[Illustration: On the Way Toward the Grail. By Hans Thoma]
The
German Classics
of
The Nineteenth and
Twentieth Centuries
Masterpieces of German Literature
Translated into English
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Kuno Francke, Ph.D., LL.D., Litt.D.
In Twenty Volumes Illustrated
ALBANY, N.Y.
J.B. LYON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
1913
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I
Editor's Preface
Publishers Foreword
General Introduction.
By Richard M. Meyer
The Life of Goethe.
By Calvin Thomas
POEMS
Greeting and Departure.
Translated by Charles Wharton Stork
The Heathrose.
Adapted from the translation by E.A. Bowring
Mahomet's Song.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
Prometheus.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Wanderer's Night-Song.
Adapted from the translation by E.A. Bowring
The Sea-Voyage.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
To the Moon.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Fisherman.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Wanderer's Night-Song.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Erl-King.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Godlike.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
Mignon.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
Proximity of the Beloved One.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Shepherd's Lament.
Translated by W.E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin.
Nature and Art
Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman.
Comfort in Tears.
Translated by W.E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin
Epilog to Schiller's "Song of the Bell."
Translated by W.E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin
Ergo Bibamus.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The Walking Bell.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
Found.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
Hatem.
Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
Reunion.
Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
Procemion.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
The One and The All.
Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
Lines on Seeing Schiller's Skull.
Translated by E.A. Bowring
A Legacy.
Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman
* * * * *
Introduction to Hermann and Dorothea.
By Arthur H. Palmer
Harmann and Dorothea.
Translated by Ellen Frothingham
DRAMAS
Introduction to Iphigenia in Tauris.
By Arthur H. Palmer
Iphigenia in Tauris.
Translated by Anna Swanwick
* * * * *
The Faust Legend from Marlowe to Goethe.
By Kuno Francke
Introduction to Faust.
Calvin Thomas
Faust (Part I).
Translated by Anna Swanwick
Faust (Part II).
Translated by Anna Swanwick
ILLUSTRATIONS-VOLUME I
On the Way Toward the Grail. By Hans
Thoma _Frontispiece_
Goethe. By J. Jäger
Goethe. By J. Stieler
Goethe's Houses in Weimar
Goethe in the Campagua. By J.H.W. Tischbein
Monument to Goethe in Berlin. By Fritz Schaper
Monument to Goethe in Rome. By Eberlein
The Death of Goethe. By Fritz Fleischer
The Heathrose. By K. Kogler
Prometheus. By Titian
The Fisherman and the Mermaid. By Georg Papperitz
Hermann's Parents in the Doorway of the Tavern.
By Ludwig Richter
Hermann hands to Dorothea the Linen for the Emigrants.
By Ludwig Richter
The Mother defending Hermann. By Ludwig Richter
Mother and Son. By Ludwig Richter
The Emigrants in the Village. By Ludwig Richter
The Parson and the Apothecary watch Dorothea. By Ludwig Richter
Hermann and Dorothea meet at the Fountain. By Ludwig Richter
Hermann and Dorothea under the Pear tree. By Ludwig Richter
The Betrothal. By Ludwig Richter
Iphigenia. By Ansehn Feuerbach
The Meeting of Orestes, Iphigenia, and Pylades.
By Angelica, Kauffmann
Iphigenia. By Max Nonnenbruch
Faust and Mephistopheles. By Liezen-Mayer
Margaret. By Wilhelm von Kaulbach
Faust and Margaret. By Carl Becker
Faust and Margaret in the Garden. By Liezen-Mayer
The Death of Valentine. By Franz Simm
Margaret's Downfall. By Wilhelm von Kaulbach
EDITOR'S PREFACE
It is surprising how little the English-speaking world knows of German
literature of the nineteenth century. Goethe and Schiller found their
herald in Carlyle; Fichte's idealistic philosophy helped to mold
Emerson's view of life; Amadeus Hoffmann influenced Poe; Uhland and
Heine reverberate in Longfellow; Sudermann and Hauptmann appear in the
repertory of London and New York theatres--these brief statements
include nearly all the names which to the cultivated Englishman and
American of to-day stand for German literature.
THE GERMAN CLASSICS OF THE NINETEENTH AND TWENTIETH CENTURIES has been
planned to correct this narrow and inadequate view. Here for the first
time English readers will find a panorama of the whole of German
literature from Goethe to the present day; here for the first time
they will find the most representative writers of each period brought
together and exhibited by their most representative works; here for
the first time an opportunity will be offered to form a just
conception of the truly remarkable literary achievements of Germany
during the last hundred years.
For it is a grave mistake to assume, as has been assumed only too
often, that, after the great epoch of Classicism and Romanticism in
the early decades of the nineteenth century, Germany produced but
little of universal significance, or that, after Goethe and Heine,
there were but few Germans worthy to be mentioned side by side with
the great writers of other European countries. True, there is no
German Tolstoy, no German Ibsen, no German Zola--but then, is there a
Russian Nietzsche, or a Norwegian Wagner, or a French Bismarck? Men
like these, men of revolutionary genius, men who start new movements
and mark new epochs, are necessarily rare and stand isolated in any
people and at all times. The three names mentioned indicate that
Germany, during the last fifty years, has contributed a goodly share
even of such men. Quite apart, however, from such men of overshadowing
genius and all-controlling power, can it be truly said that Germany,
since Goethe's time, has been lacking in writers of high aim and
notable attainment?
It can be stated without reservation that, taken as a whole, the
German drama of the nineteenth century has maintained a level of
excellence superior to that reached by the drama of almost any other
nation during the same period. Schiller's _Wallenstein_ and _Tell_,
Goethe's _Iphigenie_ and _Faust_, Kleist's _Prinz Friedrich von
Homburg_, Grillparzer's _Medea_, Hebbel's _Maria Magdalene_ and _Die
Nibelungen_, Otto Ludwig's _Der Erbförster_, Freytag's _Die
Journalisten_, Anzengruber's _Der Meineidbauer_, Wilbrandt's _Der
Meister von Palmyra_, Wildenbruch's _Konig Heinrich_, Sudermann's
_Heimat_, Hauptmann's _Die Weber_ and _Der arme Heinrich_,
Hofmannsthal's _Elektra_, and, in addition to all these, the great
musical dramas of Richard Wagner--this is a century's record of
dramatic achievement of which any nation might be proud. I doubt
whether either the French or the Russian or the Scandinavian stage of
the nineteenth century, as a whole, comes up to this standard.
Certainly, the English stage has nothing which could in any way be
compared with it.
That German lyric verse of the last hundred years should have been
distinguished by beauty of structure, depth of feeling, and wealth of
melody, is not to be wondered at if we remember that this was the
century of the revival of folk-song, and that it produced such
song-composers as Schubert and Schumann and Robert Franz and Hugo Wolf
and Richard Strauss. But it seems strange that, apart from Heine, even
the greatest of German lyric poets, such as Platen, Lenau, Mörike,
Annette von Droste, Geibel, Liliencron, Dehmel, Münchhausen, Rilke,
should be so little known beyond the borders of the Fatherland.
The German novel of the past century was, for a long time,
unquestionably inferior to both the English and the French novel of
the same epoch. But in the midst of much that is tiresome and involved
and artificial, there stand out, even in the middle of the century,
such masterpieces of characterization as Otto Ludwig's _Zwischen
Himmel und Erde_ or Wilhelm Raabe's _Der Hungerpastor_, such
delightful revelations of genuine humor as Fritz Reuter's _Ut mine
Stromtid_, such penetrating studies of social conditions as Gustav
Freytag's _Soll und Haben_. And during the last third of the century
there has clearly developed a new, forcible, original style of German
novel writing. Seldom has the short story been handled more skilfully
and felicitously than by such men as Paul Heyse, Gottfried Keller, C.
F. Meyer, Theodor Storm. Seldom has the novel of tragic import and
passion been treated with greater refinement and delicacy than in such
works as Fontane's _Effi Briest_, Ricarda Huch's _Ludolf Ursleu_,
Wilhelm von Polenz's _Der Büttnerbauer_, or Ludwig Thoma's _Andreas
Vöst_. And it may be doubted whether, at the present moment, there is
any country where the novel is represented by so many gifted writers
or exhibits such exuberant vitality, such sturdy truthfulness, such
seriousness of purpose, or such a wide range of imagination as in
contemporary Germany.
All these dramatists, lyric poets, and novelists, and with them not a
few essayists, philosophers, orators, and publicists,[1] of the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries will speak in the following volumes
to America and other countries of the English language. They have been
arranged, in the main, chronologically. The first three volumes have
been given to the mature work of Goethe and Schiller--time-tested and
securely niched. Volumes IV and V contain the principal Romanticists,
including Fichte and Schelling; Volume VI brings Heine, Grillparzer,
and Beethoven to view;
Volume VII, Hegel and Young Germany; Volume VIII, Auerbach, Gotthelf,
and Fritz Reuter; Volume IX, Hebbel and Ludwig; Volume X, Bismarck,
Moltke, Lassalle. Of the second half of the collection there might be
singled out: Volume XIV (Gottfried Keller and C.F. Meyer); Volume XV
(Schopenhauer, Wagner, Nietzsche, Emperor William II.); Volume XVIII
(Gerhart Hauptmann, Detlev von Liliencron, Richard Dehmel). The last
two volumes will be devoted to the most recent of contemporary authors.
The editors have been fortunate in associating with themselves a
notable number of distinguished contributors from many universities
and colleges in this country and abroad. A general introduction to the
whole series has been written by Professor Richard M. Meyer of the
University of Berlin. The last two volumes will be in charge of
Professor Julius Petersen of the University of Basel. The
introductions to Goethe and Schiller have been prepared by Professor
Calvin Thomas, of Columbia University; that to the Romantic
Philosophers by Professor Frank Thilly, of Cornell University; that to
Richard Wagner by Professor W. R. Spalding, of Harvard University.
And, similarly, every important author in this collection will be
introduced by some authoritative and well known specialist.
The crux of the whole undertaking lies in the correctness and adequacy
of the translations. How difficult, if not impossible, a really
satisfactory translation is, especially in lyric poetry, no one
realizes more clearly than the editors. Their only comfort is that
they have succeeded in obtaining the assistance of many well trained
and thoroughly equipped scholars, among them such names of poets as
Hermann Hagedorn, Percy MacKaye, George Sylvester Viereck, and
Martin Schütze.
Kuno Francke.
PUBLISHERS' FOREWORD
The German Classics is the first work issued by The German Publication
Society in pursuance of a comprehensive plan to open to the
English-speaking people of the world the treasures of German thought
and achievement in Literature, Art and Science.
In the production of this monumental work the thanks and appreciation
of the Publishers are especially due to Hugo Reisinger, Esq., whose
loyal support and constant encouragement have made possible its
publication.
General Introduction
By Richard M. Meyer, Ph.D. Professor of German Literature, University
of Berlin.
Men formerly pictured the origin and development of a literature as an
order less play of incalculable forces; out of a seething chaos forms
more or less definite arose, and then, one day, behold! the literary
earth was there, with sun and moon, water and mountains, animals and
men. This conception was intimately connected with that of the origin
of individual literary compositions. These likewise--since the new
"theory of genius," spreading from England, had gained recognition
throughout the whole of Europe, especially in those countries speaking
the Germanic languages--were imagined to be a mere succession of
inspirations and even of improvisations. This view of the subject can
no longer be held either wholly or in part, though in the origin and
growth of literature, as in every other origin and development, much
manifestly remains that is still incomprehensible and incalculable.
But even as regards the individual literary work, writers
themselves--as latterly Richard Dehmel--have laid almost too strong an
emphasis on the element of conscious deliberation. And concerning the
whole literary product of an individual, which seems to offer the most
instructive analogies to the literary achievement of a people, we
received a short time ago a remarkable opinion from Carl Spitteler. He
asserts that he is guided in his choice of definite styles and
definite forms by an absolutely clear purpose; that he has, for
example, essayed every kind of metre which could possibly be suited to
his "cosmic" epic, or that he has written a novelette solely in order
to have once written a novelette. Although in these confessions, as
well as in Edgar Allen Poe's celebrated _Poet's Art_, self-delusion
and pleasure in the paradoxical may very likely be mingled, it still
remains true that such dicta as these point to certain peculiarities
in the development of literatures. Experiments with all kinds of
forms, imitation of certain literary _genres_ without intrinsic
necessity, and deliberate selection of new species, play a larger part
in the history of modern German literature than people for a long time
wished to admit. It is true, however, that all this experimenting,
imitating, and speculating, in the end serves a higher necessity, as
well in the poet of genius as in a great literature.
Three kinds of forces virtually determine the general trend of all
artistic development as, indeed, of all other forms of
evolution--forces which constitute the sum total of those that we
comprehend under the joint name of _tradition_, a sum total of
progressive tendencies which we will designate as _esthetic ideals_,
and, mediating between the two, the _typical development of the
individuals themselves_--above all, naturally, individuals of genius
who really create literature.
These powers are present everywhere, but in very different proportion.
Characteristic of Romance literatures and also of the English, is the
great predominance of the conservative elements. Thus not only is the
literature of the constitutional mother-country democratic, but also
the literature of France, otherwise so decidedly aristocratic: a
majority dictates its laws to the distinguished individual and is
inclined to ostracize him, if too headstrong, and exile him from the
"Republic of Letters." This, for instance, is what happened to Lord
Byron among the British. On the other hand, German literature, like
Germanic literatures in general, is disposed to concede, at least at
times, a dictatorial leadership to the individual, even at the cost of
tradition--as, for example, to a Klopstock, a Goethe, or a Richard
Wagner. But, in exchange, the leader is often forced to uphold his
power, no matter how much it may have been due to his achievements, by
coercive measures--as, again for example, by means of a prætorian
guard of partisans, such as Klopstock first created for himself in the
Göttinger "Hain," but which was most effectively organized by Wagner,
and such as Victor Hugo, imitating the German model, possessed in the
Young Guard which applauded _Hernani_. Another method of enforcing his
mastery is the organization of a systematic reign of terror,
consisting of bitter satires, such as Schiller and Goethe (after the
model of Pope) founded in the _Xenien_, and the Romanticists
established in many different forms--satires much more personal and
much better aimed than was the general sort of mockery which the
Romance or Romanized imitators of Horace flung at Bavius and Mævius.
In saying all this, however, we have at the same time made it clear
that the power and influence of the individual of genius receives much
more positive expression in German literature than in those which
produced men like Corneille, Calderon, yes, even Dante and
Shakespeare. German literary history is, more than any other, occupied
with the _Individual_.
If we now try rapidly to comprehend to what extent each one of the
already enumerated literary forces has participated in the development
of modern German literature, we must, first of all, emphasize the fact
that here the question is, intrinsically, one of construction--of a
really new creation.
German literature since 1700 is not simply the continuation of former
literature with the addition of radical innovations, as is the case
with the literature of the same period in England, but was
systematically constructed on new theories--if it may be said that
nature and history systematically "construct." A destruction, a
suspension of tradition, had taken place, such as no other civilized
nation has ever experienced in a like degree--in which connection the
lately much-disputed question as to whether the complete decay dates
from the time of the Thirty Years' War or the latter merely marks the
climax of a long period of decadence may be left to take care of
itself. In any event, about the year 1700 the literature of Germany
stood lower than that of any other nation, once in possession of a
great civilization and literature, has ever stood in recent times.
Everything, literally everything, had to be created _de novo_; and it
is natural that a nation which had to struggle for its very existence,
for which life itself had become a daily questioning of fate, could at
first think of renovation only through its conservative forces. Any
violent commotion in the religious or political, in the economic or
social, sphere, as well as in the esthetic, might prove fatal, or at
least appear to be so.
The strongest conservative factor of a literature is the language.
