"And what think you of Tiedge's Urania," said the Baron smiling, as
Paul Flemming closed the book, and laid it upon the table.
"I think," said Flemming, "that it is very much like Jean Paul's
grandfather,--in the highest degree poor and pious."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the Baron. "That is the best criticism I have heard
upon the book. For my part, I dislike the thing as much as Goethe did.
It was once very popular, and lay about in every parlour and bed-room.
This annoyed the old gentleman exceedingly; and I do not wonder at it.
He complains, that at one time nothing was sung or said but this
Urania. He believed in Immortality; but wished to cherish his belief
inquietness. He once told a friend of his, that he had, however,
learned one thing from all this talk about Tiedge and his Urania; which
was, that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute an
aristocracy. He said he found stupid women, who were proud because they
believed in Immortality with Tiedge, and had to submit himself to not a
few mysterious catechizings and tea-table lectures on this point; and
that he cut them short by saying, that he had no objection whatever to
enter into another state of existence hereafter, but prayed only that
he might be spared the honor of meeting any of those there, who had
believed in it here; for, if he did, the saints would flock around him
on all sides, exclaiming, Were we not in the right? Did we not tell you
so? Has it not all turned out just as we said? And, with such a
conceited clatter in his ears, he thought that, before the end of six
months, he might die of ennui in Heaven itself."
"How shocked the good old ladies must have been," said Flemming.
"No doubt, their nerves suffered a little; but the young ladies loved
him all the better for being witty and wicked; and thought if they
could only marry him, how they would reform him."
"Bettina Brentano, for instance."
"O no! That happened long afterwards. Goethe was then a silver-haired
old man of sixty. She had never seen him, and knew him only by his
writings; a romantic girl of seventeen."
"And yet much in love with the Sexagenarian. And surely a more wild,
fantastic, and, excuse me, German passion never sprang up in woman's
breast. She was a flower, that worshipped the sun."
"She afterwards married Achim von Arnim, and is now a widow. And not
the least singular part of the affair, is, that, having grown older,
and I hope colder, she should herself publish the letters which passed
between her and Goethe."
"Particularly the letter in which she describes her first visit to
Weimar, and her interview with the hitherto invisible divinity of her
dreams. The old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she fell asleep
with her head upon his shoulder. It reminds me of Titania and Nick
Bottom, begging your pardon, always, for comparing your All-sided-One
to Nick Bottom. Oberon must have touched her eyes with the juice of
Love-in-idleness. However, this book of Goethe's Correspondence with a
Child is a very singular and valuable revelation of the feelings, which
he excited in female hearts. You say she afterwards married Achim von
Arnim?"
"Yes; and he and her brother, Clemens Brentano, published that wondrous
book, the Boy's Wonder-Horn."
"The Boy's Wonder-Horn!" said Flemming, after a short pause, for the
name seemed to have thrown him into a reverie;--"I know the book almost
by heart. Of all your German books it is the one which produces upon my
imagination the most wild and magic influence. I have a passion for
ballads!"
"And who has not?" said the Baron with asmile. "They are the
gypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes
and by-paths of literature,--in the genial summer-time."
"Why do you say summer-time and not summer?" inquired Flemming. "The
expression reminds me of your old Minnesingers;--of Heinrich von
Ofterdingen, and Walter von der Vogelweide, and Count Kraft von
Toggenburg, and your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart von Hohenfels.
They were always singing of the gentle summer-time. They seem to have
lived poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds who make their
marriage beds in the voluptuous trees."
"Is that from Shakspere?"
"No; from Lope de Vega."
"You are deeply read in the lore of antiquity, and the Aubades and
Watch-Songs of the old Minnesingers. What do you think of the
shoe-maker poets that came after them,--with their guilds and
singing-schools? It makes me laugh to think how the great German
Helicon, shrunk toa rivulet, goes bubbling and gurgling over the pebbly
names of Zwinger, Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, Hellfire, Old Stoll, Young
Stoll, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim, Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, and
Martin Gumpel. And then the Corporation of the Twelve Wise Masters,
with their stumpfereime and klingende-reime, and their Hans Tindeisen's
rosemary-weise; and Joseph Schmierer's flowery-paradise-weise, and
Frauenlob's yellow-weise, and blue-weise, and frog-weise, and
looking-glass-weise!"
"O, I entreat you," exclaimed Flemming, laughing, "do not call those
men poets! You transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I see Hans
Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz shaving the burgomaster."
"By the way," interrupted the Baron, "did you ever read Hoffmann's
beautiful story of Master Martin, the Cooper of Nuremberg? I will read
it to you this very night. It is the most delightful picture of that
age, which you can conceive. But look! the sun has already set
behindthe Alsatian hills. Let us go up to the castle and look for the
ghost in Prince Ruprecht's tower. O, what a glorious sunset!"
Flemming looked at the evening sky, and a shade of sadness stole over
his countenance. He told not to his friend the sorrow, with which his
heart was heavy; but kept it for himself alone. He knew that the time,
which comes to all men,--the time to suffer and be silent,--had come to
him likewise; and he spake no word. O well has it been said, that there
is no grief like the grief which does not speak.