

to make room for them. The coffin was lifted and carried down, and the

procession began to move. First came the school children with cross and

banner, then the priest and the sexton. Directly behind the coffin

marched the two children of the butcher, and behind them came the

parents. The man moved his lips incessantly, as if in devout prayer, yet

looked constantly about him in both directions. The woman was eagerly

reading in her prayer-book, but the two children caused her some

trouble. At one time she pushed them ahead, at another she held them

back; in fact the general order of the funeral procession seemed to

worry her considerably. But she always returned to her prayer-book. In

this way the procession arrived at the cemetery. The grave was open. The

children threw down the first handful of earth, being followed by their

father, who remained standing while their mother knelt, holding her book

close to her eyes. The grave-diggers completed their business, and the

procession, half disbanded, returned. At the door there was a slight

altercation, as the wife evidently considered some charge of the

undertaker too high. The mourners scattered in all directions. The old

musician was buried.

A few days later--it was a Sunday--I was impelled by psychological

curiosity and went to the house of the butcher, under the pretext that I

wished to secure the violin of the old man as a keepsake. I found the

family together, showing no token of recent distress. But the violin was

hanging beside the mirror and a crucifix on the opposite wall, the

objects being arranged symmetrically. When I explained the object of my

visit and offered a comparatively high price for the instrument, the man

didn't seem averse to concluding a profitable bargain. The woman,

however, jumped up from her chair and said, "Well, I should say not. The

violin belongs to James, and a few gulden more or less make no

difference to us." With that she took the instrument from the wall,

looked at it from all sides, blew off the dust, and laid it in the

drawer, which she thereupon closed violently, looking as though she

feared some one would steal it. Her face was turned away from me, so

that I couldn't see what emotions were passing over it. At this moment

the maid brought in the soup, and as the butcher, who didn't allow my

visit to disturb him, began in a loud voice to say grace, in which the

children joined with their shrill voices, I wished them a good appetite

and left the room. My last glance fell upon the wife. She had turned

around and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

* * * * *

MY JOURNEY TO WEIMAR[64]

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages. Brooklyn Commercial High School.

A journey is an excellent remedy for a perplexed state of mind. This

time the goal of my journey was to be Germany. The German geniuses had,

indeed, almost all departed from this life, but there was still one

living, Goethe, and the idea of speaking with him or even of merely

seeing him made me happy in anticipation. I never was, as was the

fashion at that time, a blind worshipper of Goethe, any more than I was

of any other one poet. True poetry seemed to me to lie where they met on

common ground; their individual characteristics lent them, on the one

hand, the charm of individuality, while, on the other hand, they shared

the general propensity of mankind to err. Goethe, in particular, had,

since the death of Schiller, turned his attention from poetry to

science. By distributing his talents over too many fields, he

deteriorated in each; his latest poetic productions were tepid or cool,

and when, for the sake of pose, he turned to the classical, his poetry

became affected. The impassiveness which he imparted to that period

contributed perhaps more than anything else to the decadence of poetry,

inasmuch as it opened the door to the subsequent coarseness of Young

Germany, of popular poetry, and of the Middle-high German trash. The

public was only too glad to have once again something substantial to

feed upon. Nevertheless, Goethe is one of the greatest poets of all

time, and the father of our poetry. Klopstock gave the first impulse,

Lessing blazed the trail, Goethe followed it. Perhaps Schiller means

more to the German nation, for a people needs strong, sweeping

impressions; Goethe, however, appears to be the greater poet. He fills

an entire page in the development of the human mind, while Schiller

stands midway between Racine and Shakespeare. Little as I sympathized

with Goethe's most recent activity, and little as I could expect him to

consider the author of _The Ancestress_ and _The Golden Fleece_ worthy

of any consideration, in view of the dispassionate quietism which he

affected at the time, I nevertheless felt that the mere sight of him

would be sufficient to inspire me with new courage. _Dormit puer, non

mortuus est_. (The boy sleeps, he is not dead.)

* * * * *

At last I arrived in Weimar and took quarters in "The Elephant," a

hostelry at that time famous throughout Germany and the ante-room, as it

were, to the living Valhalla of Weimar. From there I dispatched the

waiter with my card to Goethe, inquiring whether he would receive me.

The waiter returned with the answer that His Excellency, the

Privy-councilor, was entertaining some guests and could not, therefore,

receive me at the moment. He would expect me in the evening for tea.

I dined at the hotel. My name had become known through my card and the

report of my presence spread through the town, so that I made many

acquaintances.

Toward evening I called on Goethe. In the reception-room I found quite a

large assemblage waiting for His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, who

had not yet made his appearance. Among these there was a court

councilor, Jacob or Jacobs, with his daughter, whom Goethe had

entertained at dinner. The daughter, who later won a literary reputation

under the pseudonym of Talvj, was as young as she was beautiful, and as

beautiful as she was cultured, and so I soon lost my timidity and in my

conversation with the charming young lady almost forgot that I was in

Goethe's house. At last a side door opened, and he himself entered.

Dressed in black, the star[65] on his breast, with erect, almost stiff

bearing, he stepped among us with the air of a monarch granting an

audience. He exchanged a few words with one and another of his guests,

and finally crossed the room and addressed me. He inquired whether

Italian literature was cultivated to any great extent in our country. I

told him, which was a fact, that the Italian language was, indeed,

widely known, since all officials were required to learn it; Italian

literature, on the other hand, was completely neglected; the fashion was

rather to turn to English literature, which, despite its excellence, had

an admixture of coarseness that seemed to me to be anything but

advantageous to the present state of German culture, especially of

poetry. Whether my opinion pleased him or not, I have no means of

knowing; I am almost inclined to believe it did not, inasmuch as he was

at that very time in correspondence with Lord Byron. He left me, talked

with others, returned, conversed I no longer remember on what subjects,

finally withdrew, and we were dismissed.

I confess that I returned to the hostelry in a most unpleasant frame of

mind. It was not that my vanity had been offended--on the contrary,

Goethe had treated me more kindly and more attentively than I had

anticipated--but to see the ideal of my youth, the author of _Faust_,

_Clavigo_, and _Egmont_, in the rôle of a formal minister presiding at

tea brought me down from my celestial heights. Had his manner been rude

or had he shown me the door, it would have pleased me better. I almost

repented having gone to Weimar.

Consequently I determined to devote the following day to sightseeing,

and ordered horses at the inn for the day following. On the morning of

the next day visitors of all sorts put in an appearance, among them the

amiable and respected Chancellor Müller, and, above all, my

fellow-countryman Hummel, who for many years had been occupying the

position of musical director in Weimar. He had left Vienna before my

poetry had attracted attention, so that we had not become acquainted

with each other. It was almost touching to witness the joy with which

this ordinarily unsociable man greeted me and took possession of me. In

the first place I probably revived in him memories of his native city,

which he had left with reluctance; then, too, it probably gave him

satisfaction to find his literary countryman honored and respected in

Weimar, where he heard nothing but disparaging opinions regarding the

intellectual standing of Austria. And, finally, he had an opportunity of

conversing with a Viennese in his home dialect, which he had preserved

pure and unadulterated while living among people who spoke quite

differently. I do not know whether it was the contrast, or whether this

really was the worst German I had ever heard in my life. While we were

planning to visit some points of interest in Weimar, and while

Chancellor Müller, who had probably noticed my depression, was assuring

me that Goethe's formality was nothing but the embarrassment always

displayed by him on meeting a stranger for the first time, the waiter

entered and handed me a card containing an invitation from Goethe to

dine with him the next day. I therefore had to prolong my stay and to

countermand the order for the horses. The morning was passed in visiting

the places that had become famous through their literary associations.

