In the afternoon Klingsohr led to his room his new son, in whose
happiness his mother and grandfather took the tenderest interest,
honoring Matilda as his protecting spirit, and made him acquainted with
his books. Afterward they spoke of poetry.
"I know not," said Klingsohr, "why the representation of nature as a
poet is commonly considered poetry. She is not so at all times. Dull
desire, stupid apathy and sluggishness, are in her, as in men, exposing
qualities which wage a restless strife with poesy. This mighty battle
would be a fine subject for a poem. Many lands and ages seem, like the
majority of men, to stand entirely under the dominion of this enemy to
poesy; in others, on the contrary, poesy is at home and everywhere
visible. The periods of this battle are very worthy of the historian's
notice, and its representation is a pleasant and profitable employment.
It is usually the season of the poet's birth. Nothing is more
disagreeable to its adversary than that she, herself being opposed to
poesy, becomes a poetic personage, and often in the heat of the
engagement changes weapons with poesy, and is violently struck by her
own venomous darts; while, on the other hand, the wounds of poesy,
which she receives from her own weapons, heal readily, and only serve
to render her yet more charming and powerful."
"On the whole," said Henry, "war seems to me poetical. People fancy
that they must fight for a possession no matter how miserable, and do
not observe that the spirit of romance excites them to annihilate all
useless baseness. They carry arms for the cause of poesy, and both
hosts follow an invisible standard."
"In war," replied Klingsohr, "the primeval fluid is stirred up. New
continents are to arise, new races to spring forth from the great
dissolution. The true war is the war of religion; its direct end is
destruction; and men's madness appears in its full dimensions. Many
wars, particularly those which originate in national hate, belong to
this class, and are real poems. Here true heroes are at home, who,
being the noblest antitypes of poesy, are but earthly powers
involuntarily penetrated by poesy. A poet, who at the same time were a
hero, would be indeed a heavenly messenger; but our poetry is not equal
to the work of representing him."
"How am I to understand that, dear father," said Henry. "Can any object
be too lofty for poesy?"
"Certainly. We cannot on the whole speak for poesy itself, but only for
her earthly means and instruments. If indeed there is for every single
poet a proper district within which he must remain, in order not to
lose all breath and vantage, then there is also for the whole sum of
human powers a determinate boundary line to the capacity for
representation; beyond which representation cannot retain the necessary
strength or form, but loses itself in an empty, delusive nonentity.
Particularly as a pupil, one cannot guard enough against these
extravagances; since a lively fancy loves too well to fly to the
extreme bounds, and arrogantly endeavors to seize upon and express the
supersensual and exuberant. Riper experience first teaches us to shun
this disproportion of objects, and to leave the investigation of what
is simplest and loftiest to worldly wisdom. The older poet rises no
higher than is needful to arrange, his vast stock in a comprehensible
order, and he is careful to omit the manifoldness, which afforded him
the requisite material, and also the necessary points of agreement. I
might almost say that in every line chaos should shine through the
well-clipped foliage of order. A graceful style merely renders the
richness of the thought more comprehensible and agreeable; regular
symmetry, on the contrary, has all the dryness of numbers. The best
poesy lies very near us, and an ordinary matter is not seldom the
object of its most tender love. With the poet, poetry is confined to
limited instruments, and just so far becomes an art. Language
especially has its fixed sphere. The compass of one's native tongue is
yet narrower. By practice and reflection the poet learns to understand
his own language. He knows exactly what he can accomplish by its aid,
and will make no fruitless attempt to strain it beyond its powers.
Seldom will he collect all its powers upon a single point; for
otherwise he becomes wearisome, and even destroys the rich effect of a
well applied exhibition of its strength. No poet, but a quack, aims at
wonderful efforts."[See Note III.]
"Poets on the whole cannot learn too much from musicians and painters.
In these arts it is very striking, how necessary it is to take sparing
advantage of the auxiliary means of the art, and how much depends upon
proper relations. Those artists, on the contrary, can certainty accept
from us the poetic independence, and the inner spirit of each
composition and invention; particularly of every genuine work. The
execution, not the material, is the object of the art. They should be
more poetical, we more musical and graphic; yet both according to the
manner and method of our art. You yourself will soon see in what songs
you can best succeed; they will certainly be those, the subjects of
which are easiest and nearest at hand. Therefore it can be said that
poetry rests entirely upon experience. I know that in my younger days
an object could hardly seem too distant and too unknown, for such I
delighted most to sing. What was the result? An empty, meagre flash of
words, without a spark of true poetry. Thence the tale[3] is the most
difficult of tasks, and a young poet will seldom perform it correctly."
"I should like to hear one of yours," said Henry. "The few I have
heard, though insignificant, have delighted me exceedingly."
"I will satisfy your wish this evening. I remember one which I composed
when quite young, which is sufficiently evident still; yet it will
entertain you the more instructively, for it will recall much that I
have told you."
"Language," said Henry, "is indeed a little world in signs and sounds.
As man rules over it, so would he rule the great world, and in it
express himself freely. And in this very joy of expressing in the world
what is without it, and of doing that which in reality was the primal
object of our existence, lies the origin of poetry."
"It is very unfortunate," said Klingsohr, "that poetry has a particular
name, and that poets constitute a particular class. It is not, however,
strange. It arises from the natural action of the human sprit. Does not
every man strive and compose at every moment?"