Upon its relative immutability depends, in general, the possibility of
literary compositions becoming the common possession of many
generations--depends absolutely all transmission. Especially is poetic
language wont to bear the stamp of constancy; convenient formulas,
obvious rhymes, established epithets, favorite metaphors, do not, in
periods of exhaustion, afford much choice in the matter of
phraseology. On the other hand, however, a new tenor of thought, often
enough a new tenor of feeling, is continually pressing forward to
demand a medium of expression. This battle between the established
linguistic form and the new content gives rise to charming, but at the
same time alarming, conflicts. In the seventeenth century it was felt
strongly how much the store of linguistic expression had diminished,
partly on account of a violent and careless "working of the mine,"
which made prodigal use of the existing medium, as was the case in the
prose of Luther and, above all, of Johann Fischart and his
contemporaries; partly on account of a narrow confinement to a small
number of ideas and words, as in the church hymns.
This impoverishment of the language the century of the great war tried
to remedy in two opposite ways. For the majority the easiest solution
was to borrow from their richer neighbors, and thus originated that
affectation of all things foreign, which, in speaking, led to the most
variegated use and misuse of foreign words. Patriotically-minded men,
on the contrary, endeavored to cultivate the purity of their mother
tongue the while they enriched it; this, above all, was the ambition
of the various "Linguistic Societies." Their activity, though soon
deprived of a wide usefulness by pedantry and a clannish spirit,
prepared the way for great feats of linguistic reorganization. Through
Christian Wolff a philosophic terminology was systematically created;
from Pietism were received new mediums of expression for intimate
conditions of the soul; neither must we quite overlook the fact that
to some extent a new system of German titles and official designations
was associated with the new institutions of the modern state. More
important, however, than these details--which might have been
accomplished by men like Johann Gottfried Herder, Immanuel Kant and
Goethe; like the statesman, Heinrich Freiherr von Stein; and the
warrior, General von Scharnhorst--was this fact that, in general, an
esthetic interest had been again awakened in the language, which too
long had served as a mere tool. Also the slowly developing study of
language was of some help; even the falsest etymology taught people to
look upon words as organisms; even the most superficial grammar, to
observe broad relationships and parallel formations. So, then, the
eighteenth century could, in the treatment of the mother tongue, enter
upon a goodly heritage, of which for a long time Johann Christoph
Gottsched might not unjustly be counted the guardian. It was a
thoroughly conservative linguistic stewardship, which received
gigantic expression in Adelung's Dictionary--with all its
deficiencies, the most important German dictionary that had been
compiled up to that time. Clearness, intelligibleness, exactitude were
insisted upon. It was demanded that there should be a distinct
difference between the language of the writer and that in everyday
use, and again a difference between poetic language and prose; on the
other hand, great care had to be taken that the difference should
never become too great, so that common intelligibility should not
suffer. Thus the new poetic language of Klopstock, precisely on
account of its power and richness, was obliged to submit to the
bitterest mockery and the most injudicious abuse from the partisans of
Gottsched. As the common ideal of the pedagogues of language, who were
by no means merely narrow-minded pedants, one may specify that which
had long ago been accomplished for France--namely, a uniform choice of
a stock of words best suited to the needs of a clear and luminous
literature for the cultivated class, and the stylistic application of
the same. Two things, above all, were neglected: they failed to
realize (as did France also) the continual development of a healthy
language, though the ancients had glimpses of this; and they failed
(this in contrast to France) to comprehend the radical differences
between the various forms of literary composition. Therefore the
pre-classical period still left enough to be done by the classical.
It was Klopstock who accomplished the most; he created a new, a lofty
poetic language, which was to be recognized, not by the use of
conventional metaphors and swelling hyperboles, but by the direct
expression of a highly exalted mood. However, the danger of a forced
overstraining of the language was combatted by Christoph Martin
Wieland, who formed a new and elegant narrative prose on Greek,
French, and English models, and also introduced the same style into
poetic narrative, herein abetted by Friedrich von Hagedorn as his
predecessor and co-worker. Right on the threshold, then, of the great
new German literature another mixture of styles sprang up, and we see,
for example, Klopstock strangely transplanting his pathos into the
field of theoretical researches on grammar and metrics, and Wieland
not always keeping his irony aloof from the most solemn subjects. But
beside them stood Gotthold Ephraim Lessing who proved himself to be
the most thoughtful of the reformers of poetry, in that he emphasized
the divisions--especially necessary for the stylistic development of
German poetry--of literary categories and the arts. The most
far-reaching influence, however, was exercised by Herder, when he
preached that the actual foundation of all poetic treatment of
language was the individual style, and exemplified the real nature of
original style, i. e., inwardly-appropriate modes of expression, by
referring, on the one hand, to the poetry of the people and, on the
other, to Shakespeare or the Bible, the latter considered as a higher
type of popular poetry.
So the weapons lay ready to the hand of the dramatist Lessing, the
lyric poet Goethe, and the preacher Herder, who had helped to forge
them for their own use; for drama, lyrics, and oratory separate
themselves quite naturally from ordinary language, and yet in their
subject matter, in the anticipation of an expectant audience, in the
unavoidable connection with popular forms of speech, in singing, and
the very nature of public assemblies, they have a basis that prevents
them from becoming conventional. But not quite so favorable was the
condition of the different varieties of narrative composition. Here a
peculiarly specific style, such as the French novel especially
possesses, never reached complete perfection. The style of Wieland
would necessarily appear too light as soon as the subject matter of
the novel became more intimate and personal; that of the imitators of
Homer necessarily too heavy. Perhaps here also Lessing's sense of
style might have furnished a model of permanent worth, in the same way
that he furnished one for the comedy and the didactic drama, for the
polemic treatise and the work of scientific research. For is not the
tale of the three rings, which forms the kernel of _Nathan the Wise_,
numbered among the great standard pieces of German elocution, in spite
of all the contradictions and obscurities which have of late been
pointed out in it, but which only the eye of the microscopist can
perceive? In general it is the "popular philosophers" who have, more
than any one else, produced a fixed prose style; as a reader of good
but not exclusively classical education once acknowledged to me that
the German of J.J. Engel was more comprehensible to him and seemed
more "modern" than that of Goethe. As a matter of fact, the narrator
Goethe, in the enchanting youthful composition of _Werther_, did
venture very close to the lyrical, but in his later novels his style
at times dangerously approached a dry statement of facts, or a
rhetorically inflated declamation; and even in _The Elective
Affinities_, which stands stylistically higher than any of his other
novels, he has not always avoided a certain stiltedness that forms a
painful contrast to the warmth of his sympathy for the characters. On
the other hand, in scientific compositions he succeeded in
accomplishing what had hitherto been unattainable--just because, in
this case, the new language had first to be created by him.
Seldom are even the great writers of the following period quite free
from the danger of a lack-lustre style in their treatment of the
language, above all in narrative composition. It is only in the
present day that Thomas Mann, Jacob Wassermann, and Ricarda Huch are
trying along different lines, but with equal zeal, to form a fixed
individual style for the German prose-epic. The great exceptions of
the middle period, the writers of prose-epics Jeremias Gotthelf and
Gottfried Keller, the novelists Paul Heyse and Marie von
Ebner-Eschenbach, the narrator of anecdotes Ludwig Anzengruber, with
his greater predecessor Johann Peter Hebel, and his lesser
contemporary Peter Rosegger, the portrayer of still-life Adalbert
Stifter and a few others, have, more by a happy instinct than anything
else, hit upon the style proper to their form of composition, lack of
which prevents us from enjoying an endless number of prose works of
the nineteenth century, which, as far as their subject matter goes,
are not unimportant. In this connection I will only mention Karl
Gutzkow's novels describing his own period, or, from an earlier time,
Clemens Brentano's fairy tales, Friedrich Hebbel's humoresques, or
even the rhetorically emotional historical compositions of Heinrich
von Treitschke, found in certain parts of his work. But this lack of a
fixed specific style spread likewise to other forms of composition;
Schiller's drama became too rhetorical; Friedrich Rückert's lyric
poetry too prosaically didactic; that of Annette von Droste-Hülshoff
often too obscure and sketchy.
If, therefore, the struggle with the language was fought out
successfully by modern German literature only on the battleground of
the lyric (and even there, as we have seen, not without exceptions),
on the other hand a second conservative force was placed at the
service of the literary development with more uniform success, namely
_Metrics_. To be sure, here again this applies only to verse, for the
corresponding art of prose rhythm has been as good as lost to the
Germans, in contrast to the French, and almost more so to the English.
In prose also a conscious and systematic attempt to make an artistic
division into paragraphs, chapters, and books, has only been made in
recent times, above all in and since the writings of Nietzsche. For as
far as the treatment of language in itself is concerned, German
literature has hardly yet fully developed an artistic form; writers
still continue to treat it far too much as a mere tool. But verse is
felt to be an object for artistic molding, although here too the
naturalistic dogmas of the Storm and Stress writers, of the
Romanticists, Young Germans and Ultra-Moderns, have often shaken the
theories upon which the artistic perfection of our poetry is based.
In this regard, likewise, there was, in the seventeenth century, a
great difficulty to be overcome. Changes in language, the effect of
French and Italian style, the influence of music, had weakened the
foundations of the German art of verse, which were already partly
broken down by mechanical wear and tear. The comparatively simple
regulation contrived by an ordinary, though clever, poet, Martin
Opitz, proved capable of enduring for centuries; a connection was
established between the accent of verse and natural accent, which at
the same time, by means of more stringent rules, created barriers
against variable accent. It was merely a question of arranging the
words in such fashion that, without forming too great a contradiction
to the common-place order of words, the way in which the accents were
placed upon them should result in a regularly alternating rise and
fall. On the whole, this principle was found to be sufficient until
the enthusiasm of the new poetic generation demanded a closer
connection between the poetic form and the variable conditions of the
soul; they found a way out of the difficulty by carrying a rhythmical
mood through a variety of metrical divisions, and thus came upon the
"free rhythms." From whatever source these were derived, either from
the misunderstood poems of Pindar, from the language of the Bible or
of the enthusiastic mystics, or from the poetic half-prose of the
pastoral poet Salomon Gessner, they were, in any case, something new
and peculiar, and their nature has not been grasped in the least
degree by the French in their "vers libres," or at any rate only since
the half-Germanic Fleming Verhaeren. They received an interesting
development through Goethe and Heinrich Heine, while most of the other
poets who made use of them, even the greatest one, Novalis, often
deteriorated either into a regular, if rhymeless, versification, or
into a pathetic, formless prose.
Another method of procuring new metrical mediums of expression for the
new wealth of emotions was to borrow. Klopstock naturalized antique
metres, or rather made them familiar to the school and to cultivated
poets, while on the other hand Heine's derision of August von Platen's
set form of verse was welcomed in many circles, and even the elevated
poems of Friedrich Hölderlin, which approached the antique form,
remained foreign to the people, like the experiments of Leconte de
Lisle in France; in Italy it fared otherwise with Carducci's _Odi
barbare_. Only one antique metre became German, in the same sense that
Shakespeare had become a German poet; this was the hexameter, alone or
in connection with the pentameter; for the ratio of its parts to one
another, on which everything depends in higher metrics, corresponded,
to some extent, to that of the German couplets. For the same reason
the sonnet--not, however, without a long and really bitter fight--was
able to win a secure place in German reflective lyric poetry; indeed
it had already been once temporarily in our possession during the
seventeenth century. Thus two important metres had been added to
German poetry's treasure house of forms: first, the hexameter for a
continuous narrative of a somewhat epic character, even though without
high solemnity--which Goethe alone once aspired to in his
_Achilleis_--and also for shorter epigrammatic or didactic
observations in the finished manner of the distich; second, the sonnet
for short mood-pictures and meditations. The era of the German
hexameter seems, however, to be over at present, while, on the
contrary, the sonnet, brought to still higher perfection by Platen,
Moritz von Strachwitz and Paul Heyse, still exercises its old power of
attraction, especially over poets with a tendency toward Romance art.
However, both hexameter or distich and sonnet have become, in Germany,
pure literary forms of composition. While in Italy the sonnet is still
sung, we are filled with astonishment that Brahms should have set to
music a distich--_Anacreon_. Numerous other forms, taken up
principally by the Romantic school and the closely related "Exotic
School," have remained mere literary playthings. For a certain length
of time the ghasel seemed likely to be adopted as a shell to contain
scattered thoughts, wittily arranged, or (almost exclusively by
Platen) also for mood-pictures; but without doubt the undeservedly
great success of Friedrich von Bodenstedt's _Mirza Schaffy_ has cast
permanent discredit on this form. The favorite stanza of Schiller is
only one of the numerous strophe forms of our narrative or reflective
lyric; it has never attained an "ethos" peculiar to itself.
Incidentally, the French alexandrines were the fashion for a short
time after Victor Hugo's revival of them was revivified by Ferdinand
Freiligrath, and were recently used with variations by Carl Spitteler
(which, however, he denies) as a foundation for his epic poems. So,
too, the "Old German rhymed verse" after the manner of Hans Sachs,
enjoyed a short popularity; and one saw virtuosos playing with the
canzone or the makame. On the whole, however, German lyric poetry is
rather made up of simple formations in the style of the folk-song,
especially since the important rhythmic transformation of this
material by Heine created new possibilities for accommodating the
inner form to new subject matter without conspicuously changing the
outer form. For two great simplifying factors have, since Goethe, been
predominant in protecting our lyric poetry from unfruitful
artificiality; the influence of the folk-song and the connection with
music have kept it more full of vital energy than the too literary
lyric poetry of the French, and richer in variety than the too
cultivated lyric of the English. Whoever shut the door on the
influences spoken of, as did Franz Grillparzer or Hebbel, and, in a
different way, Annette von Droste-Hülshoff or Heinrich Leuthold, at
the same time nullified a good part of his efficiency.
The drama almost exclusively assumed a foreign, though kindred, form
as a garb for the more elevated styles of composition: namely, the
blank verse of the English stage, which Lessing's _Nathan the Wise_
had popularized and A.W. Schlegel's Shakespeare had rendered
omnipotent, and which Schiller forced upon his successors. The
Romanticists, by playing unsuccessfully with different forms, as in
Ludwig Tieck's _Octavianus_, or Immerman's _Alexis_, or by adopting
pure antique or Spanish metres, attempted in vain to free themselves
from the restraint of form, the great danger of which consisted in its
similarity to common-place sentence construction, so that the verse
ran the risk either of becoming prosaic, or else, in trying forcibly
to avoid this, of growing bombastic. An escape was provided by
inserting, in moments of emotion, a metre of a more lyrical quality
into the uniform structure of the usual vehicle of dramatic dialogue,
particularly when partaking of the nature of a monologue; as Goethe
did, for example, in the "Song of the Fates" in _Iphigenia_, that most
metrically perfect of all German dramatic poems, and as Schiller
continued to do with increased boldness in the songs introduced into
_Mary Stuart_. Perhaps the greatest perfection in such use of the
principle of the "free rhythm" as applied to the drama, was reached by
Franz Grillparzer in the _Golden Fleece_, on the model of certain
fragments by Goethe, such as the _Prometheus_. On the other hand, the
interesting experiments in the _Bride of Messina_ are of more
importance for the development of the opera into a work of art
complete in itself, than for that of the drama. In general, however,
it is to be remarked as a peculiarity of modern German drama, that it
seeks to escape from monotony, which the French classical theatre
hardly ever succeeded in avoiding, by calling in the aid of the other
arts. Plastic art is often employed for scenic arrangement, and music
to produce effects on and behind the stage. Both were made use of by
Schiller; and it was under his influence that they were tried by
Goethe in his later period--though we find a remarkable sporadic
appearance of them even as early as _Götz_ and _Klavigo_. The mastery
which Grillparzer also attained in this respect has been striven after
by his fellow countrymen with some degree of success: as, for example,
by Ferdinand Raimund, by Ludwig Anzengruber, and also by Friedrich
Halm and Hugo von Hofmannsthal.