Schiller's house interested me most of all, and I was especially

delighted to find in the poet's study, really an attic-room in the

second story, an old man who is said to have acted as prompter at the

theatre in Schiller's time, teaching his grandson to read. The little

boy's open and intelligently animated expression prompted the illusion

that out of Schiller's study a new Schiller might some day emerge--an

illusion which, to be sure, has not been realized.

The exact order of events is now confused in my mind. I believe it was

on this first day that I dined with Hummel _en famille_. There I found

his wife, formerly the pretty singer, Miss Röckel, whom I could well

remember in page's attire and close-fitting silk tights. Now she was an

efficient, respected housewife, who vied with her husband in amiability.

I felt myself strongly drawn to the whole family and, in spite of his

rather mechanical disposition, I honored and venerated Hummel as the

last genuine pupil of Mozart.

In the evening I attended the theatre with Chancellor Müller, where an

unimportant play was being given, in which, however, Graff, Schiller's

first Wallenstein, had a rôle. I saw nothing particularly remarkable in

him, and when I was told that, after the first performance, Schiller had

rushed upon the stage, embraced Graff, and exclaimed that now for the

first time did he understand his Wallenstein, I thought to myself--how

much greater might the great poet have become had he ever known a public

and real actors! It is remarkable, by the way, that Schiller, who is not

at bottom very objective, lends himself so perfectly to an objective

representation. He became figurative, while believing himself to be only

eloquent--one more proof of his incomparable genius. In Goethe we find

the exact opposite. While he is ordinarily called objective and is so to

a great extent, his characters lose in the actual representation. His

figurativeness is only for the imagination; in the representation the

delicate, poetic tinge is necessarily lost. However, these are

reflections for another time; they do not belong here.

At last the momentous day with its dinner-hour arrived, and I went to

Goethe. The other guests, all of them men, were already assembled, the

charming Talvj having departed with her father the morning after the

tea-party and Goethe's daughter-in-law being absent from Weimar at the

time. To the latter and to her daughter, who died when quite young, I

later became very much attached. As I advanced into the room Goethe came

toward me, and was now as amiable and cordial as he had recently been

formal and cold. I was deeply moved. When we went in to dinner, and

Goethe, who had become for me the embodiment of German Poetry and,

because of the immeasurable distance between us, almost a mythological

being, took my hand to lead me into the dining-room, the boy in me

manifested itself once again and I burst into tears. Goethe took great

pains to conceal my foolish emotion. I sat next to him at dinner and he

was more cheerful and talkative than he had been for a long time, as the

guests asserted later. The conversation, enlivened by him, became

general, but Goethe frequently turned to me individually. However, I

cannot recall what he said, except a good joke regarding Müllner's

_Midnight Journal_. Unfortunately I made no notes concerning this

journey, or, rather, I did begin a diary, but as the accident I had in

Berlin made it at first impossible for me to write and later difficult,

a great gap ensued. This deterred me from continuing it, and, besides,

the difficulty of writing remained, even in Weimar. I therefore

determined to fill in what was lacking immediately after my return to

Vienna, while the events were still fresh in my memory. But when I

arrived there some other work demanded immediate attention, and the

matter soon escaped my mind; and therefore I retained in my memory

nothing but general impressions of what I had almost called the most

important moment of my life. Only one occurrence at dinner stands out in

my memory--namely, in the ardor of the conversation I yielded to an old

habit of breaking up the piece of bread beside me into unsightly crumbs.

Goethe lightly touched each individual crumb with his finger and

arranged them in a little symmetrical heap. Only after the lapse of some

time did I notice this, and then I discontinued my handiwork.

As I was taking my leave, Goethe requested me to come the next morning

and have myself sketched, for he was in the habit of having drawings

made of those of his visitors who interested him. They were done in

black crayon by an artist especially engaged for the work, and the

pictures were then put into a frame which hung in the reception-room for

this purpose, being changed in regular rotation every week. This honor

was also bestowed upon me.

When I arrived the next morning the artist had not yet appeared; I was

therefore directed to Goethe, who was walking up and down in his little

garden. The cause of his stiff bearing before strangers now became clear

to me. The years had not passed without leaving some traces. As he

walked about in the garden, one could see that the upper part of his

body, his head and shoulders, were bent slightly forward. This he wished

to hide from strangers, and hence that forced straightening-up which

produced an unpleasant impression. The sight of him in this unaffected

carriage, wearing a long dressing-gown, a small skull-cap on his white

hair, had something infinitely touching about it. He looked like a king,

and again like a father. We walked up and down, engaged in conversation.

He mentioned my _Sappho_ and seemed to think well of it, thus in a way

praising himself, for I had followed fairly closely in his footsteps.

When I complained of my isolated position in Vienna he remarked what we

have since read in his printed works, that man can do efficient work

only in the company of likeminded or congenial spirits. If he and

Schiller had attained universal recognition, they owed it largely to

this stimulating and supplementing reciprocal influence.

In the meantime the artist had arrived. We entered the house and I was

sketched. Goethe had gone into his room, whence he emerged from time to

time to satisfy himself as to the progress of the picture, which pleased

him when completed. When the artist had departed Goethe had his son

bring in some of his choicest treasures. There was his correspondence

with Lord Byron; everything relating to his acquaintance with the

Empress and the Emperor of Austria at Karlsbad; and finally the imperial

Austrian copyright of his collected works. This latter he seemed to

value very highly, either because he liked the conservative attitude of

Austria, or because he regarded it as an oddity in contradistinction to

the usual policy pursued in literary matters by this country. These

treasures were wrapped separately in half-oriental fashion in pieces of

silk, Goethe handling them with reverence. At last I was most graciously

dismissed.

In the course of the day Chancellor Müller suggested my visiting Goethe

toward evening; he would be alone, and my visit would by no means be

unwelcome to him. Not until later did it occur to me that Müller could

not have made the suggestion without Goethe's knowledge.

Now I committed my second blunder in Weimar. I was afraid to be alone

with Goethe for an entire evening, and after considerable vacillation

decided not to go. Several elements combined to produce this fear. In

the first place, it seemed to me that there was nothing within the whole

range of my intellect worthy of being displayed before Goethe. Secondly,

it was not until later that I learned to place the proper value upon my

own works by comparing them with those of my contemporaries, the former

appearing exceedingly crude and insignificant in contrast with the works

of my predecessors, especially here in the home of German poetry.

Finally, as I stated before, I had left Vienna with the feeling that my

poetic talent had completely exhausted itself, a feeling which was

intensified in Weimar to the point of actual depression. It seemed to me

an utterly unworthy proceeding to fill Goethe's ears with lamentations

and to listen to words of encouragement for which there seemed to be no

guarantee of fulfilment.