Just then Matilda entered the room. Klingsohr continued. "Consider
love, for instance. In nothing is the necessity of poetry for the
continuance of humanity so clear as in that. Love is silent; poesy
alone can speak for it. Or rather love itself is nothing but the
highest poetry of nature. Yet I will not tell you of things, with which
you are better acquainted than I."
"Thou art indeed the father of love;" cried Henry, as he threw his arms
around Matilda, and they both kissed his hand.
Klingsohr embraced them and went out.
"Dear Matilda," said Henry after a long kiss, "it seems to me like a
dream, that thou art mine; yet it seems still more wonderful, that thou
hast not been so always."
"It seems to me," said Matilda, "that I knew thee long, long ago."
"Canst thou then love me?"
"I know not what love is; but this can I tell thee, that it is as if I
now first began to live, and that I am so devoted to thee that I would
this instant die for thee."
"My Matilda, now for the first time do I feel what it is to be
immortal."
"Dear Henry, how infinitely good thou art. What a glorious spirit
speaks from thee. I am a poor, insignificant girl."
"How thou dost make me blush! Indeed I am what I am only through thee.
Without thee I were nothing. What were a spirit without a heaven; and
thou art the heaven that upbears and supports me."
"How divinely happy should I be, wert thou as faithful as my father. My
mother died shortly after my birth; yet my father weeps for her every
day."
"I deserve it not, yet may I be happier than he!"
"I would joyfully live long by thy side, dear Henry. Certainly through
thee I should become much better."
"O! Matilda, even death shall not separate us."
"No, Henry, where I am, wilt thou be."
"Yes, where thou art, Matilda, will I forever be."
"I comprehend not the meaning of eternity; yet I fancy that what I
feel, when I think of thee, must constitute eternity."
"Yes, Matilda, we are eternal, because we love each other."
"Thou canst not believe, dearest, how fervently, when we came home
early this morning, I knelt before the image of the holy mother, what
unspeakable things I prayed to her. I thought that I should melt away
in tears. It seemed as if she smiled upon me. I now for the first time
know what gratitude is."
"O beloved, Heaven has given me thee to adore. I worship thee. Thou art
the holy one that carriest my wishes to God, through whom He reveals
himself to me, through whom He makes known to me the fulness of His
love. What is religion but an infinite harmony, an eternal unison of
loving hearts? Where two are gathered together, He is indeed among
them. Thou wilt be my breath eternally. My bosom will never cease to
draw thee to itself. Thou art divine majesty, eternal life in the
loveliest of forms."
"Alas, Henry, thou knowest the fate of the roses. Wilt thou also press
the pale cheek, the withered lips, with tenderness to thy own? Will not
the traces of age be also the traces of bygone love?"
"O that thou couldst see through my eyes into my spirit! But thou
lovest me, and canst also believe me. I cannot comprehend what is said
of the withering of charms. They are unfading! That which draws me so
inseparably to thee, that has awakened in me such everlasting desire,
is not of this world. Couldst thou but see how thou appearest to me,
what a wonderful form penetrates thy shape, and everywhere is raying
towards me, thou wouldst not fear age. Thy earthly shape is but a
shadow of this form. The earthly faculties strive and swell that they
may incarnate it; but nature is yet unripe; the form is only an eternal
archetype, a fragment of the unknown holy world."
"I understand thee, dear Henry, for I see something similar when I look
upon thee."
"Yes, Matilda, the higher world is nearer to us than we usually
believe. Here already we live in it, and we see it closely interwoven
with our earthly nature."
"Thou wilt yet reveal much that is glorious to me, beloved?"
"O! Matilda, from thee alone cometh the gift of divination. Everything
that I have is indeed thine. Thy love will lead me into the sanctuaries
of life, and the most sacred recesses of the mind; thou wilt fill me
with enthusiasm, wilt excite me to the highest contemplation. Who knows
that our love will not change to wings of flame bearing us upward, and
carrying us to our heavenly home, ere old age and death reach us? Is it
not a miracle already that thou art mine, that I hold thee in my arms,
that thou lovest me, and that thou wilt be mine forever?"
"To me also everything seems possible, and I plainly feel a gentle
flame kindling within me. Who knows that it does not transfigure us,
and gradually dissolve all earthly ties? Only tell me, Henry, whether
thou hast that boundless confidence in me, that I have in thee. Yet I
never have felt towards any one as I do towards thee; not even to my
father, whom I love so dearly."
"Dear Matilda, it really torments me, that I cannot tell thee
everything at once, that I cannot at once give my whole heart to thee.
For the first time in my life am I perfectly frank. No thought, no
feeling can I longer conceal from thee,--thou must know everything. My
whole being shall mingle itself with thine. A most boundless
resignation to thee can alone satisfy my love. In that indeed it
consists. It is truly a most mysterious flowing together of our most
secret and personal existence."
"Henry, two beings can never thus have loved each other."
"I cannot believe it possible, for till now no Matilda has lived."
"And no Henry!"
"Swear to me once more that thou art mine. Love is an endless
repetition."
"Yes, Henry, by the invisible presence of my good mother, I swear to be
thine forever."
"I swear to be thine forever, Matilda, as surely as love, God's
presence, is with us."
A long embrace and countless kisses sealed the eternal alliance of the
blessed pair.