Besides blank verse, the only other garb in vogue for the serious
drama was prose: this was not only used for realistic pictures of
conditions of a decidedly cheerful type (since Lessing had introduced
the _bourgeois_ dramas of Diderot into Germany), but also for pathetic
tragedies, the vital power of which the lack of stylistic disguising
of language was supposed to increase. This was the form employed in
the Storm and Stress drama, and therefore in the prison scene of
_Faust_, as also in Schiller's youthful dramas, and again we find it
adopted by Hebbel and the Young Germans, and by the naturalistic
school under the leadership of Ibsen. The Old German rhymed verse
found only a temporary place between these two forms. It was glorified
and made almost sacrosanct by having been used for the greatest of our
dramas, Goethe's _Faust_; Wildenbruch in particular tried to gain new
effects with it. Other attempts also went hand in hand with
deeper-reaching efforts to reconstruct the inner form of the drama;
thus the tendency to a veiled polyphony of language in the folk-scenes
of Christian Dietrich Grabbe and in all the plays of Heinrich von
Kleist; this in Hofmannsthal's _Oedipus_ led to regular choruses, of
quite a different type, however, from those of the _Bride of Messina_.
Gerhart Hauptmann's _Weavers_ and _Florian Geyer_ may be considered
the culminating points of this movement, in spite of their apparently
entirely prosaic form.
Modern German drama, which in its peculiar style is still largely
unappreciated because it has always been measured by its real or
supposed models, is, together with the free-rhythm lyric, the greatest
gift bestowed upon the treasure of forms of the world-literature by
the literature of Germany which has so often played the part of
recipient.
On the other hand, when speaking of the development of narrative
prose, we should remember what we have already accomplished in that
line. The "Novelle" alone has attained a fixed form, as a not too
voluminous account of a remarkable occurrence. It is formally
regulated in advance by the absolute domination of a decisive
incident--as, for example, the outbreak of a concealed love in Heyse,
or the moment of farewell in Theodor Storm. All previous incidents are
required to assist in working up to this climax; all later ones are
introduced merely to allow its echo to die away. In this austerity of
concentration the German "Novelle," the one rigidly artistic form of
German prose, is related to the "Short Story" which has been so
eagerly heralded in recent times, especially by America. The "Novelle"
differs, however, from this form of literary composition, which
Maupassant cultivated with the most masterly and unrivaled success, by
its subordination to a climax; whereas the Short Story, in reality, is
usually a condensed novel, that is to say, the history of a
development concentrated in a few incidents. Our literature also
possesses such short "sketches," but the love of psychological detail
in the development of the plot nearly always results in the greater
diffuseness of the novel. The real "Novelle" is, however, at least as
typical of the Germans as the Short Story is of the Americans, and in
no other form of literary composition has Germany produced so many
masters as in this--and in the lyric. For the latter is closely
related to the German "Novelle" because it loves to invest the way to
and from the culminating point with the charm produced by a certain
mood, as the half-German Bret Harte loves to do in similar artistic
studies, but the Russian Tschechow never indulges himself in, and the
Frenchman Maupassant but seldom. On this account our best writers of
"Novellen" have also been, almost without exception, eminent lyric
poets; such were Goethe, Tieck, Eichendorff, Mörike, Keller, Heyse,
Theodor Storm and C.F. Meyer; whereas, in the case of Marie von
Ebner-Eschenbach, who otherwise would form an exception, even what
appears to be a "Novelle" is in reality a "small novel."
The novel, on the contrary, still enjoys in Germany the dangerous
privilege of formlessness. In its language it varies from the vague
lyric of romantic composition to the bureaucratic sobriety of
mechanically-compiled studies of real life. In its outline, in the
rhythm of its construction, in the division of its parts and the way
in which they are brought into relief, it has, in spite of masterly
individual performances, never attained a specific literary form, such
as has long been possessed by the English and the French novels.
Likewise the inclination, sanctioned by Goethe and the Romantic
school, to interpolate specimens of the least formed half-literary
_genres_--namely, letters and diaries--worked against the adoption of
a fixed form, notwithstanding that this expedient augmented the
great--often indeed too great--inner richness of the German novel.
Thus the German novel, as well as the so justly favorite form of
letters and diaries, is of infinitely more importance as a human or
contemporary "document" than as a direct work of art. We have,
however, already drawn attention to the fact that the never-failing
efforts to clothe the novel in a more esthetically pure form have, in
our own day, happily increased.
The traditional _material_ of literary compositions is, however, also
a conservative power, just as are language and form. The stock of
dominating motives naturally undergoes just as many transformations as
language or metrics; but, in both cases, what already exists has a
determining influence on everything new, often going so far as to
suppress the latter entirely. Customary themes preferably claim the
interest of the reader; as, for example, in the age of religious
pictures it would have been exceedingly hard to procure an order for a
purely worldly painting. The artists themselves unconsciously glide
into the usual path, and what was intended to be a world-poem flows
off into the convenient worn channel of the love-story. But the
vivifying and deepening power of the Germanic spirit has here, more
than in any other domain, destroyed the opposing force of inertia.
The oldest poetry is confined to such subjects as are of universal
interest--one could also say of universal importance. War and the
harvest, the festivals of the gods and the destinies of the tribe, are
the subjects of song. These things retain their traditional interest
even where a healthy communal life no longer exists. Epochs which are
absolutely wanting in political understanding still cultivate the
glory of Brutus in an epic or dramatic form; or those ages which can
scarcely lay claim to a living religious interest still join in
choruses in honor of Apollo or in honor of the Christian religion.
Every literature carries with it a large and respectable ballast of
sensations that are no longer felt, of objects that are no longer
seen, culminating in the spring-songs of poets confined to their room,
and the wine-songs of the water-drinkers. A stagnating literature, as
that of the seventeenth century was essentially, always has an
especially large amount of such rubbish. Poems composed for certain
occasions, in the worst sense--that is to say, poems of congratulation
and condolence written for money, trivial reflections and mechanical
devotion, occupy an alarmingly large space in the lyric of this
period. Drama is entirely confined, and the novel for the greater
part, to the dressing up in adopted forms of didactic subject matter
of the most general type. Men of individuality are, however, not
altogether lacking: such were lyric poets like Andreas Gryphius and
Paul Fleming, gnomologists like Johann Scheffler, and narrators like
J.J. Christoffel von Grimmelshausen; but even with them the personal
note does not dare to sound openly. The first to give free expression
again to intimate sensations is Christian Günther, and he arouses
thereby contradiction, together with admiration. The court poets about
the year 1700 work more in a negative way, i. e., by that which they
did not express in their verses. The great merit of the pre-classical
writers is to have created space, on the one hand, for personal
sensations, and, on the other, for the great new thoughts of the age.
Hagedorn, with the elegant frivolity of the man of the world,
continued the necessary sifting of antiquated material; Albrecht von
Haller, with the deep seriousness of the great student of nature, once
more squarely faced the eternal problems. But the entire wealth of
inner experience, in its most exclusively individual sense, was first
revealed, not only to the literature of Germany but to modern
literature in general, by Klopstock. Along this path Goethe pressed
forward gloriously, his whole poetic work presenting, according to his
own testimony, a single great confession. From Haller, on the
contrary, proceeds the effort to develop a poetical style that would
enable individuals to share in the great thoughts of the age. Lessing
strides onward from _Minna von Barnhelm_--the first drama of
contemporary history since the _Persians_ of Æschylus--to _Nathan the
Wise_, herein following the lead of the "literature with a distinct
purpose" (_Tendenz-Dichtung_) of France, and especially of Voltaire,
otherwise antipathetic to Lessing. Lessing's great dramatic heir is
Schiller, whose tradition is in turn carried on by Kleist, the latter
allowing his personality to penetrate the subject matter far more even
than either of his predecessors.
But the utmost was done by Goethe, when in _Werther_ and _Götz_, in
_Prometheus_ or _Satyros_, but above all eventually in _Faust_, he
lived through in advance--or, as he himself said, he "anticipated"
(_vorfühlte_)--the peculiar experience of the age with such intensity
that, in the work which resulted, the individual experience became the
direct experience of the whole generation.
Out of the "reverence for nature" (_Naturfrömmigkeit_) with which he
contemplated all created things--from "the Cedar of Lebanon to the
hyssop which grows on the wall," from the mighty movement of the
stream in _Mahomet_ to the bit of cheese that is weighed by the old
woman in _Die Geschwister_--out of all comes a widening of the poetic
horizon, the like of which had never before been seen in any age. The
Romanticists in reality only made a watchword out of this practice of
Goethe's when they demanded "progressive universal poetry," by which
they meant that the poet should live through the whole experience of
creation in his own person. In demanding this, they--as the aging
Goethe had himself done--formed too narrow a conception of the
personal, and rejected too absolutely the problems of politics and of
science, so that once more a narrowing process ensued. But even in
their own ranks this tendency was offset by the exigency of the times;
after the wars of liberation, political and in general, poetry written
with a purpose was actually in the ascendency. The poetry of the mood,
like that of a Mörike, remained for a long time almost unknown on
account of its strictly intimate character. In the success of Ernst
von Wildenbruch we see provisionally the last victory of this sort of
literature--which directly proclaims what is worth striving for--at
least in its loftier form. For the contemporary novel constantly takes
for its subject the emancipation of woman, or the fight for culture,
the protection of the Ostmark, or the fight against alcohol.
On the other hand the Romantic school has also broadened the realm of
poetic material in a very important manner, by adding to it the
provinces of the phantastic, the visionary, the fairy-like, and by
giving to the symbolical an undreamed-of expansion.
On the whole, modern German literature has probably a richer field
from which to choose her material than any other literature can boast
of. In fact it is perhaps too variegated, and thus, because of the
richness and originality of its subject matter, allows too much
latitude to genius. One field only in poetry, considered from the
viewpoint of real art, is almost uncultivated. All the efforts and all
the attempts on the part of both Catholics and Protestants have not
succeeded in producing religious poems of any degree of importance
since Annette von Droste-Hülshoff ceased to sing; whereas, on the
other hand, poetry that is hostile to the church has brought to
maturity some great productions, not only in Anzengruber or Karl
Schoenherr, in Friedrich Theodor Vischer, in Storm, and Keller, but,
above all, in Nietzsche. A turn in the tide that seems just now to be
taking place is exemplified in the important epic poems of Enrica von
Handel-Mazzetti.
Finally, as the last and, in a certain sense, the strongest, pillar of
permanency we will name the public. It is just as much a product as a
contributing factor of literature; in both respects, however,
preëminently important as a conservative force. The predominant and
enduring tendencies, forms, and subjects are naturally chiefly
conducive to the formation of a circle of "fixed subscribers" among
the crowd of possible patrons. These subscribers, on their part, of
course insist upon the preservation of those tendencies, forms, and
subjects by which they are attracted. In the same way that, in
general, a large "reading world," or a regular public for a theatre,
or a solid community of devotees for each of the different species of
song (as for example, the religious song, the folk-song, the student's
song) is organized, so do important personalities call into being a
special following of admirers, such as the partisans of Hebbel, the
Wagnerians, and the adherents of Stefan George. But these narrow
circles are often much more intolerant of every effort on the part of
the master to depart from the program he has sworn to, than are
outsiders. The history of the German public, unlike that of the
English or French, is less a church-history than a sect-history.
Schiller alone succeeded in becoming the national poet of his
people--and he had his merits as well as his weaknesses to thank for
it. Lessing is the one who comes next to him, whereas Goethe really
reached the masses in only a few of his compositions. On the other
hand, he made a stronger impression upon, and gave more happiness to,
the intellectual classes than any of our poets since Klopstock. After
him, only poets of a decidedly esoteric character, such as Stefan
George or Friedrich Nietzsche, have had such a profound effect or one
so capable of stirring the remoter depths of the soul. Even with Jean
Paul the impression produced was more superficial. Latterly, however,
periodicals, lecture-courses and clubs have replaced the
"_caucus_"--which was formerly held by the most influential readers
and hearers of the literary fraternities. This change has gone so far
that the intimacy of the relations between a poet and his admirers,
which was still possible in the early days of Hauptmann, Hofmannsthal,
George, and Dehmel, now actually exists only for those poets who have
not attained any special renown, such as Alfred Mombert, or, perhaps,
we might also include Spitteler. An amalgamation of the different
groups, which in Germany are wont to prove their love for their patron
by combatting his supposed or real opponents rather than by actively
fostering his artistic tendencies, might have produced a strong and
effective reading public. But sooner can a stenographer of the Stolze
school agree with one of the Gabelsberger system than can a votary of
Dehmel dare to recognize the greatness in George, an admirer of
Schnitzler see the importance of Herbert Eulenberg, or a friend of
Gustav Frenssen acknowledge the power of Ricarda Huch. Our public, by
its separatist taste and the unduly emphasized obstinacy of its
antipathies, will continue for a long time still to hinder that unity,
which, rising above even a just recognition of differences, is the
only element which makes a great literature possible. Of course the
critics are to be reckoned among the public, whether we consider
criticism by professional reviewers or the more discriminating
criticism of theatre directors, composers, etc.
In all the foregoing discussion of the prevailingly conservative
forces in the development of literature we have seen that none of
these forces has a completely restraining effect. Language always
undergoes a certain change, even in the most benumbed periods, since
it is obliged to suit itself to the new demands of trade, of society,
even of literature itself. We also saw that form and material were not
an inert mass, but were in continual, though often slow, movement.
Finally, though the public itself always demands essentially the same
thing, it has, nevertheless, new variations which are forced upon it
by its avidity for new subjects; it also demands, when it has enjoyed
a higher artistic education (as in the days of the Classical and
Romantic writers), perfection of technique and increase in
specifically artistic values. Between the abiding and the progressive,
between the conservative and revolutionary tendencies, _the typical
development of the individual himself_ takes its place as a natural
intermediary factor. No literary "generation" is composed of men
actually of the same age. Beside the quite young who are merely
panting to express themselves, stand the mature who exercise an
esthetic discernment, even as regards their own peculiar experience;
finally, there are also the older men who have already said their say.
In the same way every public is made up of people of all ages. These
make different demands of their poets; youth wishes to conquer,
manhood to fortify, old age merely not to lose. It is self-evident
that points of conformity are to be found between the most widely
differing fields: as, for example, conservative tendencies are present
in the camp of the destroyers, revolutionary tendencies in that of the
conservatives. In other words, in every community of men, no matter of
what description, who are united by any kind of higher interest, new
ideals grow up out of this very community of interest. Men who happen
to be thrown together mutually cause one another's demands to
increase; those who work in common try to outdo one another. Out of
their midst personalities arise, who, brought up with the loftiest
ideals, or often spurred on by the supineness of the public, with
passionate earnestness make what merely filled up the leisure hours of
others the sole purpose of their lives. Thus, in Germany above all,
the new ideal has been born again and again, constituting the
strongest motive power which exists, besides the personality of
genius itself.
Of the greatest importance, to begin with, is the _ideal of a national
literature itself_. Gottsched was the first in Germany, if not to
apprehend it, at least to ponder it and to advocate it with persistent
zeal. The literature of antiquity and the literature of France offered
types of fixed national units. The affinity between the two as
national units had been pointed out in France and England by means of
the celebrated "Combat of the ancients and moderns," which also first
gave living writers sufficient courage to think of comparing modern
art with ancient.
Gottsched presented a program which he systematically strove to carry
out, and in which one of the most important places is given to the
building up of an artistic theatre, after the model of the great
civilized nations. He surely had as much right to show some
intolerance toward the harlequin and the popular stage as Lessing (who
supplanted him while continuing his work) had to indulge in a like
prejudice against the classical theatre of the French. Lessing,
however, as we have already seen, goes at the same time more deeply
into the matter by proposing not only a systematic but also an organic
construction of the separate _genres_, and Herder took the last step
when he demanded an autochthonous growth--that is to say, a
development of art out of the inner necessity of personalities on the
one hand, and of nationalities on the other. To be sure, the great
poets who now appeared were not included in the program, and Gottsched
did not appreciate Haller, nor did Lessing form a correct estimate of
Goethe, or Herder of Schiller. There is, however, a mysterious
connection between the aspirations of the nation and the appearance
of genius.