Yet there was some method in this madness after all. Goethe's aversion

at that time for anything violent and forced was well known to me. Now I

was of the opinion that calmness and deliberation are appropriate only

to one who is capable of introducing such a wealth of thought into his

works as Goethe has done in his _Iphigenia_ and _Tasso_. At the same

time I held the opinion that every one must emphasize those qualities

with which he is most strongly endowed, and these in my case were at

that time warmth of feeling and vividness of imagination. Occupying, as

I then did, the viewpoint of impartial observation, I felt that I was

far too weak to defend against Goethe the causes of such divergence from

his own views, and I had far too much reverence for him to accept his

exposition with pretended approval or in hypocritical silence.

At all events I did not go, and that displeased Goethe. He had good

cause to feel astonished that I should display such indifference to the

proffered opportunity of enlightening him concerning my works and

myself; or else he came nearer to the truth, and imagined that _The

Ancestress_ and my predilection for similar effusions, which were

repugnant to him, were not entirely quenched within me; or perhaps he

divined my entire mood, and concluded that an unmanly character was

bound to ruin even a great talent. From that time on he was much colder

toward me.

But as far as this unmanliness is concerned, I confess, as I have

previously done, to falling a prey to this weakness whenever I find

myself confronted with a confused mass of sensations of lesser

importance, especially with goodwill, reverence, and gratitude. Whenever

I was able to define the opposing factors sharply to myself in the

rejection of the bad as well as in the perseverance in a conviction, I

displayed both before and after this period a firmness which, indeed,

might even be called obstinacy. But in general it may safely be

asserted: Only the union of character and talent produces what is called

genius.

On one of these days I was also commanded to appear before the grand

duke, whom I met in all his simplicity and unaffectedness in the

so-called Roman House. He conversed with me for over an hour, and my

description of Austrian conditions seemed to interest him. Not he, but

most of the others, hinted at the desire of acquiring my services for

the Weimar theatre--a desire that did not coincide with my own

inclination.

When on the fourth day of my stay I paid my farewell visit to Goethe, he

was friendly, but somewhat reserved. He expressed astonishment at my

leaving Weimar so soon, and added that they would all be glad to hear

from me occasionally. "They," then, would be glad, not he. Even in later

years he did not do me justice, for I do consider myself the best poet

that has appeared after him and Schiller, in spite of the gulf that

separates me from them. That all this did not lessen my love and

reverence for him, I need scarcely say.

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN AS A LETTER WRITER

BY WALTER R. SPALDING, A.M.

Associate Professor of Music, Harvard University

The first musician to whom a place among the representative masters of

German literature may justly be assigned is Beethoven, and this fact is

so significant and so closely connected with the subsequent development

both of music and literature that the reasons for such a statement

should be set forth in detail. Although Haydn kept a note-book, still

extant, during his two visits to London, and although Mozart wrote the

average number of letters, from no one of the musicians prior to

Beethoven have we received, in writings which can be classed as

literature, any expression of their personalities. Their intellectual

and imaginative activity was manifested almost exclusively in music, and

their interest in whatever lay outside the musical horizon was very

slight. In the written words of neither Haydn nor Mozart do we find any

reference to the poetical and prose works of Germany or of other

nations, nor is there any evidence that their imaginations were

influenced by suggestions drawn from literature. Famous though they were

as musicians by reason of their sincere and masterful handling of the

raw material of music, there is so little depth of thought in their

compositions that many of them have failed to live. Neither Haydn nor

Mozart can be considered as a great character and we miss the note of

sublimity in their music, although it often has great vitality and

charm. Beethoven, however, was a thinker in tones and often in words.

[Illustration: BEETHOVEN]

His symphonies are human documents, and even had he not written a single

note of music we have sufficient evidence in verbal form to convince us

that his personality was one of remarkable power and that music was only

one way, though, to be sure, the foremost, of expressing the depth of

his feeling and the range of his mental activity. In distinction from

his predecessors, who were merely musicians, Beethoven was a man first

and a musician second, and the lasting vitality in his works is due to

their broad human import; they evidently came from a character endowed

with a rich and fertile imagination, from one who looked at life from

many sides. Several of his most famous compositions were founded on

works of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller, and the Heroic Symphony

bears witness to his keen interest in the momentous political changes of

his time and in the growth of untrammeled human individuality. No mere

manipulator of sounds and rhythms could have impressed the fastidious

nobility of Vienna to the high degree chronicled by contemporary

testimony. Beethoven wished to be known as a _Tondichter_, i.e., a

first-hand creator, and his whole work was radically different from the

rather cautious and imitative methods which had characterized former

composers. It was through the cultivated von Breuning family of Bonn

that the young Beethoven became acquainted with English literature, and

his growing familiarity with it exerted a strong influence upon his

whole life and undoubtedly increased the natural vigor of his

imagination, for the literature of England surpassed anything which had

so far been produced by Germany. Later, in 1823, when the slavery

debates were going on in Parliament, he used to read with keen interest

the speeches of Lord Brougham.

In estimating the products of human imagination during the last century,

a fact of great significance is the relationship of the arts of

literature and of music. Numerous examples might be cited of men who

were almost equally gifted in expressing themselves in either words or

musical sounds--notably von Weber, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Spohr, Schumann, and

Mendelssohn, this dual activity reaching a remarkable climax in Richard

Wagner, who was both a great dramatic poet and an equally supreme

musician. The same tendency is manifested by leaders of thought in other

nations. Thus the French Berlioz and St. Saëns are equally noted as

composers and men of letters; the Italian Boito is an able dramatist as

well as composer; and, among modern instances, Debussy, d'Indy, and

Strauss have shown high literary as well as musical ability. To turn to

the other side of this duality, allusions to music in works of both

prose and poetry have become increasingly frequent during the nineteenth

century, and the musical art is no longer considered a mysterious

abstraction entirely divorced from the outward world of men and events.

It is a long step from Goethe, who was entirely unable to grasp the

meaning of Beethoven's symphonies, to such men as Heine, who has made

some very illuminating comments on various composers and their music;

Max Müller, a highly cultivated musical amateur; Schopenhauer, whose

esthetic principles so deeply influenced Wagner; and Nietzsche, a

musician of considerable technical ability. To these names should be

added that of Robert Browning who, together with Shakespeare, has shown

a truer insight into the real nature of music than any other English

writers have manifested.

With Beethoven, then, music ceases to be an opportunity for the display

of mere abstract skill and takes its place on an equality with the arts

of poetry and painting as a means of intense personal expression. If the

basis of all worth in literature is that the writer shall have something

genuine to say, Beethoven's letters are certainly literature, for they

are the direct revelation of a great and many-sided personality and

furnish invaluable testimony as to just what manner of man he was--too

great indeed for music wholly to contain him. The Letters are not to be

read for their felicity of expression, as one might approach the letters

of Stevenson or Lamb; for Beethoven, even in his music, always valued

substance more than style, or, at any rate, kept style subservient to

vitality of utterance. In fact, one modern French musician claims that

he had no taste! He was not gifted with the literary charm and subtlety

of his great follower, Hector Berlioz, and had no practise as a

journalist or a critic. As his deafness increased after the year 1800

and he was therefore forced to live a life of retirement, he committed

his thoughts more and more to writing, and undoubtedly left to the world

a larger number of letters than if he had been taking a normal part in

the activities of his fellowmen.

