Klingsohr stood before his bed and kindly bade him good morning. He was
in high spirits, and fell upon Klingsohr's neck. "That is not meant for
you," cried Swaning. Henry smiled, and hid his blushes on his mother's
cheeks.
"Would you like to go with me," said Klingsohr, "and breakfast on a
beautiful eminence just before the city? The fine morning would refresh
you. Dress yourself. Matilda is already waiting for us."
Henry with a thousand joyful feelings thanked him for his welcome
invitation. In a moment he was ready, and kissed Klingsohr's hand with
much fervor. They went to Matilda, who looked wonderfully lovely in her
simple morning dress, and who greeted him kindly. She had already
packed her breakfast into a little basket which she hung upon one arm,
and without ceremony gave the other to Henry. Klingsohr followed them,
and thus they passed through the city, already full of animation, to a
little hill by the river, where a wide and full prospect opened between
some lofty trees.
"Though I have often," said Henry, "delighted in the unfolding of
varied nature in the peaceful neighborhood of her manifold possessions;
yet never has such a creative and pure serenity filled me, as today.
Those distant points seem so near to me, and the rich landscape is like
an inward fantasy. How changeable is nature, however unchangeable
appears its surface! How different is it when an angel, a spirit of
power is at our side, than when a person in distress utters his
complaints before us, or a farmer tells us how unfortunate the weather
is for him, or how much he needs some rainy days for his crops. To you,
dearest master, do I owe this bliss; yes, this bliss,--for there is no
other word that can more truly express my heart's condition. Joy,
desire, transport, are merely the members of that bliss which inspires
them with a higher life." He pressed Matilda's hand to his heart, and
his ardent gaze sank deep into her mild and susceptible eyes.
"Nature," replied Klingsohr, "is for our mind, what a body is for
light. It reflects it, separates it into its proper colors, kindles a
light on its surface or within it, when it equals its opacity: when it
is superior, it rays forth in order to enlighten other bodies. But even
the darkest bodies can, by water, fire, and air, be made clear and
brilliant."
"I understand you, dear master. Men are crystals for our minds. They
are the transparent nature. Dear Matilda, I might call you a pure and
costly sapphire. You are clear and transparent as the heavens; you beam
with the mildest light. But tell me, dear master, whether I am right;
it seems to me that at the very point when one is most intimate with
nature, he can and would say the least concerning her."
"That depends upon your view of her," said Klingsohr. "Nature is one
thing for our enjoyment and our disposition, but another for our
intellect, the guiding faculty of our earthward powers. We must take
good care not to lose sight of one more than the other. There are many
who only know the one side, and think but little of the other. But we
can unite them both, and that too with profit. A great pity it is, that
so few think of being able to move freely and fitly in their inner
natures, and to insure for themselves, by a necessary separation, the
most effectual and natural use of their faculties. Usually the one
hinders the other; and thus a helpless sluggishness gradually arises,
so that, if such men should ever arise with united powers, a great
confusion and contention would ensue, and all things would be tossed
here and there in an ungainly manner. I cannot sufficiently impress
upon you, to endeavor with industry and care to be acquainted with your
own intellect and natural bias. Nothing is more indispensable to the
poet, than insight into the nature of every occupation, acquaintance
with the means by which every object may be attained, and the power of
fitly regulating the presence of the spirit according to time and
circumstances. Inspiration without intellect is useless and dangerous;
and the poet will be able to perform few wonders, when he is astonished
by wonders."
"But is not an implicit faith in man's dominion over destiny
indispensable to the poet?"
"Certainly indispensable, because he cannot represent fate to himself
in any other light, when he maturely reflects upon it. But how distant
is this calm certainty from that anxious doubt, which proceeds from the
blind fear of superstition! And thus also the steady, animating warmth
of a poetic mind is exactly the reverse of the wild heat of a sickly
heart. The one is poor, overwhelming, and transient; the other
perfectly distinguishes all forms, favors the culture of the most
manifold relations, and is in itself eternal. The youthful poet cannot
be too cool and considerate. A far-reaching, attentive, and quiet
disposition belongs to the true, melodious ease of address. It becomes
a confused prattling, when a violent storm is raging in the breast; and
the attention is lost in a trembling emptiness of thought. Once more I
repeat it; the true mind is like the light; even as calm and sensitive,
as elastic and penetrating, as powerful and as imperceptibly active, as
that costly element, which with its native regularity scatters itself
upon all objects, and exhibits them in charming variety. The poet is
pure steel, as sensitive as a brittle thread of glass, as hard as the
unyielding flint."