Klopstock probably felt most directly what was wanting in the
literature of his people, as he was also the most burning patriot of
all our classical writers; and at the same time, as is proved by the
_Republic of Letters_, his strange treatise on the art of poetry, he
was the one among them who bore the most resemblance to the literary
pedant of the old days. He is, therefore, continually occupied with
the comparison between German and foreign art, language, and
literature, which endeavor was continued later on and with other
methods by A.W. Schlegel. But Herder also, in his comparison of the
native art of Germany with the art of antiquity, of the Orient and of
England, produced effective results; no less did Lessing, although the
latter seeks to learn from the faults of his neighbors rather than
from their excellencies. Goethe's criticism is dominated to such a
degree by his absorption in the antique, and also in French and
English general literature, that he has no understanding of national
peculiarities when they do not conform to typical literary phenomena,
as Uhland's lyric and Kleist's drama--two literary phenomena which we,
nowadays, consider eminently national. The Romantic school was the
first to try to place the conception of national literature as a whole
on an autochthonous basis, and the scientific speculation to which
Romanticism gave rise, has, since the Brothers Grimm, also resulted in
serviceable rules gained from the increasingly thorough knowledge of
language, of national development, and of social conditions. This new
point of view reaches its climax in the attempts of Karl Müllenhoff
and Wilhelm Scherer to trace the native literary development directly
back to the nature and destiny of the German nation. But even as that
proved scientifically unsuccessful, so likewise it was not feasible
practically to establish a poetry confined to native materials, forms,
and opinions. In vain did Tieck try to play off the youthful Goethe,
as the only national one, against the Goethe of the Weimar period,
which attempt many after him have repeated; or again, it was proposed
to strike Heine out of the history of our literature as un-German--the
last two literary events of European significance in Germany,
according to Nietzsche. On the contrary, a comparison of German
literature with those of foreign nations was not only necessary but
also fruitful, as a certain exhaustion had set in, which lent an
aftermath character to the leaders of the German "intellectual poetry"
(_Bildungs-Poesie_) of that time. It was necessary once again to
compare our technique, our relationship between the poet and the
people, our participation in all the various literary _genres_ and
problems, with the corresponding phenomena in the countries of Zola,
Björnson, Tolstoy, Ibsen, and Strindberg.
This, now, leads up to another question, to that concerning _poetic
ideals_, and not only poetry in itself; the poet also becomes the
object of interest and expectation. Every age embodies a different
ideal, by which in all instances the already existing type and the
loftier hopes of youth are welded into one--if we maybe allowed so to
express it. Antiquity asked that the poet should fill the heart with
gladness; the Middle Ages desired edification with a spiritual or a
worldly coloring; the first centuries of modern times applied to him
for instruction. This last ideal was still in vogue at the beginning
of modern German literature. But gradually the conception of
"instruction" altered. The poet of the Germanic nations had now to be
one who could interpret the heart. He should no longer be the medium
for conveying those matters which the didactic novel and the edifying
lyric had treated--things valuable where knowledge of the world and
human nature, intercourse and felicity are concerned--but he must
become a seer again, an announcer of mysterious wisdom. "Whatever,
unknown or unminded by others, wanders by night through the labyrinth
of the heart"--that he must transmit to the hearer; he must allow the
listener to share with him the gift of "being able to give expression
to his suffering." Thus the chief task of the modern poet became "the
reproduction of the objective world through the subjective,"
consequently "experience." Real events, objects, manifestations must
pass through a human soul in order to gain poetic significance, and
upon the significance of the receiving soul, not upon the "poetic" or
"unpoetic" nature of the subject itself, depends the poetic
significance.
With this new conception, however, new dangers are connected. Near at
hand lies the fear of a too open declaration of the most intimate
feelings. In many old-style poets of modern times, in Hölderlin, in
Kleist, Grillparzer, and Annette von Droste-Hülshoff this fear assumes
the character of ethical aversion to baring their feelings in public.
But near, too, lies the hunt after interesting experiences--the need
to "experience something" at any price--which marred the life of a
romantic poet of Brentano's talents, and also affected the conduct of
the realist Grabbe. A new responsibility was placed upon the shoulders
of the German poet, which rested heavily on men like Otto Ludwig, and
on account of which writers like Hebbel or Richard Wagner thought
themselves justified in claiming the royal privileges of the favorites
of the gods.
An entirely new method of poetic study began, which perhaps originated
with Heinrich von Kleist: a passionate endeavor to place the whole of
life at the service of observation or to spend it in the study of
technique. The consequence was not seldom a nervous derangement of the
whole apparatus of the soul, just at the moment when it should have
been ready for its greatest performances, as in the case of Nikolaus
Lenau; however, it also frequently resulted in an endlessly increased
receptivity for every experience, as in the case of Bettina von Arnim,
Heine, or Annette von Droste, and the most recent writers.
The infinitely difficult task of the modern poet is made still harder
by the fact that, in spite of all his efforts, he, happily, seldom
succeeds in transforming himself into, one would like to say, an
artistically working apparatus, such as Ibsen very nearly became; not,
however, without deploring the fact at the close of his life. The
German poet in particular has too strong a lyrical inheritance not to
reëcho the impressions _directly_ received by his heart. The struggle
between the demands of a purely artistic presentation of reality,
i. e., one governed exclusively by esthetic rules, and its sympathetic
rendering, constitutes the poetic tragedy of most of our "naturalistic
writers," and especially of the most important one among them, Gerhart
Hauptmann. But from this general ideal of the poet, who only through
his own experience will give to reality a true existence and the
possibility of permanence, there follows a straining after technical
requirements such as was formerly almost unknown. This results in an
effort in Germany all the more strenuous in proportion to the former
slackness regarding questions of artistic form. The peculiarities of
the different literary _genres_ are heeded with a severity such as has
been practised before only in antiquity or perhaps by the French.
Poets like Detlev von Liliencron, who formerly had appeared as
advocates of poetical frivolity, now chafed over banal aids for
rhyming, as once Alfred de Musset had done. Friedrich Spielhagen, the
brothers Heinrich and Thomas Mann, and Jacob Wassermann are seen to
busy themselves with the technical questions pertaining to the
prose-epic, no longer in a merely esthetical and easy-going fashion,
but as though they were working out questions vital to existence; and
truly it is bitter earnest with them where their art is concerned.
Often, as in painting, technique becomes the principal object, and the
young naturalism of Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf has in all
seriousness raised technique to a dogma, without, however, in the long
run being able to get the upper hand of the German need of
establishing intimate relations with the subject of the art.
We must, however, at this point again remind ourselves that the
question is not one of abstract "poets" but one of a large number of
living _men_ who, happily, differ widely from one another. Above all,
when considering them we must think of the typical development of the
generations. Those for whom patriotic interests, at least in a direct
sense, seemed to have little meaning, were always followed by
generations patriotically inspired. The Germany of to-day hides, under
the self-deluding appearance of a confinement to purely esthetic
problems, a predominating and lively joy in the growth of the
Fatherland, and naturally also in its mental broadening. To have given
the strongest expression to this joy constitutes the historical
significance of Gustav Frenssen, just as solicitude for its future
inspired the muse of Wilhelm von Polenz.
The preference shown to individual literary _genres_ changes in an
almost regular order of sequence--the Swiss Bovet has even tried
recently to lay down a regular law of alternation. Especially is the
theatre from time to time abused for being a destructive negation of
art, in just as lively a fashion as it is declared at other times to
be the sole realization of the artistic ideal. As to prevailing
temperaments, a preferably pathetic tone--as, for example, in the
epoch of Freytag, Geibel, Treitschke--alternates with a sceptically
satiric one--as in Fontane who (like so many writers, in Germany
especially) did not belong to his own generation nor even to the
immediately succeeding one, but to the next after that! With these are
associated preferences for verse or prose; for idealism or realism and
naturalism; a falling away from philosophy or an inclination to
introduce it into poetry; and numerous other disguises for those
antagonistic principles, to which Kuno Francke in a general survey of
our literature has sought to trace back its different phases.
We have now said about all that, in our opinion, seems necessary for a
general introduction to modern German literature. For the rest, it is
of course quite obvious that it is German--and that it is a
literature. That it is German, is precisely why it is not exclusively
German: for in every epoch has it not been proclaimed in accents of
praise or of blame, until we are almost tired of hearing it, that the
inclination to take up and appropriate foreign possessions is peculiar
to the German nation--and to the Germanic spirit in general? Thus we
possess special presentations of German literature considered from the
standpoint of its antique elements, and also from that of its
Christian elements, and we could in the same way present theses which
would show its development from the standpoint of the Romance or of
the English influence. And yet latterly an exactly contrary attempt
has been made--in a spirited, if somewhat arbitrary book by Nadler,
which consists in trying to build up the history of German literature
entirely upon the peculiarities of the different tribes and provinces.
For the essence of the German, nay, even of the Swabian, or Bavarian,
or North German, or Austrian individuality, is in the long run
nourished rather than extinguished by all foreign influences. In spite
of this, it is of course important in the consideration of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, to observe how the French pattern
that is at first followed almost with the unquestioned obedience
accorded to a fixed ethical model, is confronted by the English, which
brings about the celebrated--and probably overrated--struggle between
Gottsched and the Swiss School. We should also notice precisely how
the tendency of British literature toward originality--in which the
insular peculiarities were strongly emphasized--served to increase the
self-reliance of German literature; how a new movement in the style of
the antique was cultivated by the classical writers; and how the
Romantic School favored medieval-Christian tendencies--much to
Goethe's annoyance. It is of importance likewise to note the way in
which Young Germany learned how to gain political-literary effects
from the new French models; and finally, how the Northern realism of
presentation, amalgamated with Tolstoy's, Björnson's, Strindberg's and
also Ibsen's ethical subjectivity, educated the naturalism of the
Germans. It is precisely those poets that are especially characterized
by German peculiarities who have also trained themselves in the use of
foreign subjects and forms: thus did Uhland, Mörike, Hebbel, and all
the Romanticists. We have already had occasion many times to call
attention in detail to the educational effect of foreign countries.
German literature is, in short, one that possesses the typical moments
of development which mark all literatures, and which Wilhelm Scherer
was the first to call to our notice: that is to say, it is a
complicated organism in which the most varied tendencies cross one
another, the most dissimilar generations of writers meet together, and
the most remarkable events occur in the most unforeseen manner.
If we should now try to get a closer view of the last and by far the
most important factor of literature, namely, the individual writers
themselves, this difficulty in obtaining a general view of the whole,
this working of the different parts against one another, this pulling
away from one another, presents itself more clearly to us here than
anywhere else. The attempt to classify the development of our
literature into distinct groups according to the personalities which
compose them has been frequently made, since I, in spite of all the
difficulties and dangers of such a hazardous enterprise, first
undertook, in my _German Literature of the Nineteenth Century_, to
give an historical and complete presentation of a literature which had
as yet scarcely become historic. I can here merely refer in passing to
my own efforts and to those of Bartels, Biese, Riemann, and
Soergel--to name only these; for in compliance with the purpose of
this introduction we must confine ourselves to giving a general
comprehensive outline--although it would be easy to improve upon it if
one went more into detail.
It seems to me under these conditions that the groundlines of the
development of our literature from 1700-1900 would be best impressed
upon us by comparing the order of its evolution with that of the most
"normal" poetic genius who ever lived--namely, with that of Goethe;
and thereby we should prove its development to be an essentially
normal one.
Like all "natural geniuses" Goethe begins as an imitator, dependent
upon others; for the poet also must first learn to speak and to walk.
The earliest literary effort of his which we possess is the poem _On
Christ's Descent into Hell_, which naturally seemed strange enough to
Goethe when this long forgotten first printed specimen of his literary
productiveness was laid before him again after he had grown old. In
this poem traditional phrases are repeated without the addition of
anything new and original; conventional feelings are expressed, usual
methods are employed; all this, however, not without a certain
moderation of expression constituting a first sign of the otherwise
still completely concealed poetic individuality.
Such is the character that the world of virtuosos also bears about the
year 1700. The poems of Rudolf von Canitz and Johann von Besser are,
though in entirely different spheres, just the same kind of first
attempts of an imperfect art anxiously following foreign models as
Goethe's first Christian poem--though truly with the tremendous
difference that they represented the utmost that Frenchified courtly
art could ever attain to; while Goethe's poem, on the contrary, was
the immature sprig cut away before its time from the stem of a tree
soon to stand in the full glory of its bloom.
When now in the Leipzig period the young student discovers the poet
within him, he first does so in the customary way: he recognizes the
ability on his part to handle the language of the contemporary poets,
and also perhaps to imbue it with his own personal feelings. His poems
inserted in letters, which make a show of the elegant pretence of
improvisation, but in reality already display a great dexterity in
rhyming and in the use of imagery, may be compared to Hagedorn's
poetry; but at the same time Goethe is trying to attain the serious
tone of the "Pindarian" odes, just as Haller's stilted scholarly
poetry conquered a place beside Hagedorn's Epicurean philosophy of
life. The _Book of Annette_ (1767) as a whole, however, presents the
first attempt on the part of Goethe to reach a certain completeness in
his treatment of the poetic theme. In all his subsequent collections
of poems the same attempt is made, it is true with increasingly rigid
interpretation of the idea of "completeness," and in so far one is
reminded in this connection of the theoretic intentions and
performances of Gottsched.
The "New Songs" (_Neue Lieder_) of 1770 give a lop-sided exhibition of
the style which Leipzig and the times acts. Two great acts follow: in
1773 comes _Götz_; in 1774, _Werther_. And with _Götz_ the great
"subjects of humanity" seize possession of Goethe's poetry, as they
had taken possession of the poetry of Germany with Lessing--as shown
by his whole work up to _Nathan_: for Lessing, the strongest adversary
of mere "estheticism," really accomplished what those Anacreontic
poets had merely wished to do--or seemed to wish--and brought
literature into close touch with life. _The Sorrows of Werther_ lays
hold of the subjective problems of the age just as the drama of
liberty lays hold of the objective; in them a typical character of the
times is analyzed not without zealously making use of models--both
innovations of Wieland! But now indeed comes the most important of
all, that which in its greatness represents something completely new,
although in detail Goethe had here all his teachers to teach
him--Lessing who had written _Faust_-scenes, and Wieland who was so
fond of placing the two souls of man side by side, and Herder who had
an absolutely Faust-like nature; so that people have tried, with the
exaggeration of the theorist, to hold up before us the whole _Faust_
as a kind of dramatized portrayal of Herder! And with _Faust_ Goethe
in German literature has reached his own time--"For his century bears
his name!"
But in the period which followed the predominating position of the
classical writers we once more find the same parallelism of
development. Again with Goethe's dilettante beginnings we compare a
school of weak imitators, which unhappily was protected by Goethe
himself (and also by Schiller in his literary organs); again with the
Strassburg period and its Storm and Stress we compare Romanticism,
which is characterized by its German nationalism and its antique
tendencies, which is sentimental and philosophical, critical and
programmatical like the time of _Götz_, which latter surely must have
had a strong effect on men like Tieck and Arnim. And out of the
sentiment for his country, which, in Goethe's whole literary career,
is peculiar only to the poetry of the Strassburg period, tendencies
develop like those which manifest themselves in the literature of the
Wars of Liberation, of the Swabian School, in the older poetry of
political conflict--in short, like all those tendencies which we
connect with Ludwig Uhland's name.