Particular attention is called to the variety of Beethoven's

correspondents and to their influential position in the artistic and

social life of that period. In the Will, number 55, a most impassioned

expression of feeling, Beethoven lays bare his inmost soul, and with an

eloquence seldom surpassed has transformed cold words into living

symbols of emotion. The immortal power contained in his music finds its

parallel in this document. He who appeals to our deepest emotions

commands for all time our reverent allegiance. In addition to the

letters there is an extensive diary and also numerous conversation

books. All these writings are valuable, not only for themselves, but

because they confirm in an unmistakable way certain of the salient

characteristics of his musical compositions. With Beethoven we find in

instrumental music, practically for the first time, a prevailing note of

sublimity. He must have been a religious man in the truest sense of the

term, with the capacity to realize the mystery and grandeur of human

destiny, and numerous passages from the letters give eloquent expression

to an analogous train of serious thought. (See letters 1017 and 1129.)

One of his favorite books was Sturm's _Betrachtungen über die Werke

Gottes in der Natur_ ("Contemplations upon the Works of God in Nature"),

and from his diary of 1816 we have the quotation which was the basis of

his creed--"God is immaterial, and for this reason transcends every

conception. Since he is invisible He can have no form. But from what we

observe in His work we may conclude that He is eternal, omnipotent,

omniscient, and omnipresent."

Although some modern critics have doubted whether music without the

association of words can express humor, the introduction of this element

into symphonic music is generally considered one of Beethoven's greatest

achievements. While it is true that if any one listening to the scherzos

of the Third and Eighth symphonies asserts that they mean nothing

humorous to him no one can gainsay him, we know that Beethoven intended

these movements to be expressions of his overflowing humorous spirits

and the suggestive term "scherzo" is his own invention. In music, as in

literature, much hinges upon the definition of humor, and there is the

same distinction in each art between wit--light and playful, and

humor--broad, serious, and, at times, even grim. A genuine humorist is

always a deep thinker, one who sees all sides of human nature--the great

traits and the petty ones. The poet Lowell has defined humor as

consisting in the contrast of two ideas, and in a Beethoven scherzo the

gay and the pathetic are so intermingled that we are in constant

suspense between laughter and tears. A humorist, furthermore, is a

person of warm heart, who looks with sympathetic affection upon the

incongruities of human nature. In fact, both the expression and the

perception of humor are social acts, as may be seen from the development

of this subject by the philosopher Bergson in his brilliant essay _On

Laughter_. That Beethoven the humorist was closely related to Beethoven

the humanist, and that the expression of humor in his music--something

quite different from the facile wit and cleverness of the Haydn

minuet--was inevitable with him, is clearly proved by the presence of

the same spirit in so many of the letters. Too much stress has been laid

by Beethoven's biographers upon his buffoonery and fondness for

practical jokes. At bottom he was most tender-hearted and sympathetic;

his nature, of volcanic impetuosity, a puzzling mixture of contradictory

emotions. In but very few of his great works is the element of humor

omitted, and its expression ranges all the way from the uproariously

comic to the grimly tragic. Some of his scherzos reveal the same

fantastic caprice which is found in the medieval gargoyles of Gothic

architecture.

Beethoven's letters, then, are to be considered as the first distinct

evidence we have of that change in the musical sense which has brought

about such important developments in the trend of modern music. Just as

in Beethoven's works we generally feel that there is something behind

the notes, and as he is said always to have composed with some poetical

picture in his mind, so the music of our time has become programmistic

in the wide sense of the term, no longer a mere embodiment of the laws

of its own being but charged with vital and dramatic import, closely

related to all artistic expression and to the currents of daily life.

Familiarity with the selection of letters here published cannot fail to

contribute to a deeper enjoyment of Beethoven's music, for through them

we realize that the universality of the artist was the direct

consequence of the emotional breadth of the man. All art is a union of

emotion and intellect, and their perfect balance is the paramount

characteristic of this master.

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN'S LETTERS[66]

TRANSLATED BY J.S. SHEDLOCK

NO. 8

TO DR. FRANZ WEGELER IN VIENNA

(Between 1794-1796)

My dearest, my best one!

What a horrid picture you have drawn to me of myself. I recognize it; I

do not deserve your friendship. You are so noble, so kindly disposed,

and now for the first time I do not dare to compare myself with you; I

have fallen far below you. Alas! for weeks I have given pain to my best,

my noblest friends. You believe I have ceased to be kind-hearted, but,

thank heaven, 'tis not so! It was not intentional, thought-out malice on

my part, which caused me to act thus; but my unpardonable

thoughtlessness, which prevented me from seeing the matter in the right

light. I am thoroughly ashamed for your sake, also for mine. I scarcely

venture to beg you to restore your friendship. Ah, Wegeler! _My only

consolation is that you knew me almost from my childhood_, and--oh! let

me say it myself--I was really always of good disposition, and in my

dealings always strove to be upright and honest; how, otherwise, could

you have loved me! Could I, then, in so short a time have suddenly

changed so terribly, so greatly to my disadvantage? Impossible that

these feelings for what is great and good should all of a sudden become

extinct! My Wegeler, dear and best one, venture once again to come to

the arms of your B. Trust to the good qualities which you formerly found

in him. I will vouch for it that the pure temple of holy friendship

which you will erect on them will forever stand firm; no chance event,

no storm will be able to shake its foundations--firm--eternal--our

friendship--forgiveness--forgetting--revival of dying, sinking

friendship. Oh, Wegeler! do not cast off this hand of reconciliation;

place your hand in mine--O God!--but no more! I myself come to you and

throw myself in your arms, and sue for the lost friend, and you will

give yourself to me full of contrition, who loves and ever will be

mindful of you.

BEETHOVEN.

I have just received your letter on my return home.

NO. 27

TO THE COMPOSER J.N. HUMMEL

(Vienna, circa 1799)

Do not come any more to me. You are a false fellow, and the hangman take

all such!

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 28

TO THE SAME

(The next day)

Good Friend Nazerl:

You are an honorable fellow, and I see you were right. So come this

afternoon to me. You will also find Schuppanzigh, and both of us will

blow you up, thump you, and shake you; so you will have a fine time of

it.

Your Beethoven, also named Mehlschoeberl, embraces you.

NO. 35

TO CARL AMENDA AT WIRBEN IN COURLAND

Vienna, June 1, 1800.