"I have indeed at times felt," said Henry, "that in the moments when my
inner nature was most awake, I was less excited than at other times,
when I could run about freely and attend to all occupations with
pleasure. A spiritual, penetrative essence permeated me, and I could
employ every sense at pleasure, could revolve every thought like an
actual body, and view it from all sides. I stood with silent sympathy
in my father's work-shop, and rejoiced when I could help him to
accomplish anything properly. Propriety has a peculiarly strengthening
charm, and it is true that the consciousness of it gives rise to a more
lasting and distinct enjoyment, than that overflowing feeling of an
incomprehensible, superfluous splendor."
"Believe not," said Klingsohr, "that I disregard the latter; but it
must come of itself and not be bought. The rarity of its appearance is
beneficent; if more frequent, it would weary and weaken. One cannot
quickly enough tear himself from the sweet rapture which it leaves
behind, and return to a regular and laborious occupation. It is as with
pleasant morning dreams, from whose sleepy vortex one must extricate
himself by force, if he would not fall into a lassitude, continually
more oppressive, and so struggle through the whole day in sickly
exhaustion."
"Poetry," continued Klingsohr, "will be cultivated strictly as an art.
As mere enjoyment it ceases to be poetry. The poet must not run about
unoccupied the whole day in chase of figures and feelings. That is the
very reverse of the proper method. A pure, open mind, dexterity in
reflection and contemplation, and ability to put forth all the
faculties in a mutually animating effort, and to keep them so,--these
are the requisites of our art. If you will commit yourself to my care,
no day shall pass in which you shall not add stores to your knowledge,
and obtain some useful views. The city is rich in artists of all
descriptions. There are some experienced statesmen and educated
merchants here. One can get acquainted with all ranks without much
difficulty, with people of all pursuits, and with all social
circumstances and requirements. I will with pleasure instruct you in
the mechanical part of our art, and read its most remarkable
productions with you. You may share Matilda's hours of instruction, and
she will willingly teach you to play the guitar. Each occupation will
usher in the rest; and when you have thus well spent the day, the
conversation and pleasures of a social evening, and the views of the
beautiful landscapes around, will continually renew to you the calmest
enjoyment."
"What a glorious life you here lay open to me, dear master. Under your
guidance I shall for the first time understand what a noble mark is
before me, and how by your counsel alone I can hope to attain it."
Klingsohr embraced him tenderly. Matilda brought them the breakfast,
and Henry asked her with a tender voice, whether she would be kind
enough to receive him as fellow pupil, and her own scholar. "I shall
probably be your scholar forever," said he, as Klingsohr turned away.
She nodded slightly towards him. He threw his arms around the blushing
maiden, and kissed her soft lips. Gently she retreated from him, yet
handed him with childish grace a rose which she wore in her bosom. She
then busied herself about her basket. Henry watched her with silent
rapture, kissed the rose, fixed it on his breast, and walked to
Klingsohr's side, who was gazing down at the city.
"By what road, did you come here," asked Klingsohr.
"Down over that hill," replied Henry, "where the road loses itself in
the distance."
"You must have seen some fair landscapes."
"We travelled through an almost uninterrupted series of beautiful
ones."
"Perhaps your native town is pleasantly situated?"
"The country is varied enough; it is rude, however, and a noble river
is wanting. Streams are the eyes of a landscape."
"Your account of your journey," said Klingsohr, "agreeably entertained
me last evening. I have indeed observed that the spirit of poesy is
your kind companion. Your friends have unobservedly become its voices.
Where a poet is, poetry everywhere breaks out. The land of poetry,
romantic Palestine, has greeted you with its sweet sadness; war has
addressed you in its wild glory, and nature and history have met you in
the forms of a miner and a hermit."
"You forget the best, dear master, the heavenly appearance of love. It
depends upon you, whether this appearance shall forever remain with
me."
"What do you think," cried Klingsohr as he turned to Matilda who was
just approaching; "would you like to become Henry's inseparable
companion? Where you are, I remain also."
Matilda was terrified. She flew into her father's arms. Henry trembled
with infinite joy. "Shall he then be with me forever, dear father?"
"Ask him for yourself," said Klingsohr with emotion.
She looked upon Henry with the most heart-felt tenderness.
"My eternity is indeed thy work," cried Henry, whilst the tears rolled
down his blooming cheeks.
They embraced each other. Klingsohr caught them in his arms. "My
children," he cried, "be faithful to each other unto death! Love and
constancy will make your life eternal poesy."