Goethe's literary satires and poems for special occasions are a
prelude to the purely literary existence and the belligerent spirit of
men like Platen and Immermann, who both, as it were by accident, found
their way into the open of national poesy. The self-absorption in
_Werther_, the delving after new poetical experiences and mediums of
expression; the method of expression hovering between form and
illusory improvisation--all this we find again in the strongest
individualists, in Heine, in Annette von Droste, in Lenau. The Weimar
period, however, when the poet by means of a great and severe
self-discipline trains himself to the point of rigidity in order to
become the instrument of his art--that period is, with _Tasso_, paving
the way for the school of Grillparzer, while that infinite deepening
of the poetic calling is a preparation for Otto Ludwig, Richard
Wagner, and Friedrich Hebbel. The contemporary novel in the style of
_Wilhelm Meister_ is revived by the Young Germans, above all by
Gutzkow, in the same way that tendencies found in _Nathan_ and in
_Götz_ are brought out again in Gutzkow's and in Heinrich Laube's
dramas, so rich in allusions. The national spirit of which _Egmont_ is
full also fills the novels of Willibald Alexis and Berthold Auerbach.
Finally those works, besides _Tasso_, which we are wont to consider
the crowning achievements of the Weimar period, above all,
_Iphigenia_, have permanently served as models of the new, and in
their way classical, "antiques"--for the Munich School, for the
Geibels and the Heyses. But we must also remember Mörike and Stifter,
and their absorption in the fullness of the inner life, which none of
them could attain to without somewhat stunting the growth of life's
realities--Hebbel perceived this clearly enough not only in Stifter
but in Goethe himself. Above all, however, this whole epoch of the
"intellectual poets" may, in a certain sense, be called the _Italian
Journey_ of German literature. Like Goethe in the years 1787-1788, the
German muse in this period only feels entirely at home in Italy, or at
least in the South; in her own country she feels misnamed.
Now let us consider Goethe after he had settled down in Weimar for the
second time. Scientific work seems for a while to have entirely
replaced poetic activity, as for a moment the scientific prose of
Ranke and Helmholtz came near to being of more consequence for the
German language than most of what was produced at the same time by
so-called poetry. Then the _Campaign in Champagne_ (1792), and the new
employment of his time with political problems, constitutes for Goethe
a temporary phase that may be compared with that recapturing of
history by political-historical writers like Freytag and Treitschke,
in the same way that _Hermann and Dorothea_ (1796), in which an old
historical anecdote of the time of the expulsion of the Protestants
from Salzburg is transplanted to the time of the French Revolution,
may be compared with the historical "Novellen" of Riehl, Scheffel, and
C.F. Meyer. Goethe's ballads (1797-1798) maintain the tradition that
was to be given new life by Fontane, Strachwitz, and C.F. Meyer.
Goethe's later novels with their didactic tendencies, and the
inclination to interpolate "Novellen" and diaries, lead up to
Gottfried Keller, Wilhelm Raabe and again to Fontane. The table-songs
and other convivial poetry of Goethe's old age are taken up again by
Scheffel; Goethe's "Novellen" themselves were continued by all those
eminent writers whom we have already named. The _Divan_, with its bent
toward immutable relations, prepares the way for the new lyric, until
finally, with the second part of _Faust_, mythical world-poetry and
symbolism complete the circle, just as the cycle of German literature
finishes with Nietzsche, Stefan George, Spitteler and Hofmannsthal. At
the same time new forces are starting to form the new cycle, or, to
speak like Goethe, the newest spiral: Hauptmann, Frenssen, Ricarda
Huch, Enrica von Handel, to name only these. And how many others have
we not previously left unnamed!
But all this has not been merely to exercise our ingenuity. By drawing
this parallel, which is naturally only to be taken approximately, we
have intended to make clear the comforting probability that, in spite
of all the exaggerating, narrowing down, and forcing to which it has
been obliged to submit, our modern and most recent German literature
is essentially a healthy literature. That, in spite of all deviation
caused by influential theorists--of the Storm and Stress, of the
Romantic School, of the period of Goethe's old age, of the epigonean
or naturalistic criticism, or by the dazzling phenomena of foreign
countries,--nevertheless in the essentials it obeys its own inner
laws. That in spite of all which in the present stage of our
literature may create a painful or confusing impression, _we have no
cause to doubt that a new and powerful upward development will take
place, and no cause either to underrate the literature of our own
day_! It is richer in great, and what is perhaps more important, in
serious talents than any other contemporary literature. No other can
show such wealth of material, no other such abundance of interesting
and, in part, entirely new productions. We do not say this in order to
disparage others who in some ways were, only a short time ago, so far
superior to us--as were the French in surety of form, the
Scandinavians in greatness of talents, the Russians in originality,
the English in cultivation of the general public; but we are inspired
to utter it by the hopeful joy which every one must feel who, in the
contemplation of our modern lyric poetry, our novels, dramas, epic and
didactic poetry, does not allow himself to be blinded by prejudice or
offended vanity. A great literature such as we possessed about 1800 we
of a certainty do not have to-day. A more hopeful chaos or one more
rich in fertile seeds we have not possessed since the days of
Romanticism. It is surely worth while to study this literature, and in
all its twists and turns to admire the heliotropism of the German
ideal and the importance which our German literature has won as a
mediator, an experimenter, and a model for that world-literature, the
outline of which the prophetic eye of the greatest German poet was the
first to discern, and his hand, equally expert in scientific and
poetic creation, the first to describe.
THE LIFE OF GOETHE
BY CALVIN THOMAS, LL.D.
Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, Columbia University
Goethe, the illustrious poet-sage whom Matthew Arnold called the
"clearest, largest, and most helpful thinker of modern times," was
born August 28, 1749, at Frankfurt on the Main.[2] He was christened
Johann Wolfgang. In his early years his familiar name was Wolfgang, or
simply Wolf, never Johann. His family was of the middle class, the
aristocratic _von_ which sometimes appears in his name, in accordance
with German custom, having come to him with a patent of nobility which
he received in the year 1782.
Johann Caspar Goethe, the poet's father, was the son of a prosperous
tailor, who was also a tailor's son. Having abundant means and being
of an ambitious turn, Johann Caspar prepared himself for the
profession of law, spent some time in Italy, and then settled in
Frankfurt in the hope of rising to distinction in the public service.
Disappointed in this hope, he procured the imperial title of
Councilor, which gave him a dignified social status but nothing in
particular to do. He thus became virtually a gentleman of leisure,
since his law practise was quite insignificant. In 1748 he married
Katharina Elisabeth Textor, whose father, Johann Wolfgang Textor, was
the town's chief magistrate and most eminent citizen. She was eighteen
years old at the time of her marriage--twenty years younger than her
husband--and well fitted to become a poet's mother. The gift on which
she especially prided herself was her story-telling. Wolfgang was the
first child of these parents.
The paternal strain in Goethe's blood made for level-headedness,
precise and methodical ways, a serious view of life, and a desire to
make the most of it. By his mother he was a poet who liked nothing
else so well as to invent dream-worlds and commune with the spirits of
his imagination. He also ascribes to his mother his _Frohnatur_, his
joyous nature. And certain it is that his temperament was on the whole
sunny. As he grew to manhood men and women alike were charmed by him.
He became a virtuoso in love and had a genius for friendship. But he
was not always cheerful. In his youth, particularly, he was often
moody and given to brooding over indefinable woes. He suffered acutely
at times from what is now called the melancholia of adolescence. This
was a phase of that emotional sensitiveness and nervous instability
which are nearly always a part of the poet's dower.
Wolfgang grew up in a wholesome atmosphere of comfort and refinement.
He never knew the tonic bitterness of poverty. On the other hand, he
was never spoiled by his advantages; to his dying day he disliked
luxury. At home under private tutors the boy studied Latin, French,
and English, and picked up a little Italian by overhearing his
sister's lessons. In 1758 Frankfurt was occupied by a French army, and
a French playhouse was set going for the diversion of the officers. In
the interest of his French Wolfgang was allowed to go to the theatre,
and he made such rapid progress that he was soon studying the dramatic
unities as expounded by Corneille and actually trying to write a
French play. Withal he was left much to himself, so that he had time
to explore Frankfurt to his heart's content.
[Illustration: JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE _From the painting by C.
Jäger_]
He was much in contact with people of the humbler sort and learned to
like their racy dialect. He penetrated into the ghetto and learned the
jargon of the Jews. He even attacked biblical Hebrew, being led
thereto by his great love of the Old Testament.
It was his boyish ambition to become a great poet. His favorite
amusement was a puppet-show, for which he invented elaborate plays.
From his tenth year on he wrote a great deal of verse, early acquiring
technical facility and local renown and coming to regard himself as a
"thunderer." He attempted a polyglot novel, also a biblical tale on
the subject of Joseph, which he destroyed on observing that the hero
did nothing but pray and weep. When he was ready for the university he
wished to go to Göttingen to study the old humanities, but his father
was bent on making a lawyer of him. So it came about that some ten
years of his early life were devoted, first as a student and then as a
practitioner, to a reluctant and half-hearted grapple with the
intricacies of Holy Roman law.
At the age of sixteen Goethe entered the University of Leipzig, where
he remained about three years. The law lectures bored him and he soon
ceased to attend them. The other studies that he took up, especially
logic and philosophy, seemed to him arid and unprofitable--mere
conventional verbiage without any bed-rock of real knowledge. So he
presently fell into that mood of disgust with academic learning which
was afterwards to form the keynote of _Faust_. Outside the university
he found congenial work in Oeser's drawing-school. Oeser was an artist
of no great power with the brush, but a genial man, a friend of
Winckelmann, and an enthusiast for Greek art. Goethe learned to admire
and love him, and from this time on, for some twenty years, his
constant need of artistic expression found hardly less satisfaction in
drawing from nature than in poetry.
His poetic ambition received little encouragement in university
circles. Those to whom he read his ambitious verses made light of
them. The venerated Gellert, himself a poet of repute, advised the lad
to cultivate a good prose style and look to his handwriting. No wonder
that he despaired of his talent, concluded that he could never be a
poet, and burnt his effusions. A maddening love-affair with his
landlady's daughter, Anna Katharina Schönkopf, revived the dying lyric
flame, and he began to write verses in the gallant erotic vein then
and there fashionable--verses that tell of love-lorn shepherds and
shepherdesses, give sage advice to girls about keeping their
innocence, and moralize on the ways of this wicked world. They show no
signs of lyric genius. His short-lived passion for Annette, as he
called her, whom he tormented with his jealousy until she lost
patience and broke off the intimacy, was also responsible for his
first play, _Die Laune des Verliebten_, or _The Lover's Wayward
Humor_. It is a pretty one-act pastoral in alexandrine verse, the
theme being the punishment of an over-jealous lover. What is mainly
significant in these Leipzig poetizings is the fact that they grew out
of genuine experience. Goethe had resolved to drop his ambitious
projects, such as _Belshazzar_, and coin his own real thoughts and
feelings into verse. Thus early he was led into the way of poetic
"confession."
In the summer of 1768 he was suddenly prostrated by a grave
illness--an internal hemorrhage which was at first thought to portend
consumption. Pale and languid he returned to his father's house, and
for several months it was uncertain whether he was to live or die.
During this period of seclusion he became deeply interested in magic,
alchemy, astrology, cabalism, and all that sort of thing. He even set
up a kind of alchemist's laboratory to search experimentally for the
panacea. Out of these abstruse studies grew Faust's wonderful dream of
an ecstatic spirit-life to be attained by natural magic. Of course the
menace of impending death drew his thoughts in the direction of
religion. Among the intimate friends of the family was the devout
Susanna von Klettenberg, one of the leading spirits in a local
conventicle of the Moravian Brethren. This lady--afterwards
immortalized as the "beautiful soul" of _Wilhelm Meister_--tried to
have the sick youth make his peace with God in her way, that is, by
accepting Christ as an ever-present personal saviour. While he never
would admit a conviction of sin he envied the calm of the saintly
maiden and was so far converted that he attended the meetings of the
Brethren, took part in their communion service, and for a while spoke
the language of a devout pietist.
This religious experience of his youth bit deep into Goethe's
character. He soon drifted away from the pietists and their ways, he
came to have a poor opinion of priests and priestcraft, and in time
men called him a heathen. Nevertheless his nature had been so deeply
stirred in his youth by religion's mystic appeal that he never
afterwards lost his reverence for genuine religious feeling. To the
end of his days the aspiration of the human soul for communion with
God found in him a delicate and sympathetic interpreter.
During his convalescence Goethe retouched a score of his Leipzig songs
and published them anonymously, with music by his friend Breitkopf,
under the title of _New Songs_. He regarded them at the time as
trifles that had come into being without art or effort. "Young, in
love, and full of feeling," he had sung them so, while "playing the
old game of youth." To-day they seem to convey little forewarning of
the matchless lyric gift that was soon to awaken, being a shade too
intellectual and sententious. One hears more of the critic's comment
than of the poet's cry. It was at this time also that he rewrote an
earlier Leipzig play, expanding it from one act to three and giving it
the title _Die Mitschuldigen_, or _The Fellow-culprits_. It is a sort
of rogue's comedy in middle-class life, written in the alexandrine
verse, which was soon to be discarded along with other French
fashions. We have a quartet consisting of an inquisitive inn-keeper,
his mismated sentimental daughter, her worthless husband, and her
former lover. They tangle themselves up in a series of low intrigues
and are finally unmasked as one and all poor miserable sinners.
Technically it is a good play--lively, diverting, well put together.
But one can not call it very edifying.
In the spring of 1770 Goethe entered the University of Strassburg,
which was at that time in French territory. It was a part of his
general purpose to better his French, but the actual effect of his
sojourn in Alsatia was to put him out of humor with all French
standards, especially with the classic French drama, and to excite in
him a fervid enthusiasm for the things of the fatherland. This was due
partly to the influence of Herder, with whom he now came into close
personal relations. From Herder, who was six years his senior and
already known by his _Fragments_ and _Critical Forests_ as a trenchant
and original critic, he heard the gospel of a literary revolution.
Rules and conventions were to be thrown overboard; the new watchwords
were nature, power, originality, genius, fulness of expression. He
conceived a boundless admiration for Homer, Ossian, and Shakespeare,
in each of whom he saw the mirror of an epoch and a national life. He
became an enthusiastic collector of Alsatian folksongs and was
fascinated by the Strassburg minster--at a time when "Gothic" was
generally regarded as a synonym of barbarous. Withal his gift for
song-making came to a new stage of perfection under the inspiration of
his love for the village maid Friederike Brion. From this time forth
he was the prince of German lyrists.
In the summer of 1771 he returned to Frankfurt once more, this time
with the title of licentiate in law, and began to practise in a
perfunctory way, with his heart in his literary projects. By the end
of the year he had written out the first draft of a play which he
afterwards revised and published anonymously (in 1773) under the title
of _Götz von Berlichingen_. By its exuberant fulness of life, its
bluff German heartiness, and the freshness and variety of its scenes,
it took the public by storm, notwithstanding its disregard of the
approved rules of play-writing.
[Illustration: JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE _From the Painting by J.
Stieler_]
The next year he published _The Sufferings of Young Werther_, a tragic
tale of a weak-willed sentimental youth of hyperesthetic tendencies,
who commits suicide because of disappointment in love. The story was
the greatest literary triumph that Germany had ever known, and in
point of sheer artistic power it remains to this day the best of
novels in the tragic-sentimental vein. These two works carried the
name of Goethe far and wide and made him the accepted leader of the
literary revolution which long afterwards came to be known, from the
title of a play by Klinger, as the Storm and Stress.
The years 1773-1775 were for Goethe a time of high emotional tension,
from which he sought relief in rapid, desultory, and multifarious
writing. Exquisite songs, musical comedies of a sentimental tinge,
humorous and satiric skits in dramatic form, prose tragedy of
passionate error, and poetic tragedy of titanic revolt--all these and
more welled up from a sub-conscious spring of feeling, taking little
counsel of the sober intellect. Several minor productions were left
unfinished and were afterwards published in fragmentary form. Such is
the case with _Prometheus_, a splendid fragment, in which we get a
glimpse of the Titan battling, as the friend of man, against the
ever-living gods. Of the works completed and published at this time,
aside from _Götz_ and _Werther_, the most notable were _Clavigo_ and
_Stella_, prose tragedies in which a fickle lover meets with condign
punishment. Another prose tragedy, _Egmont_, with its hero conceived
as a "demonic" nature borne on to his doom by his own buoyancy of
spirit, was nearly finished. Most important of all, a considerable
portion of _Faust_, which was to be its author's great life-work, was
"stormed out" during these early years at Frankfurt.