My Dear, My Good Amenda, My Heartily Beloved Friend:

With deep emotion, with mixed pain and pleasure, did I receive and read

your last letter. To what can I compare your fidelity, your attachment

to me. Oh! how pleasant it is that you have always remained so kind to

me; yes, I also know that you, of all men, are the most trustworthy. You

are no Viennese friend; no, you are one of those such as my native

country produces. How often do I wish you were with me, for your

Beethoven is most unhappy and at strife with nature and the Creator. The

latter I have often cursed for exposing His creatures to the smallest

chance, so that frequently the richest buds are thereby crushed and

destroyed. Only think that the noblest part of me, my sense of hearing,

has become very weak. Already when you were with me I noted traces of

it, and I said nothing. Now it has become worse, and it remains to be

seen whether it can ever be healed. * * * What a sad life I am now

compelled to lead! I must avoid all that is near and dear to me, and

then to be among such wretched egotistical beings as ----, etc.! I can

say that among all Lichnowski has best stood the test. Since last year

he has settled on me 600 florins, which, together with the good sale of

my works, enables me to live without anxiety. Everything I write, I can

sell immediately five times over, and also be well paid. * * * Oh! how

happy should I now be if I had my perfect hearing, for I should then

hasten to you. As it is, I must in all things be behindhand; my best

years will slip away without bringing forth what, with my talent and my

strength, I ought to have accomplished. I must now have recourse to sad

resignation. I have, it is true, resolved not to worry about all this,

but how is it possible? Yes, Amenda, if, six months hence, my malady is

beyond cure, then I lay claim to your help. You must leave everything

and come to me. I will travel (my malady interferes least with my

playing and composition, most only in conversation), and you must be my

companion. I am convinced good fortune will not fail me. With whom need

I be afraid of measuring my strength? Since you went away I have written

music of all kinds except operas and sacred works.

Yes, do not refuse; help your friend to bear with his troubles, his

infirmity. I have also greatly improved my piano-forte playing. I hope

this journey may also turn to your advantage; afterwards you will always

remain with me. I have duly received all your letters, and although I

have answered only a few, you have been always in my mind; and my

heart, as always, beats tenderly for you. _Please keep as a great secret

what I have told you about my hearing; trust no one, whoever it may be,

with it_.

Do write frequently; your letters, however short they may be, console

me, do me good. I expect soon to get another one from you, my dear

friend. Don't lend out my _Quartet_ any more, because I have made many

changes in it. I have only just learnt how to write quartets properly,

as you will see when you receive them.

Now, my dear good friend, farewell! If perchance you believe that I can

show you any kindness here, I need not, of course, remind you to address

yourself first to

Your faithful, truly loving,

L. v. BEETHOVEN.

NO. 45

TO COUNTESS GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI

On the 6th July, 1801, in the morning

My Angel, My All, My Very Self:

Just a few words today, and indeed in pencil--with thine--only till

tomorrow is my room definitely engaged; what an unworthy waste of time

in such matters--why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks! Can our

love endure otherwise than through sacrifices, through restraint in

longing? Canst thou help not being wholly mine, can I, not being wholly

thine? Oh! gaze at nature in all its beauty, and calmly accept the

inevitable--love demands everything, and rightly so. _Thus is it for me

with thee, for thee with me_, only thou so easily forgettest that I must

live for myself and for thee--were we wholly united thou wouldst feel

this painful fact as little as I should--my journey was terrible. I

arrived here only yesterday morning at four o'clock, and as they were

short of horses the mail-coach selected another route--but what an awful

road! At the last stage but one I was warned against traveling by night;

they frightened me with a wood, but that only spurred me on--and I was

wrong, the coach must needs break down, the road being dreadful, a

swamp, a mere country road; without the postillions I had with me I

should have stuck on the way. Esterhazi, by the ordinary road, met with

the same fate with eight horses as I with four--yet it gave me some

pleasure, as successfully overcoming any difficulty always does. Now for

a quick change from without to within--we shall probably soon see each

other, besides, today I cannot tell thee what has been passing through

my mind during the past few days concerning my life--were our hearts

closely united I should not do things of this kind. My heart is full of

many things I have to say to thee--ah, there are moments in which I feel

that speech is powerless! Cheer up--remain my true, my only treasure, my

all!!! as I to thee. The gods must send the rest--what for us must be

and ought to be.

Thy faithful

LUDWIG.

Monday Evening, July 6.

Thou sufferest, thou my dearest love! I have just found out that the

letters must be posted very early Mondays, Thursdays--the only days when

the post goes from here to K. Thou sufferest--ah, where I am, art thou

also with me! I will arrange for myself and Thee; I will manage so that

I can live with thee; and what a life!!! But as it is--without thee!!!

Persecuted here and there by the kindness of men, which I little

deserve, and as little care to deserve. Humility of man toward man--it

pains me--and when I think of myself in connection with the universe,

what am I and what is He who is named the Greatest--and still this again

shows the divine in man. I weep when I think that probably thou wilt get

the first news from me only on Saturday evening. However much thou

lovest me, my love for thee is stronger; but never conceal thy thoughts

from me. Good-night! As I am taking the baths I must go to bed [two

words scratched through]. O God--so near! so far! Our love--is it not a

true heavenly edifice, firm as heaven's vault!

Good morning, on July 7.

While still in bed, my thoughts press to thee, my Beloved One, at moments

with joy, and then again with sorrow, waiting to see whether fate will

take pity on us. Either I must live wholly with thee, or not at all. Yes,

I have resolved to wander in distant lands, until I can fly to thy arms

and feel that with thee I have a real home; with thee encircling me

about, I can send my soul into the kingdom of spirits. Yes, unfortunately,

it must be so. Calm thyself, and all the more since thou knowest my

faithfulness toward thee! Never can another possess my heart,

never--never--O God! why must one part from what one so loves--and yet

my life in V. at present is a wretched life! Thy love has made me one of

the happiest and, at the same time, one of the unhappiest of men; at my

age I need a quiet, steady life--but is that possible in our situation?

My Angel, I have just heard that the post goes every day, and I must

therefore stop, so that you may receive the letter without delay. Be

calm--only by calm consideration of our existence can we attain our aim

to live together; be calm--love me--today--yesterday--what tearful

longing after thee--thee--thee--my life--my all--farewell! Oh, continue

to love me--never, never misjudge the faithful heart

Of Thy Beloved

Ever thine, ever thine, ever each other's.

NO. 55

TO HIS BROTHERS CARL AND ---- BEETHOVEN

O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or cynical,

how unjust are ye towards me! You do not know the secret cause of my

seeming so. From childhood onward, my heart and mind prompted me to be

kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great deeds. But

only think that, during the last six years, I have been in a wretched

condition, rendered worse by unintelligent physicians, deceived from

year to year with hopes of improvement, and then finally forced to the

prospect of _lasting infirmity_ (which may last for years, or even be

totally incurable). Born with a fiery, active temperament, even

susceptive of the diversions of society, I had soon to retire from the

world, to live a solitary life. At times, even, I endeavored to forget

all this, but how harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience

of my bad hearing! Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: Speak

louder, shout, for I am deaf. Alas! how could I declare the weakness of

a _sense_ which in me _ought_ to be more acute than in others--a sense

which _formerly_ I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as

few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed; no, I cannot do it.

Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would willingly mix

with you. My misfortune pains me doubly in that I am certain to be

misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in the society of my

fellow creatures, no refined conversations, no interchange of thought.

Almost alone, and mixing in society only when absolutely necessary, I am

compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling

of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed--for so

it was during these past six months which I spent in the country.

Ordered by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as

possible, he almost fell in with my present frame of mind, although many

a time I was carried away by my sociable inclinations. But how

humiliating was it, when some one standing close to me heard a distant

flute, and I heard _nothing_, or a _shepherd singing_, and again I heard

nothing. Such incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on

the point of putting an end to my life--_art_ alone restrained my hand.

Oh! it seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all

I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life--wretched,

indeed, and with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change can

throw me from the best into the worst state. _Patience_, I am told, I

must choose as my guide. I have done so--lasting, I hope, will be my

resolution to bear up until it pleases the inexorable Parcæ to break the

thread. Forced already, in my 28th year, to become a philosopher, it

is not easy--for an artist more difficult than for any one else. O

Divine Being, Thou who lookest down into my inmost soul, Thou

understandest; Thou knowest that love for mankind and a desire to do

good dwell therein! Oh, my fellow men, when one day you read this,

remember that you were unjust to me and let the unfortunate one console

himself if he can find one like himself, who, in spite of all obstacles

which nature has thrown in his way, has still done everything in his

power to be received into the ranks of worthy artists and men. You, my

brothers Carl and ----, as soon as I am dead, beg Professor Schmidt,

if he be still living, to describe my malady; and annex this written

account to that of my illness, so that at least the world, so far as is

possible, may become reconciled to me after my death. And now I declare

you both heirs to my small fortune (if such it may be called). Divide it

honorably and dwell in peace, and help each other. What you have done

against me has, as you know, long been forgiven. And you, brother Carl,

I especially thank you for the attachment you have shown toward me of

late. My prayer is that your life may be better, less troubled by cares,

than mine. Recommend to your children _virtue_; it alone can bring

happiness, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue which bore

me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my

not having laid violent hands on myself. Farewell, and love one another.

My thanks to all friends, especially _Prince Lichnowski_ and _Professor

Schmidt_. I should much like one of you to keep as an heirloom the

instruments given to me by Prince L., but let no strife arise between

you concerning them; if money should be of more service to you, just

sell them. How happy I feel, that, even when lying in my grave, I may be

useful to you!

So let it be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it come before I have

had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will come, my

hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably wish it

later--yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver me from a

state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall face thee

courageously. Farewell, and when I am dead do not entirely forget me.

This I deserve from you, for during my lifetime I often thought of you,

and how to make you happy. Be ye so.

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.

Heiligenstadt, October 6, 1802.

NO. 136

TO THERESE VON MALFATTI

(1807)

You receive herewith, honored Therese, what I promised, and had it not

been for serious hindrances you would have received more, in order to

show you that I always _offer more to my friends than I actually

promise_. I hope and have every reason to believe that you are nicely

occupied and as pleasantly entertained--but I hope not too much, so that

you may also think of us. It would probably be expecting too much of

you, or overrating my own importance, if I ascribed to you: "Men are not

only together when they are together; even he who is far away, who has

departed, is still in our thoughts." Who would ascribe anything of the

kind to the lively T., who takes life so easily?

Pray do not forget the pianoforte among your occupations, or, indeed,

music generally. You have such fine talent for it. Why not devote

yourself entirely to it--you who have such feeling for all that is

beautiful and good? Why will you not make use of this, in order that you

may recognize in so beautiful an art the higher perfection which casts

down its rays even on us. I am very solitary and quiet, although lights

now and again might awaken me; but since you all went away from here, I

feel in me a void which cannot be filled; my art, even otherwise so

faithful to me, has not been able to gain any triumph. Your piano is

ordered, and you will soon receive it. What a difference you will have

found between the treatment of the theme I improvised one evening, and

the way in which I recently wrote it down for you! Explain that to

yourself, but don't take too much punch to help you. How lucky you are,

to be able to go so soon to the country! I cannot enjoy that happiness

until the 8th. I am happy as a child at the thought of wandering among

clusters of bushes, in the woods, among trees, herbs, rocks. No man

loves the country more than I; for do not forests, trees, rocks reëcho

that for which mankind longs? Soon you will receive other compositions

of mine, in which you will not have to complain much about difficulties.

Have you read Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_, the _Schlegel translation of

Shakespeare_? One has much leisure in the country, and it will perhaps

be agreeable to you if I send you these works. I happen to have an

acquaintance in your neighborhood, so perhaps I shall come early some

morning and spend half an hour at your house, and be off again; notice

that I shall inflict on you the shortest _ennui_.

Commend me to the good wishes of your father, your mother, although I

can claim no right for so doing--and the same, likewise, to cousin MM.

Farewell, honored T. I wish you all that is good and beautiful in life.

Keep me, and willingly, in remembrance--forget my wild behavior. Be

convinced that no one more than myself can desire to know that your life

is joyous, prosperous, even though you take no interest in

Your most devoted servant and friend,

BEETHOVEN.

N.B.--It would really be very nice on your part to send me a few lines

to say in what way I can be of service here.

NO. 151

TO THE BIGOTS

(Probably Summer, 1808)

Dear Marie, Dear Bigot:

Only with the deepest regret am I forced to perceive that the purest,

most innocent, feelings can often be misconstrued. As you have received

me so kindly, it never occurred to me to explain it otherwise than that

you bestow on me your friendship. You must think me very vain or

small-minded, if you suppose that the civility itself of such excellent

persons as you are could lead me to believe that--I had at once won your

affection. Besides, it is one of my first principles never to stand in

other than friendly relationship with the wife of another man. Never by

such a relationship (as you suggest) would I fill my breast with

distrust against her who may one day share my fate with me--and so taint

for myself the most beautiful, the purest life.

It is perhaps possible that sometimes I have not joked with Bigot in a

sufficiently refined way; I have indeed told both of you that

occasionally I am very free in speech. I am perfectly natural with all

my friends, and hate all restraint. I now also count Bigot among them,

and if anything I do displeases him, friendship demands from him and you

to tell me so--and I will certainly take care not to offend him again;

but how can good Marie put such bad meaning on my actions!

With regard to my invitation to take a drive with you and Caroline, it

was natural that, as Bigot, the day before, was opposed to your going

out alone with me, I was forced to conclude that you both probably found

it unbecoming or objectionable--and when I wrote to you, I only wished

to make you understand that I saw no harm in it. And so, when I further

declared that I attached great value to your not declining, this was

only that I might induce you to enjoy the splendid, beautiful day; I was

thinking more of your and Caroline's pleasure than of mine, and I

thought, _if I declared that mistrust on your part or a refusal would be

a real offense to me_, by this means almost to compel you to yield to my

wish. The matter really deserves careful reflection on your part as to

how you can make amends for having spoilt this day so bright for me,

owing as much to my frame of mind as to the cheerful weather. When I

said that you misunderstand me, your present judgment of me shows that I

was quite right--not to speak of what you thought to yourself about it.

When I said that something bad would come of it if I came to you, this

was more as a joke. The object was to show you how much everything

connected with you attracts me, so that I have no greater wish than to

be able always to live with you; and that is the truth. Even supposing

there was a hidden meaning in it, the most holy friendship can often

have secrets, but on that account to misinterpret the secret of a friend

because one cannot at once fathom it--that you ought not to do. Dear

Bigot, dear Marie, never, never will you find me ignoble. From childhood

onwards I learnt to love virtue--and all that is beautiful and good. You

have deeply pained me; but it shall only serve to render our friendship

ever firmer. Today I am really not well, and it would be difficult for

me to see you. Since yesterday, after the quartet, my sensitiveness and

my imagination pictured to me the thought that I had caused you

suffering. I went at night to the ball for distraction, but in vain.