The legendary Faust is presented as a bad man who sells his soul to
the devil for twenty-four years of power and pleasure, gets what he
bargained for, and in the end goes to perdition. Young Goethe
conceived his hero differently: not as a bad man on the way to hell,
and not--at first--as a good man on the way to heaven. He thought of
him rather as a towering personality passionately athirst for
transcendental knowledge and universal experience; as a man whose
nature contained the very largest possibilities both for good and for
evil. It is probable that, when he began to write, Goethe did not
intend to anticipate the judgment of God upon Faust's career. The
essence of his dramatic plan was to carry his hero through a lifetime
of varied experience, letting him sin and suffer grandly, and at last
to give him something to do which would seem worth having lived for.
After the going down of the curtain, in all probability, he was to be
left in the hands of the Eternal Pardoner. Later in life, as we shall
see, Goethe decided not only to save his hero, but to make his
salvation a part of the dramatic action.
The close of the year 1775 brought a momentous change in Goethe's life
and prospects. On the invitation of the young duke Karl August, who
had met him and taken a liking to him, he went to visit the Weimar
court, not expecting to stay more than a few weeks. But the duke was
so pleased with his gifted and now famous guest that he presently
decided to keep him in Weimar, if possible, by making him a member of
the Council of State. Goethe was the more willing to remain, since he
detested his law practise, and his income from authorship was
pitifully small. Moreover, he saw in the boyish, impulsive,
sport-loving prince a sterling nature that might be led in the ways of
wise rulership. For the nonce this was mission enough. He took his
seat in the Council in June, 1776, with the title of Councilor of
Legation. At first there was not very much for him to do except to
familiarize himself with the physical and economic conditions of the
little duchy. This he did with a will. He set about studying
mineralogy, geology, botany, and was soon observing the homologies of
the vertebrate skeleton. Withal he was very attentive to
routine business.
[Illustration: 1. GOETHE'S GARDEN HOUSE IN WEIMAR]
[Illustration: 2. GOETHE'S HOUSE IN WEIMAR]
One after another important departments of administration were turned
over to him, until he became, in 1782, the President of the Chambers
and hence the leading statesman of the duchy.
All this produced a sobering and clarifying effect. The inner storm
and stress gradually subsided, and the new Goethe--statesman,
scientific investigator, man of the world, courtier, friend of
princes--came to see that after all feeling was not everything, and
that its untrammeled expression was not the whole of art. Form and
decorum counted for more than he had supposed, and revolution was not
the word of wisdom. Self-control was the only basis of character, and
limitation lay at the foundation of all art. To work to make things
better, even in a humble sphere, was better than to fret over the
badness of the world. Nature's method was that of bit-by-bit progress,
and to puzzle out her ways was a noble and fascinating employment. In
this general way of thinking he was confirmed by the study of
Spinoza's _Ethics_, a book which, as he said long afterwards, quieted
his passions and gave him a large and free outlook over the world. In
this process of quieting the passions some influence must be ascribed
to Charlotte von Stein, a woman in whom, for some twelve years of his
life, he found his muse and his madonna. His letters often address her
in terms of idolatrous endearment. She was a wife and a mother, but
Weimar society regarded her relation to Goethe as a platonic
attachment not to be condemned.
The artistic expression of the new life in Weimar is found in various
short poems, notably _Wanderer's Nightsong_, _Ilmenau_, _The Divine_,
and _The Mysteries_; also in a number of plays which were written for
the amateur stage of the court circle. The Weimarians were very fond
of play-acting, and Goethe became their purveyor of dramatic supplies.
It was to meet this demand that he wrote _Brother and Sister (Die
Geschwister), The Triumph of Sentimentalism, The Fisher-maid, The
Birds_, and other pieces. Much more important than any of these
bagatelles, which were often hastily composed for a birthday
celebration or some other festive occasion, are the two fine poetic
dramas, _Iphigenie_ and _Tasso_. The former was first written rather
rapidly in stately rhythmic prose and played by the amateurs, with
Goethe himself in the rôle of Orestes, in the spring of 1779. Eight
years later, the author being then in Italy, it was recast with great
care in mellifluous blank verse. _Iphigenie_ is essentially a drama of
the soul, there being little in it of what is commonly called action.
A youth who is the prey of morbid illusions, so that his life has
become a burden, is cured by finding a noble-minded sister, whose
whole being radiates peace and self-possession. The entire power of
Goethe's chastened art is here lavished on the figure of his heroine
who, by her goodness, her candor, her sweet reasonableness, not only
heals her soul-sick brother, but so works on the barbarian king Thoas,
who would fain have her for his wife, that he wins a notable victory
over himself.
By the end of his first decade in Weimar Goethe began to feel that he
needed and had earned a vacation. His conduct of the public business
had been highly successful, but he had starved his esthetic nature;
for after all Weimar was only a good-sized village that could offer
little to the lover of art. Overwork had so told upon him that he was
unable to hold himself long to any literary project. He had begun half
a dozen important works, but had completed none of them, and the
public was beginning to suspect that the author of _Götz_ and
_Werther_ was lost to literature. The effect of the whole
situation--that inner conflict between the poetic dreamer and the man
of affairs which is the theme of _Tasso_--was to produce a feeling of
depression, as of a bird caught in a net. So acute did the trouble
become that he afterwards spoke of it as a terrible disease. In the
summer of 1786 he contracted with the Leipzig publisher Göschen for a
new edition of his works in eight volumes; and to gain time for this
enterprise he resolved to take a trip to the land upon which he had
already twice looked down with longing--once in 1775 and again in
1779--from the summit of the Gotthard.
[Illustration: GOETHE IN THE CAMPAGNA]
On the 3d of September, at three o'clock in the morning, he stole away
from Karlsbad, where he had been taking the waters, and hurried
southward, alone and incognito, over the Alps.
In Italy, where he remained nearly two years, Goethe's mind and art
underwent another notable change. He himself called it a spiritual
rebirth. Freed from all oppressive engagements, he gave himself to the
study of ancient sculpture and architecture, reveled in the splendors
of Renaissance painting, and pursued his botanical studies in the
enticing plant-world of the Italian gardens. Venice, Naples, Vesuvius,
Sicily, the sea, fascinated him in their several ways and gave him the
sense of being richer for the rest of his life. Sharing in the
care-free existence of the German artist-colony in Rome made him very
happy. It not only disciplined his judgment in matters of art and
opened a vast new world of ideas and impressions, but it restored the
lost balance between the intellectual and duty-bound man on the one
hand and the esthetic and sensual man on the other. He resolved never
again to put on the harness of an administrative drudge, but to claim
the freedom of a poet, an artist, a man of science. To this desire the
Duke of Weimar generously assented.
On his return to Weimar, in June, 1788, Goethe made it his first task
to finish the remaining works that were called for by his contract
with Göschen. _Egmont_ and _Tasso_ were soon disposed of, but _Faust_
proved intractable. While in Rome he had taken out the old manuscript
and written a scene or two, and had then somehow lost touch with the
subject. So he decided to revise what he had on hand and to publish a
part of the scenes as a fragment. This fragmentary _Faust_ came out in
1790. It attracted little attention, nor was any other of the new
works received with much warmth by the public of that day. They
expected something like _Götz_ and _Werther_, and did not understand
the new Goethe, who showed in many ways that his heart was still in
Italy and that he found Weimar a little dull and provincial. Thus the
greatest of German poets had for the time being lost touch with the
German public; he saw that he must wait for the growth of the taste by
which he was to be understood and enjoyed. Matters were hardly made
better by his taking Christiane Vulpius into his house as his unwedded
wife. This step, which shocked Weimar society--except the duke and
Herder--had the effect of ending his unwholesome relation to Frau von
Stein, who was getting old and peevish. The character of Christiane
has often been pictured too harshly. She was certainly not her
husband's intellectual peer--he would have looked long for a wife of
that grade--and she became a little too fond of wine. On the other
hand, she was affectionate, devoted, true, and by no means lacking in
mental gifts. She and Goethe were happy together and faithful to
each other.
For several years after his return from Italy Goethe wrote nothing
that is of much importance in the history of his literary life. He
devoted himself largely to scientific studies in plant and animal
morphology and the theory of color. His discovery of the
intermaxillary bone in the human skull, and his theory that the
lateral organs of a plant are but successive phases of the leaf, have
given him an assured if modest place in the history of the development
hypothesis. On the other hand, his long and laborious effort to refute
Newton's theory of the composition of white light is now generally
regarded as a misdirection of energy. In his _Roman Elegies_ (1790) he
struck a note of pagan sensuality. The pensive distichs, telling of
the wanton doings of Amor amid the grandeur that was Rome, were a
little shocking in their frank portraiture of the emancipated flesh.
The outbreak of violence in France seemed to him nothing but madness
and folly, since he did not see the real Revolution, but only the
Paris Terror.
He wrote two or three very ordinary plays to satirize various phases
of the revolutionary excitement--phases that now seem as insignificant
as the plays themselves. In 1792 he accompanied the Duke of Weimar on
the inglorious Austro-Prussian invasion of France, heard the cannonade
at Valmy, and was an interested observer as the allies tumbled back
over the Rhine. Perhaps the best literary achievement of these years
is the fine hexameter version of the medieval _Reynard the Fox_.
The year 1794 marks the beginning of more intimate relations between
Goethe and Schiller. Their memorable friendship lasted until
Schiller's death, in 1805--the richest decade in the whole history of
German letters. The two men became in a sense allies and stood
together in the championship of good taste and humane idealism.
Goethe's literary occupations during this period were very
multifarious; a list of his writings in the various fields of poetry,
drama, prose fiction, criticism, biography, art and art-history,
literary scholarship, and half a dozen sciences, would show a
many-sidedness to which there is no modern parallel. Of all this mass
of writing only a few works of major importance can even be
mentioned here.
In 1796 appeared _Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship_, a novel which
captivated the literary class, if not the general public, and was
destined to exert great influence on German fiction for a generation
to come. It had been some twenty years in the making. In its earlier
form it was called _Wilhelm Meister's Theatrical Mission_.[3] This
tells the story of a Werther-like youth who is to be saved from
Werther's fate by finding a work to do. His "mission," apparently, is
to become a good actor and to promote high ideals of the histrionic
art. Incidentally he is ambitious to be a dramatic poet, and his
childhood is simply that of Wolfgang Goethe. For reasons intimately
connected with his own development Goethe finally decided to change
his plan and his title, and to present Wilhelm's variegated
experiences as an apprenticeship in the school of life. In the final
version Wilhelm comes to the conclusion that the theatre is _not_ his
mission--all that was a mistaken ambition. Just what use he _will_
make of his well-disciplined energy does not clearly appear at the end
of the story, since Goethe bundles him off to Italy. He was already
planning a continuation of the story under the title of _Wilhelm
Meister's Journeymanship_. In this second part the hero becomes
interested in questions of social uplift and thinks of becoming a
surgeon. Taken as a whole _Wilhelm Meister_ moves with a slowness
which is quite out of tune with later ideals of prose fiction. It also
lacks concentration and artistic finality. But it is replete with
Goethe's ripe and mellow wisdom, and it contains more of his intimate
self than any other work of his except _Faust_.
During this high noon of his life Goethe again took up his long
neglected _Faust_, decided to make two parts of it, completed the
First Part, and thought out much that was to go into the Second Part.
By this time he had become somewhat alienated from the spirit of his
youth, when he had envisaged life in a mist of vague and stormy
emotionalism. His present passion was for clearness. So he boldly
decided to convert the old tragedy of sin and suffering into a drama
of mental clearing-up. The early Faust--the pessimist, murderer,
seducer--was to be presented as temporarily wandering in the dark; as
a man who had gone grievously wrong in passionate error, but was
essentially "good" by virtue of his aspiring nature, and hence, in the
Lord's fulness of time, was to be led out into the light and saved.
The First Part, ending with the heart-rending death of Margaret in her
prison-cell, and leaving Faust in an agony of remorse, was published
in 1808. Faust's redemption, by enlarged experience of life and
especially by his symbolic union with the Greek Queen of Beauty, was
reserved for the Second Part.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO GOETHE (Berlin 1880) Sculptor, Fritz
Schaper]
The other more notable works of this period are _Hermann and
Dorothea_, a delightful poem in dactylic hexameters, picturing a bit
of German still life against the sinister background of the French
Revolution, and the _Natural Daughter_, which was planned to body
forth, in the form of a dramatic trilogy in blank verse, certain
phases of Goethe's thinking about the upheaval in France. In the
former he appears once more as a poet of the plain people, with an eye
and a heart for their ways and their outlook upon life. Everybody
likes _Hermann and Dorothea_. On the other hand, the _Natural
Daughter_ is disappointing, and not merely because it is a fragment.
(Only the first part of the intended trilogy was written.) Goethe had
now convinced himself that the function of art is to present the
typical. Accordingly the characters appear as types of humanity
divested of all that is accidental or peculiar to the individual. The
most of them have not even a name. The consequence is that,
notwithstanding the splendid verse and the abounding wisdom of the
speeches, the personages do not seem to be made of genuine human
stuff. As a great thinker's comment on the Revolution the _Natural
Daughter_ is almost negligible.
The decade that followed the death of Schiller was for Germany a time
of terrible trial, during which Goethe pursued the even tenor of his
way as a poet and man of science. He had little sympathy with the
national uprising against Napoleon, whom he looked on as the
invincible subduer of the hated Revolution. From the point of view of
our modern nationalism, which was just then entering on its
world-transforming career, his conduct was unpatriotic. But let him at
least be rightly understood. It was not that he lacked sympathy for
the German people, but he misjudged and underestimated the new forces
that were coming into play. As the son of an earlier age he could only
conceive a people's welfare as the gift of a wise ruler. He thought of
politics as the affair of the great. He hated war and all eruptive
violence, being convinced that good would come, not by such means, but
by enlightenment, self-control and attending to one's work in one's
sphere. To the historian Luden he said in 1813:
"Do not believe that I am indifferent to the great ideas of freedom,
people, fatherland. No! These ideas are in us, they are a part of our
being, and no one can cast them from him. I too have a warm heart for
Germany. I have often felt bitter pain in thinking of the German
people, so worthy of respect in some ways, so miserable on the whole.
A comparison of the German people with other peoples arouses painful
emotions which I try in every way to surmount; and in science and art
I have found the wings whereby I rise above them. But the comfort
which these afford is after all a poor comfort that does not
compensate for the proud consciousness of belonging to a great and
strong people that is honored and feared."
In 1808 he published _The Elective Affinities_, a novel in which the
tragic effects of lawless passion invading the marriage relation were
set forth with telling art. Soon after this he began to write a memoir
of his life. He was now a European celebrity, the dream of his youth
had come true, and he purposed to show in detail how everything had
happened; that is, how his literary personality had evolved amid the
environing conditions. He conceived himself as a phenomenon to be
explained. That he called his memoir _Poetry and Truth_ was perhaps an
error of judgment, since the title has been widely misunderstood. For
Goethe poetry was not the antithesis of truth, but a higher species of
truth--the actuality as seen by the selecting, combining, and
harmonizing imagination. In themselves, he would have said, the facts
of a man's life are meaningless, chaotic, discordant: it is the poet's
office to put them into the crucible of his spirit and give them forth
as a significant and harmonious whole. The "poetry" of Goethe's
autobiography--by far the best of autobiographies in the German
language--must not be taken to imply concealment, perversion,
substitution, or anything of that gross kind.