Everywhere the picture of you all pursued me; it kept saying to me--they

are so good and perhaps through you they are suffering; thoroughly

depressed, I hastened away. Write to me a few lines.

Your true friend BEETHOVEN embraces you all.

NO. 198

TO BREITKOPF AND HAERTEL

Vienna, August 8, 1809.

I have handed over to Kind and Co. a _sextet_ for 2 clarinets, 2

bassoons, 2 horns, and 2 German lieder or songs, so that they may reach

you as soon as possible--they are presents to you in return for all

those things which I asked you for _as presents_; the _Musik Zeitung_

which I had also forgotten--I remind you in a friendly way about it.

Perhaps you could let me have editions of Goethe's and Schiller's

complete works--from their literary abundance something _comes in to

you_, and I then send to you many things, i.e., _something which goes

out into all the world_. Those two poets are my favorite poets, also

Ossian, Homer, the latter whom I can, unfortunately, read only in

translation. So these (Goethe and Schiller) you have only to shoot out

from your literary store-house, and if you send them to me soon you

will make me perfectly happy, and all the more so, seeing that I hope to

pass the remainder of the summer in some cozy country corner. The sextet

is one of my early things, and, moreover, was written in one night; the

best one can say of it is that it was composed by an author who, at any

rate, has produced better works--and yet, for many, such works are the

best.

Farewell, and send very soon news to your most devoted

BEETHOVEN.

Of the 'cello Sonata I should like to have a few copies; I would indeed

beg you always to send me half a dozen copies; I never sell any--there

are, however, here and there poor _Musici_, to whom one cannot refuse a

thing of that sort.

NO. 220

TO BETTINA BRENTANO

Vienna, August 11, 1810.

Dearest Bettina (Friend!):

No finer Spring than the present one--I say that and also feel it,

because I have made your acquaintance. You yourself have probably seen

that in society I am like a frog (fish) on the sand, which turns round

and round, and cannot get away until a well-wishing Galatea puts him

again into the mighty sea. Yes, I was quite out of my element, dearest

Bettina; I was surprised by you at a moment when ill-humor was quite

master of me, but it actually disappeared at sight of you. I at once

perceived that you belonged to a different world from this absurd one,

to which, with the best will, one cannot open one's ears. I myself am a

wretched man and yet complain of others!--You will surely forgive me,

with your good heart, which is seen in your eyes, and with your

intelligence, which lies in your ears--at least our ears know how to

flatter when they listen. My ears, unfortunately, are a barrier-wall

through which I cannot easily hold friendly communication with men,

else--perhaps!--I should have had more confidence in you. So I could

only understand the great, intelligent look of your eyes, which so

impressed me that I can never forget it. Dear Bettina (friend), beloved

Maiden!--Art!--Who understands it, with whom can one speak concerning

this great goddess! How dear to me were the few days when we gossiped or

rather corresponded together! I have kept all the little notes on which

stand your clever, dear, very dear, answers; so I have, at any rate, to

thank my bad hearing that the best part of these fleeting conversations

has been noted down. Since you went away I have had vexatious hours,

hours of darkness, in which one can do nothing; after your departure I

roamed about for full three hours in the Schoenbrunner Alley, also on

the ramparts; but no angel met me who could take such hold on me as you,

angel!--Forgive, dearest Bettina (friend), this digression from the key;

I must have such intervals in order to give vent to my feelings. Then

you have written, have you not, to Goethe about me? I would willingly

hide my head in a sack, so as to hear and see nothing of what is going

on in the world, because you, dearest angel, will not meet me. But I

shall surely receive a letter from you? Hope nourishes me--it nourishes,

indeed, half the world; I have had it as my neighbor all my life--what

otherwise would have become of me? I here send, written with my own

hand, "Kennst du das Land"--in remembrance of the hour in which I made

your acquaintance. I also send the other which I have composed since I

parted from you dear, dearest heart!--

Heart, my heart, what bodes the crisis,

What oppresseth thee so sore?

What a strange, untoward life this!

I can fathom thee no more.

Yes, dearest Bettina (friend), send me an answer, write to me what will

happen to me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your most

faithful friend,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 295

TO EMILIE M. AT H.

Teplitz, July 17, 1812.

My Dear Good Emilie, My Dear Friend!

I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business and

constant illness must be my excuse. That I am here for the restoration

of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not snatch the laurel

wreaths from Handel, Haydn, Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I

am not.

Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of the esteem of

many men, which I do not deserve.

Continue, do not only practise art, but get at the very heart of it;

this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the Godhead. If,

my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without

hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, for he unfortunately

sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the

goal; and, though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have

reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant,

guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people than

to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come

to H., I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies

in man than those which cause him to rank among better men; where I find

this, there is my home.

If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here

where I shall remain for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all

one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family.

LUDWIG V. BEETHOVEN.

NO. 300

TO BETTINA VON ARNIM

Teplitz, August 15, 1812.

Dearest, good Bettina!

Kings and princes can certainly create professors, privy councilors, and

titles, and hang on ribbons of various orders, but they cannot create

great men, master-minds which tower above the rabble; this is beyond

them. Such men must therefore be held in respect. When two such as I and

Goethe meet, these grand gentlemen are forced to note what greatness, in

such as we are, means. Yesterday on the way home we met the whole

Imperial family. We saw them from afar approaching, and Goethe slipped

away from me and stood to one side. Say what I would, I could not induce

him to advance another step, so I pushed my hat on my head, buttoned up

my overcoat, and went, arms folded, into the thickest of the crowd.

Princes and sycophants drew up in a line; Duke Rudolph took off my hat,

after the Empress had first greeted me. Persons of rank _know_ me. To my

great amusement I saw the procession defile past Goethe. Hat in hand, he

stood at the side, deeply bowing. Then I mercilessly reprimanded him,

cast his sins in his teeth, especially those of which he was guilty

toward you, dearest Bettina, of whom we had just been speaking. Good

heavens! Had I been in your company, as he has, I should have produced

works of greater, far greater, importance. A musician is also a poet,

and the magic of a pair of eyes can suddenly cause him to feel

transported into a more beautiful world, where great spirits make sport

of him and set him mighty tasks. I cannot tell what ideas came into my

head when I made your acquaintance. In the little observatory during the

splendid May rain--that was a fertile moment for me; the most beautiful

themes then glided from your eyes into my heart, which one day will

enchant the world when Beethoven has ceased to conduct. If God grant me

yet a few years, then I must see you again, dear, dear Bettina; so calls

the voice within me which never errs. Even minds can love each other. I

shall always court yours; your approval is dearer to me than anything in

the whole world. I gave my opinion to Goethe, that approval affects such

men as ourselves and that we wish to be listened to with the intellect

by those who are our equals. Emotion is only for women (excuse this);

the flame of music must burst forth from the mind of a man. Ah! my

dearest child, we have now for a long time been in perfect agreement

about everything! The only good thing is a beautiful, good soul, which

is recognized in everything, and in presence of which there need be no

concealment. _One must be somebody if one wishes to appear so_. The

world is bound to recognize one; it is not always unjust. To me,

however, that is a matter of no importance, for I have a higher aim. I

hope when I get back to Vienna to receive a letter from you. Write soon,

soon, and a very long one; in 8 days from now I shall be there; the

court goes tomorrow; there will be no more performance today. The

Empress rehearsed her part with him. His duke and he both wished to play

some of my music, but to both I made refusal. They are mad on Chinese

porcelain, hence there is need for indulgence; for the intellect has

lost the whip-hand. I will not play to these silly folk, who never get

over that mania, nor will I write at public cost any stupid stuff for

princes. Adieu, adieu, dearest; your last letter lay on my heart for a

whole night, and comforted me. _Everything_ is allowed to musicians.