[Illustration: GOETHE'S MONUMENT IN ROME. (SCULPTOR, EBERLEIN)
Presented to the City of Rome by the German Emperor (From Seidel's
_Der Kaiser and die Kunst_)]
It lies in the very style of the book and is a part of its author's
method of self-revelation. That he devotes so much space to the
seemingly transient and unimportant love-affairs of his youth is only
his way of recognizing that the poet-soul is born of love and
nourished by love. He felt that these fleeting amorosities were a part
of the natural history of his inner being.
And even in the serene afternoon of his life lovely woman often
disturbed his soul, just as in the days of his youth. But the poetic
expression of his feeling gradually became less simple and direct: he
liked to embroider it with musing reflections and exotic fancies
gathered from everywhere. Just as he endeavored with indefatigable
eagerness of mind to keep abreast of scientific research, so he tried
to assimilate the poetry of all nations. The Greeks and Romans no
longer sufficed his omnivorous appetite and his "panoramic ability."
When Hammer-Purgstall's German version of the _D[=i]w[=a]n_ of
H[=a]f[=i]z came into his hands he at once set about making himself at
home in the mental world of the Persian and Arabic poets. Thus arose
his _Divan_ (1819), in which he imitated the oriental costume, but not
the form. His aim was to reproduce in German verse the peculiar savor
of the Orientals, with their unique blend of sensuality, wit, and
mystic philosophy. But the feeling--the inner experience--was all his
own. The best book of the _Divan_, the one called _Suleika_, was
inspired by a very real liking for Marianne Willemer, a talented lady
who played the love-game with him and actually wrote some of the poems
long ascribed to Goethe himself.
At last, in 1824, when he was seventy-five years old, he came back
once more to his _Faust_, the completion of which had long floated
before his mind as a duty that he owed to himself and to the world.
There was no longer any doubt as to what his great life-work was to
be. With admirable energy and with perfect clarity of vision he
addressed himself to the gigantic task, the general plan of which and
many of the details had been thought out long before. It was finished
in the summer of 1831. About sixty years after he had penned the first
words of Faust, the disgruntled pessimist at war with life, he took
leave of him as a purified soul mounting upward among the saints
toward the Ineffable Light, under the mystic guidance of the
Eternal-Womanly.
Goethe died March 18, 1832. The story that his last words were "more
light" is probably nothing more than a happy invention.
Admirers of the great German see more in him than the author of the
various works which have been all too briefly characterized in the
preceding sketch. His is a case where, in very truth, the whole is
more than the sum of the parts. Goethe is the representative of an
epoch. He stands for certain ideals which are not those of the present
hour, but which it was of inestimable value to the modern man to have
thus nobly worked out and exemplified in practice. Behind and beneath
his writings, informing them and giving them their value for
posterity, is a wonderful personality which it is a delight and an
education to study in the whole process of its evolution. By way of
struggle, pain and error, like his own Faust, he arrived at a view of
life, in which he found inspiration and inner peace. It is outlined in
the verses which he placed before his short poems as a sort of motto:
Wide horizon, eager life,
Busy years of honest strife,
Ever seeking, ever founding,
Never ending, ever rounding,
Guarding tenderly the old,
Taking of the new glad hold,
Pure in purpose, light of heart,
Thus we gain--at least a start.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF GOETHE Fritz Fleischer]
POEMS
GREETING AND DEPARTURE[4] (1771)
My heart throbbed high: to horse, away then!
Swift as a hero to the fight!
Earth in the arms of evening lay then,
And o'er the mountains hung the night,
Now could I see like some huge giant
The haze-enveloped oak-tree rise,
While from the thicket stared defiant
The darkness with its hundred eyes.
The cloud-throned moon from his dominion
Peered drowsily through veils of mist.
The wind with gently-wafting pinion
Gave forth a rustling strange and whist.
With shapes of fear the night was thronging
But all the more my courage glowed;
My soul flamed up in passionate longing
And hot my heart with rapture flowed.
I saw thee; melting rays of pleasure
Streamed o'er me from thy tender glance,
My heart beat only to thy measure,
I drew my breath as in a trance.
The radiant hue of spring caressing
Lay rosy on thy upturned face,
And love--ye gods, how rich the blessing!
I dared not hope to win such grace.
To part--alas what grief in this is!--
In every look thy heart spoke plain.
What ecstasy was in thy kisses!
What changing thrill of joy and pain!
I went. One solace yet to capture,
Thine eyes pursued in sweet distress.
But to be loved, what holy rapture!
To love, ah gods, what happiness!
[Illustration: THE HEATHROSE K. Kogler]
THE HEATHROSE[5] (1771)
Once a boy a Rosebud spied,
Heathrose fair and tender,
All array'd in youthful pride,--
Quickly to the spot he hied,
Ravished by her splendor.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee
Heathrose fair and tender!"
Rosebud cried "And I'll prick thee,
So thou shalt remember me,
Ne'er will I surrender!"
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
But the wanton plucked the rose,
Heathrose fair and tender;
Thorns the cruel theft oppose,
Brief the struggle and vain the woes,
She must needs surrender.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
MAHOMET'S SONG[6] (1773)
[This song was intended to be introduced in a dramatic poem entitled
_Mahomet_, the plan of which was not carried out by Goethe. He
mentions that it was to have been sung by Ali toward the end of the
piece, in honor of his master, Mahomet, shortly before his death, and
when at the height of his glory, of which it is typical.]
See the rock-born stream!
Like the gleam
Of a star so bright!
Kindly spirits
High above the clouds
Nourished him while youthful
In the copse between the cliffs.
Young and fresh,
From the clouds he danceth
Down upon the marble rocks;
Then tow'rd heaven
Leaps exulting.
Through the mountain-passes
Chaseth he the color'd pebbles,
And, advancing like a chief,
Draws his brother streamlets with him
In his course.
In the vale below
'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers,
And the meadow
In his breath finds life.
Yet no shady vale can stay him,
Nor can flowers,
Round his knees all softly twining
With their loving eyes detain him;
To the plain his course he taketh,
Serpent-winding.
Eager streamlets
Join his waters. And now moves he
O'er the plain in silv'ry glory,
And the plain in him exults,
And the rivers from the plain,
And the streamlets from the mountain,
Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother,
Brother, take thy brethren with thee.
With thee to thine agèd father,
To the everlasting ocean,
Who, with arms outstretching far,
Waiteth for us;
Ah, in vain those arms lie open
To embrace his yearning children;
For the thirsty sand consumes us
In the desert waste; the sunbeams
Drink our life-blood; hills around us
Into lakes would dam us! Brother,
Take thy brethren of the plain,
Take thy brethren of the mountain
With thee, to thy father's arms!"--
Let all come, then!--
And now swells he
Lordlier still; yea, e'en a people
Bears his regal flood on high!
And in triumph onward rolling,
Names to countries gives he,--cities
Spring to light beneath his foot.
Ever, ever, on he rushes,
Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits,
Marble palaces, the offspring
Of his fulness, far behind.
Cedar-houses bears the Atlas
On his giant shoulders; flutt'ring
In the breeze far, far above him
Thousand flags are gaily floating,
Bearing witness to his might.
And so beareth he his brethren,
All his treasures, all his children,
Wildly shouting, to the bosom
Of his long-expectant sire.
PROMETHEUS[7] (1774)
Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus,
With clouds of mist,
And, like the boy who lops
The thistles' heads,
Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks;
Yet thou must leave
My earth still standing;
My cottage too, which was not raised by thee,
Leave me my hearth,
Whose kindly glow
By thee is envied.
I know nought poorer
Under the sun, than ye gods!
Ye nourish painfully,
With sacrifices
And votive prayers,
Your majesty;
Ye would e'en starve,
If children and beggars
Were not trusting fools.
While yet a child,
And ignorant of life,
I turned my wandering gaze
Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him
There were an ear to hear my wailing,
A heart, like mine
To feel compassion for distress.
Who help'd me
Against the Titans' insolence?
Who rescued me from certain death,
From slavery?
Didst thou not do all this thyself,
My sacred glowing heart?
And glowedst, young and good,
Deceived with grateful thanks
To yonder slumbering one?
I honor thee! and why?
Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows
Of the heavy laden?
Hast thou e'er dried up the tears
[Illustration: PROMETHEUS Titian.]
Of the anguish-stricken?
Was I not fashion'd to be a man
By omnipotent Time,
And by eternal Fate,
Masters of me and thee?
Didst thou e'er fancy
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not all
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming mortals
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!
THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG[8] (1776)
Thou who comest from on high,
Who all woes and sorrows stillest,
Who, for two-fold misery,
Hearts with twofold balsam fillest,
Would this constant strife would cease!
What avails the joy and pain?
Blissful Peace,
To my bosom come again!
THE SEA-VOYAGE[9] (1776)
Many a day and night my bark stood ready laden;
Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me,
Pledging me to patience and to courage,
In the haven.
And they spoke thus with impatience twofold:
"Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage,
Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune
In the distant world is waiting for thee,
In our arms thou'lt find thy prize, and love too,
When returning."
And when morning came, arose an uproar
And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us;
All was stirring, all was living, moving,
Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.
And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling,
And the sun with fiery love invites us;
Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating,
On the shore each friend exulting raises
Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting
Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing,
And the earliest starry nights so radiant.
But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven
Sideways from the course he had intended,
And he feigns as though he would surrender,
While he gently striveth to outwit them,
To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful.
But from out the damp gray distance rising,
Softly now the storm proclaims its advent,
Presseth down each bird upon the waters,
Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals.
And it cometh. At its stubborn fury,
Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh;
With the anguish-laden ball are sporting
Wind and water.
And on yonder shore are gather'd standing,
Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one:
"Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us!
Ah, the tempest I Cast away by fortune!
Must the good one perish in this fashion?
Might not he perchance * * *. Ye great immortals!"
Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder;
With the bark are sporting wind and water,
Wind and water sport not with his bosom:
On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,--
In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed,
Trusting ever.
TO THE MOON[10] (1778)
Bush and vale thou fill'st again
With thy misty ray,
And my spirit's heavy chain
Casteth far away.
Thou dost o'er my fields extend
Thy sweet soothing eye,
Watching like a gentle friend,
O'er my destiny.
Vanish'd days of bliss and woe
Haunt me with their tone,
Joy and grief in turns I know,
As I stray alone.
Stream beloved, flow on! Flow on!
Ne'er can I be gay!
Thus have sport and kisses gone,
Truth thus pass'd away.
Once I seem'd the lord to be
Of that prize so fair!
Now, to our deep sorrow, we
Can forget it ne'er.
Murmur, stream, the vale along,
Never cease thy sighs;
Murmur, whisper to my song
Answering melodies!
When thou in the winter's night
Overflow'st in wrath,
Or in spring-time sparklest bright,
As the buds shoot forth.
He who from the world retires,
Void of hate, is blest;
Who a friend's true love inspires,
Leaning on his breast!
That which heedless man ne'er knew,
Or ne'er thought aright,
Roams the bosom's labyrinth through,
Boldly into night.
THE FISHERMAN[11] (1778)
The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
A fisherman sat by,
While on his line in calm repose
He cast his patient eye.
And as he sat, and hearken'd there,
The flood was cleft in twain,
And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair
Sprang from the troubled main.
She sang to him, and spake the while
"Why lurest thou my brood,
With human wit and human guile
From out their native flood?
Oh, couldst thou know how gladly dart
The fish across the sea,
Thou wouldst descend, e'en as thou art,
And truly happy be!
Do not the sun and moon with grace
Their forms in ocean lave?
Shines not with twofold charms their face,
When rising from the wave?
The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,--
The moist yet radiant blue,--
Not thine own form,--to tempt thy lot
'Midst this eternal dew?"
The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,
His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
And ne'er again was seen.
[Illustration: THE FISHERMAN AND THE MERMAID Georg Papperitz]
THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG[12] (1780)
[Written at night on the Kickelhahn, a hill in the forest of Ilmenau,
on the walls of a little hermitage where Goethe composed the last act
of his _Iphigenie_.]
Hush'd on the hill
Is the breeze;
Scarce by the zephyr
The trees
Softly are press'd;
The woodbird's asleep on the bough.
Wait, then, and thou
Soon wilt find rest.
THE ERL-KING[13] (1782)
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
"My son, wherefore seek's thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
"Oh come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the agèd gray willows deceiving thy sight."
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his court-yard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
THE GODLIKE[14] (1783)
Noble be man,
Helpful and good!
For that alone
Distinguisheth him
From all the beings
Unto us known.
Hail to the beings,
Unknown and glorious,
Whom we forebode!
From _his_ example
Learn we to know them!
For unfeeling
Nature is ever
On bad and on good
The sun alike shineth;
And on the wicked,
As on the best,
The moon and stars gleam.
Tempest and torrent,
Thunder and hail,
Roar on their path,
Seizing the while,
As they haste onward,
One after another.
Even so, fortune
Gropes 'mid the throng--
Innocent boyhood's
Curly head seizing,--
Seizing the hoary
Head of the sinner.
After laws mighty,
Brazen, eternal,
Must all we mortals
Finish the circuit
Of our existence.
Man, and man only
Can do the impossible
He 'tis distinguisheth,
Chooseth and judgeth;
He to the moment
Endurance can lend.
He and he only
The good can reward,
The bad can he punish,
Can heal and can save;
All that wanders and strays
Can usefully blend.
And we pay homage
To the immortals
As though they were men,
And did in the great,
What the best, in the small,
Does or might do.
Be the man that is noble,
Both helpful and good,
Unweariedly forming
The right and the useful,
A type of those beings
Our mind hath foreshadow'd!
MIGNON[15] (1785)
[This universally known poem is also to be found in _Wilhelm
Meister_.]
Know'st thou the land where the fair citron blows,
Where the bright orange midst the foliage glows,
Where soft winds greet us from the azure skies,
Where silent myrtles, stately laurels rise,
Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there,
That I with thee, beloved one, would repair.
Know'st thou the house? On columns rests its pile,
Its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile,
And marble statues stand and gaze on me:
"Poor child! what sorrow hath befallen thee?"
Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there,
That I with thee, protector, would repair!
Know'st thou the mountain, and its cloudy bridge?
The mule can scarcely find the misty ridge;
In caverns dwells the dragon's olden brood,
The frowning crag obstructs the raging flood.
Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there,
Our path lies--Father--thither, oh repair!
PROXIMITY OF THE BELOVED ONE[16] (1795)
I think of thee, whene'er the sun his beams
O'er ocean flings;
I think of thee, whene'er the moonlight gleams
In silv'ry springs.
I see thee, when upon the distant ridge
The dust awakes;
At midnight's hour, when on the fragile bridge
The wanderer quakes.
I hear thee, when yon billows rise on high,
With murmur deep.
To tread the silent grove oft wander I,
When all's asleep.
I'm near thee, though thou far away mayst be--
Thou, too, art near!
The sun then sets, the stars soon lighten me,
Would thou wert here!
THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT[17] (1802)
Up yonder on the mountain,
I dwelt for days together;
Looked down into the valley,
This pleasant summer weather.
My sheep go feeding onward,
My dog sits watching by;
I've wandered to the valley,
And yet I know not why.
The meadow, it is pretty,
With flowers so fair to see;
I gather them, but no one
Will take the flowers from me.
The good tree gives me shadow,
And shelter from the rain;
But yonder door is silent,
It will not ope again!
I see the rainbow bending,
Above her old abode,
But she is there no longer;
They've taken my love abroad.
They took her o'er the mountains,
They took her o'er the sea;
Move on, move on, my bonny sheep,
There is no rest for me!
NATURE AND ART[18] (1802)
Nature and art asunder seem to fly,
Yet sooner than we think find common ground;
In place of strife, harmonious songs resound,
And both, at one, to my abode draw nigh.
In sooth but one endeavor I descry:
Then only, when in ordered moments' round
Wisdom and toil our lives to Art have bound,
Dare we rejoice in Nature's liberty.