Great heavens, how I love you!

Your sincerest friend and deaf brother,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 615

TO HERR VON GOETHE

Vienna, April 12, 1811.

Your Excellency:

The pressing business of a friend of mine, one of your great admirers

(as I also am), who is leaving here in a great hurry, gives me only a

moment to offer my thanks for the long time I have known you (for I know

you from the days of my childhood)--that is very little for so much.

Bettina Brentano has assured me that you would receive me in a

kindly--yes, indeed friendly, spirit. But how could I think of such a

reception, seeing that I am only in a position to approach you with the

deepest reverence, with an inexpressibly deep feeling for your noble

creations? You will shortly receive from Leipzig, through Breitkopf and

Haertel, the music to _Egmont_, this glorious _Egmont_, with which I,

with the same warmth with which I read it, was again through you

impressed by it and set it to music. I should much like to know your

opinion of it; even blame will be profitable for me and for my art, and

will be as willingly received as the greatest praise.

Your Excellency's great admirer,

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.

NO. 1017

TO B. SCHOTT & SON, MAINZ

(Summer, 1824).

Dear Sirs:

I only tell you that next week the works will certainly be sent off. You

will easily understand, if you only imagine to yourself, that with

uncertain copying I have to look through each part separately--for this

branch has already decreased here in proportion as tuning has been taken

up. Everywhere poverty of spirit--and of purse! Your _Cecilia_ I have

not yet received.

The _Overture_ which you had from my brother was performed here a few

days ago, and I received high praise for it, etc.--but what is all that

in comparison with the great Tone-Master above--above--above--and with

right the greatest of all, while here below everything is a mockery--_we

the little dwarfs are the highest_!!!?? You will receive the quartet at

the same time as the other works. You are so open and frank--qualities

which I have never yet noticed in publishers--and this pleases me. Let

us shake hands over it; who knows whether I shall not do that in person

and soon! I should be glad if you would now at once forward the

honorarium for the quartet to Friess, for I just now want a great deal

of money; everything must come to me from abroad, and here and there a

delay arises--through my own fault. My brother adds what is necessary

about the works offered to, and accepted by, you. I greet you heartily.

Junker, as I see from your newspaper, is still living; he was one of the

first who _noticed_ me, an innocent and nothing more. Greet him.

In greatest haste, and yet not of shortest standing,

Yours,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 1117

TO HIS NEPHEW CARL

Baden, October 5, 1825.

For God's sake, do come home again today! Who knows what danger might be

threatening you! Hasten, hasten! My Dear Son!

Only nothing further--only come to my arms; you shall hear no harsh

word. For Heaven's sake, do not rush to destruction! You will be

received as ever with affection. As to considering what is to be done in

future, we will talk this over in a friendly way--no reproaches, on my

word of honor, for it would be of no use. You need expect from me only

the most loving help and care.

Only come--come to the faithful heart of your father,

BEETHOVEN.

Come at once on receipt of this.

Si vous ne viendrez pas vous me tuerez surement.

VOLTI SUB.

NO. 1129

TO THE COPYIST RAMPEL

(1825)

Best Rampel, come tomorrow morning, but go to hell with your calling me

gracious. _God alone can be called gracious_. The servant I have already

engaged--only impress on her to be honest and attached to me, as well as

orderly and punctual in her small services.

Your devoted BEETHOVEN.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 2: Translator: Sir Theodore Mart Permission William Blackwood

& Sons, London.]

[Footnote 3: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 4: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 5: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 6: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 7: Translator: Richard Garnett. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 8: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 9: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 10: Translator: Franklin Johnson. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 11: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 12: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 13: Translator: Charles G. Leland. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 14: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 17: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: Edgar Alfred Bowring. Permission The Walter

Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: W.H. Furness. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: John Todhunter. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission The Walter

Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 32: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 33: Translator: "Stratheir." Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 39: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 40: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The

Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 43: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William

Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 44: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 45: Translator: Lord Houghton. Permission The Walter Scott

Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 46: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 49: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 50: Names of Student's Corps.]

[Footnote 51: Name of the University of Göttingen.]

[Footnote 52: Name of an Austrian periodical.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 54: According to that dignified and erudite work, the

_Burschikoses Woerterbuch_, or Student-Slang Dictionary, "to bind a

bear" signifies to contract a debt. The definition of a "sable," as

given in the dictionary above cited is, "A young lady anxious to

please."]

[Footnote 55: From _Ideen: Das Buch Le Grand_ (Chaps. VI-IX). Permission

E.P. Dutton & Co., New York, and William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 56: From _Pictures of Travel_, permission W. Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 57: From _French. Affairs_; permission of William Heinemann,

London.]

[Footnote 58: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 59: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 60: This prototype of "The House that Jack Built" is presumed

to be a hymn in Seder Hagadah, fol. 23. The historical interpretation,

says Mrs. Valentine, who has reproduced it in her Nursery Rhymes, was

first given by P.N. Leberecht at Leipzig in 1731, and is printed in the

Christian Reformer, vol. xvii, p. 28. The original is in Chaldee. It is

throughout an allegory. The kid, one of the pure animals, denotes

Israel. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah; the two pieces

of money signify Moses and Aaron. The cat means the Assyrians, the dog

the Babylonians, the staff the Persians, the fire the Grecian Empire

under Alexander the Great. The water betokens the Roman or the fourth of

the great monarchies to whose dominion the Jews were subjected. The ox

is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine; the butcher that

killed the ox denotes the crusaders by whom the Holy Land was taken from

the Saracens; the Angel of Death the Turkish power to which Palestine is

still subject. The tenth stanza is designed to show that God will take

signal vengeance on the Turks, and restore the Jews to their own land.]

[Footnote 61: There is a concluding verse which Heine has omitted. "Then

came the Holy One of Israel--blessed be he--and slew the Angel of Death,

who," etc.--TRAN.]

[Footnote 62: A suburb of Vienna.]

[Footnote 63: In Lower Austria, on the railroad from Vienna to Eger.]

[Footnote 64: From Grillparzer's _Autobiography_ (1855).]

[Footnote 65: A decoration.]

[Footnote 66: A Critical Edition by Dr. A.C. Kalischer. Permission J.M.

Dent & Co., London, and E.P. Dutton & Co., New York.]

* * * * *

The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes · 第 7 / 7 章

"I was not one of her customers. In the first place I had no money; in