Thus is achievement fashioned everywhere:
Not by ungovernable, hasty zeal
Shalt thou the height of perfect form attain.
Husband thy strength, if great emprize thou dare;
In self-restraint thy masterhood reveal,
And under law thy perfect freedom gain.
COMFORT IN TEARS[19] (1803)
How is it that thou art so sad
When others are so gay?
Thou hast been weeping--nay, thou hast!
Thine eyes the truth betray.
"And if I may not choose but weep
Is not my grief mine own?
No heart was heavier yet for tears--
O leave me, friend, alone!"
Come join this once the merry band,
They call aloud for thee,
And mourn no more for what is lost,
But let the past go free.
"O, little know ye in your mirth,
What wrings my heart so deep!
I have not lost the idol yet,
For which I sigh and weep."
Then rouse thee and take heart! thy blood
Is young and full of fire;
Youth should have hope and might to win,
And wear its best desire.
"O, never may I hope to gain
What dwells from me so far;
It stands as high, it looks as bright,
As yonder burning star."
Why, who would seek to woo the stars
Down from their glorious sphere?
Enough it is to worship them,
When nights are calm and clear.
"Oh, I look up and worship too--
My star it shines by day--
Then let me weep the livelong night
The while it is away."
EPILOGUE TO SCHILLER'S "SONG OF THE
BELL"[20]
[This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death,
was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the
performance on the stage of the _Song of the Bell_. Hence the allusion
in the last verse.]
To this city joy reveal it!
Peace as its first signal peal it!
(_Song of the Bell_--concluding lines).
And so it proved! The nation felt, ere long,
That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught,
A new-born joy appeared; in gladsome song
To hail the youthful princely pair we sought;
While in the living, ever-swelling throng
Mingled the crowds from every region brought,
And on the stage, in festal pomp arrayed,
The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS[21] we saw displayed.
When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear,
That with a dull and mournful echo rings.
And can it be that of our friend so dear
It tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings?
Shall death o'ercome a life that all revere?
How such a loss to all confusion brings!
How such a parting we must ever rue!
The world is weeping--shall not we weep, too?
He was our own! How social, yet how great
Seemed in the light of day his noble mind!
How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate,
Now for glad converse joyously inclined,
Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught elate,
Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it designed,
Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed!
This have we proved, this tested, in our need.
He was our own! O may that thought so blest
O'ercome the voice of wailing and of woe!
He might have sought the Lasting, safe at rest
In harbor, when the tempest ceased to blow.
Meanwhile his mighty spirit onward pressed
Where goodness, beauty, truth, forever grow;
And in his rear, in shadowy outline, lay
The vulgar, which we all, alas, obey!
Now doth he deck the garden-turret fair
Where the stars' language first illumed his soul,
As secretly yet clearly through the air
On the eterne, the living sense it stole;
And to his own, and our great profit, there
Exchangeth to the seasons as they roll;
Thus nobly doth he vanquish, with renown,
The twilight and the night that weigh us down.
Brighter now glowed his cheek, and still more bright,
With that unchanging, ever-youthful glow,--
That courage which o'ercomes, in hard-fought fight,
Sooner or later, every earthly foe,--
That faith which, soaring to the realms of light,
Now boldly presseth on, now bendeth low,
So that the good may work, wax, thrive amain,
So that the day the noble may attain.
Yet, though so skilled, of such transcendent worth,
This boarded scaffold doth he not despise;
The fate that on its axis turns the earth
From day to night, here shows he to our eyes,
Raising, through many a work of glorious birth,
Art and the artist's fame up toward the skies.
He fills with blossoms of the noblest strife,
With life itself, this effigy of life.
His giant-step, as ye full surely know,
Measured the circle of the will and deed,
Each country's changing thoughts and morals, too,
The darksome book with clearness could he read;
Yet how he, breathless 'midst his friends so true,
Despaired in sorrow, scarce from pain was freed,--
All this have we, in sadly happy years,
For he was ours, bewailed with feeling tears.
When from the agonizing weight of grief
He raised his eyes upon the world again,
We showed him how his thoughts might find relief
From the uncertain present's heavy chain,
Gave his fresh-kindled mind a respite brief,
With kindly skill beguiling every pain,
And e'en at eve when setting was his sun,
From his wan cheeks a gentle smile we won.
Full early had he read the stern decree,
Sorrow and death to him, alas, were known;
Ofttimes recovering, now departed he,--
Dread tidings, that our hearts had feared to own!
Yet his transfigured being now can see
Itself, e'en here on earth, transfigured grown.
What his own age reproved, and deemed a crime,
Hath been ennobled now by death and time.
And many a soul that with him strove in fight,
And his great merit grudged to recognize,
Now feels the impress of his wondrous might,
And in his magic fetters gladly lies;
E'en to the highest hath he winged his flight,
In close communion linked with all we prize.
Extol him then! What mortals while they live
But half receive, posterity shall give.
Thus is he left us, who so long ago,--
Ten years, alas, already!--turned from earth;
We all, to our great joy, his precepts know,
Oh, may the world confess their priceless worth!
In swelling tide toward every region flow
The thoughts that were his own peculiar birth;
He gleams like some departing meteor bright,
Combining, with his own, eternal light.
ERGO BIBAMUS![22] (1810)
For a praiseworthy object we're now gathered here,
So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
Tho' talk may be hushed, yet the glasses ring clear,
Remember then, ERGO BIBAMUS!
In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word,
With its sound befitting each bosom is stirred,
And an echo the festal hall filling is heard,
A glorious ERGO BIBAMUS!
I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare,
And bethought me of: ERGO BIBAMUS;
So I gently approached, and she let me stand there,
While I helped myself, thinking: BIBAMUS!
And when she's appeared, and will clasp you and kiss,
Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss,
Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss,
In the comforting ERGO BIBAMUS!
I am called by my fate far away from each friend;
Ye loved ones, then: ERGO BIBAMUS!
With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend,
So double our ERGO BIBAMUS!
Whate'er to his treasure the niggard may add,
Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had,
For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad,
So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
And what shall we say of to-day as it flies?
I thought but of: ERGO BIBAMUS!
'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise,
So again and again sing: BIBAMUS!
For joy through a wide-open portal it guides,
Bright glitter the clouds as the curtain divides,
And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides,
While we thunder our: ERGO BIBAMUS.
THE WALKING BELL[23] (1813)
A child refused to go betimes
To church like other people;
He roamed abroad, when rang the chimes
On Sundays from the steeple.
His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,
Its voice ne'er think of scorning;
Unless thou wilt behave thee well,
'Twill fetch thee without warning."
The child then thought: "High over head
The bell is safe suspended--"
So to the fields he straightway sped
As if 'twas school-time ended.
The bell now ceased as bell to ring,
Roused by the mother's twaddle;
But soon ensued a dreadful thing!--
The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
The child, with trembling wonder,
Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last,
And straightway nimbly rushes
To church, to chapel, hastening fast
Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well,
His late disaster heeds he;
The moment that he hears the bell,
No other summons needs he.
FOUND[24] (1813)
Once through the forest
Alone I went;
To seek for nothing
My thoughts were bent.
I saw i' the shadow
A flower stand there;
As stars it glisten'd,
As eyes 'twas fair.
I sought to pluck it,--
It gently said:
"Shall I be gather'd
Only to fade?"
With all its roots
I dug it with care,
And took it home
To my garden fair.
In silent corner
Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,
There blooms it yet.
HATEM[25] (1815)
Locks of brown, still bind your captive
In the circle of her face!
I, beloved sinuous tresses,
Naught possess that's worth your grace--
But a heart whose love enduring
Swells in youthful fervor yet:
Snow and mists envelop Etna,
Making men the fire forget.
Yonder mountain's pride so stately
Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow;
And its spell once more bids Hatem
Thrill of spring and summer know.
Once more fill the glass, the flagon!
Let me drink to my desire.
If she find a heap of ashes,
Say, "He perished in her fire!"
REUNION[26] (1815)
Can it be, O star transcendent,
That I fold thee to my breast?
Now I know, what depths of anguish
May in parting be expressed.
Yes, 'tis thou, of all my blisses
Lovely, loving partner--thou!
Mindful of my bygone sorrows,
E'en the present awes me now.
When the world in first conception
Lay in God's eternal mind,
In creative power delighting
He the primal hour designed.
When he gave command for being,
Then was heard a mighty sigh
Full of pain, as all creation
Broke into reality.
Up then sprang the light; and darkness
Doubtful stood apart to gaze;
All the elements, dividing
Swiftly, took their several ways.
In confused, disordered dreaming
Strove they all for freedom's range--
Each for self, no fellow-feeling;
Single each, and cold and strange.
Lo, a marvel--God was lonely!
All was still and cold and dumb.
So he framed dawn's rosy blushes
Whence should consolation come--
To refresh the troubled spirit
Harmonies of color sweet:
What had erst been forced asunder
Now at last could love and meet.
Then, ah then, of life unbounded
Sight and feeling passed the gates;
Then, ah then, with eager striving
Kindred atoms sought their mates.
Gently, roughly they may seize them,
So they catch and hold them fast:
"We," they cry, "are now creators--
Allah now may rest at last!"
So with rosy wings of morning
Towards thy lips my being moves;
Sets the starry night a thousand
Glowing seals upon our loves.
We are as we should be--parted
Ne'er on earth in joy or pain;
And no second word creative
E'er can sunder us again!
PROOEMION[27] (1816)
In His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes _making_ His vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers;
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
No more thou numberest, reckonest no time,
Each step is infinite, each step sublime.
What God would _outwardly_ alone control,
And on His finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the _inner_ world to move, to view
Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too,
So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
Within us all a universe doth dwell;
And hence each people's usage laudable,
That every one the Best that meets his eyes
As God, yea, e'en _his_ God, doth recognize;
To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,
Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.
THE ONE AND THE ALL[28] (1821)
Called to a new employ in boundless space,
The lonely monad quits its 'customed place
And from life's weary round contented flees.
No more of passionate striving, will perverse
And hampering obligations, long a curse:
Free self-abandonment at last gives peace.
Soul of the world, come pierce our being through!
Across the drift of things our way to hew
Is our appointed task, our noblest war.
Good spirits by our destined pathway still
Lead gently on, best masters of our will,
Toward that which made and makes all things that are.
To shape for further ends what now has breath,
Let nothing harden into ice and death,
Works endless living action everywhere.
What has not yet existed strives for birth--
Toward purer suns, more glorious-colored earth:
To rest in idle stillness naught may dare.
All must move onward, help transform the mass,
Assume a form, to yet another pass;
'Tis but in seeming aught is fixed or still.
In all things moves the eternal restless Thought;
For all, when comes the hour, must fall to naught
If to persist in being is its will.
LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER'S SKULL[30] (1826)
[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at
the age of seventy-seven.]
Within a gloomy charnel-house one day
I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
And of old times I thought that now were gray.
Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated,
And hardy bones that to the death contended,
Are lying crossed,--to lie forever, fated.
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?
No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired,
The hand, the foot--their use in life is ended.
Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven
Back into daylight by a force inspired;
But none can love the withered husk, though even
A glorious noble kernel it contained.
To me, an adept, was the writing given
Which not to all its holy sense explained.
When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,
I saw a form that glorious still remained,
And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,
Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion,
As though from death a living fount were springing.
What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion!
That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!
A look, how did it whirl me toward that ocean
Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!
Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!
Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,
Except to steal thee from thy prison here
With pious purpose, and devoutly go
Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.
What greater gain in life can man e'er know
Than when God-Nature will to him explain
How into Spirit steadfastness may flow,
How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.
A LEGACY[31] (1829)
No living atom comes at last to naught!
Active in each is still the eternal Thought:
Hold fast to Being if thou wouldst be blest.
Being is without end; for changeless laws
Bind that from which the All its glory draws
Of living treasures endlessly possessed.
Unto the wise of old this truth was known,
Such wisdom knit their noble souls in one;
Then hold thou still the lore of ancient days!
To that high power thou ow'st it, son of man,
By whose decree the earth its circuit ran
And all the planets went their various ways.
Then inward turn at once thy searching eyes;
Thence shalt thou see the central truth arise
From which no lofty soul goes e'er astray;
There shalt thou miss no needful guiding sign--
For conscience lives, and still its light divine
Shall be the sun of all thy moral day.
Next shalt thou trust thy senses' evidence,
And fear from them no treacherous offence
While the mind's watchful eye thy road commands:
With lively pleasure contemplate the scene
And roam securely, teachable, serene,
At will throughout a world of fruitful lands.
Enjoy in moderation all life gives:
Where it rejoices in each thing that lives
Let reason be thy guide and make thee see.
Then shall the distant past be present still,
The future, ere it comes, thy vision fill--
Each single moment touch eternity.
Then at the last shalt thou achieve thy quest,
And in one final, firm conviction rest:
What bears for thee true fruit alone is true.
Prove all things, watch the movement of the world
As down the various ways its tribes are whirled;
Take thou thy stand among the chosen few.
Thus hath it been of old; in solitude
The artist shaped what thing to him seemed good,
The wise man hearkened to his own soul's voice.
Thus also shalt thou find thy greatest bliss;
To lead where the elect shall follow--this
And this alone is worth a hero's choice.
INTRODUCTION TO HERMANN AND DOROTHEA
Hermann and Dorothea is universally known and prized in Germany as no
other work of the classical period of German literature except
Goethe's _Faust_ and Schiller's _Wilhelm Tell_, and, although
distinctively German in subject and spirit, it early became and is
still a precious possession of all the modern world. It marks the
culmination of the renaissance in the literary art of Germany and
perhaps of Europe.
Schiller hailed it as the pinnacle of Goethe's and of all modern art.
A. W. Schlegel in 1797 judged it to be a finished work of art in the
grand style, and at the same time intelligible, sympathetic,
patriotic, popular, a book full of golden teachings of wisdom and
virtue. Two generations later one of the leading historians of German
literature declared that there is no other poem that comes so near to
the father of all poetry (Homer) as this, none in which Greek form and
German content are so intimately blended, and that this is perhaps the
only poem which without explanation and without embarrassment all the
modern centuries could offer to an ancient Greek to enjoy. In the view
of the end of the nineteenth century, expressed by a distinguished
philosopher-critic, this work is a unique amalgam of the artistic
spirit, objectivity, and contemplative clearness of Homer with the
soul-life of the present, the heart-beat of the German people, the
characteristic traits which mark the German nature.
As Longfellow's _Evangeline_, treating in the same verse-form of the
dactylic hexameter and in a way partly epic and partly idyllic a story
of love and domestic interests in a contrasting setting of war and
exile, was modeled on _Hermann and Dorothea_, so the latter poem was
suggested by J. H. Voss' idyl _Luise_, published first in parts in
1783 and 1784 and as a whole revised in 1795. Of his delight in
_Luise_ Goethe wrote to Schiller in February, 1798: "This proved to be
much to my advantage, for this joy finally became productive in me, it
drew me into this form (the epic), begot my _Hermann_, and who knows
what may yet come of it." But _Luise_ is not really epic; it is
without action, without unity, without any large historical outlook,--a
series of minutely pictured, pleasing idyllic scenes.
In contrast herewith Goethe's purpose was in his own words, "in an
epic crucible to free from its dross the purely human existence of a
small German town, and at the same time mirror in a small glass the
great movements and changes of the world's stage." This purpose he
achieved in the writing of _Hermann and Dorothea_ at intervals from
September, 1796, through the summer of 1797, in the autumn of which
year the poem was published.
The main sources from which the poet drew his material are four. In
the first place the theme was invented by him out of an anecdote of
the flight of Protestant refugees from the Archbishopric of Salzburg
in 1731-1732. On the basis of this anecdote he drew the original
outlines of the meeting and union of the lovers. Secondly, as a
consequence of the French Revolution, Germans were forced to flee from
German territory west of the Rhine. Goethe was present with Prussian
troops in France in 1792, and observed the siege of Mainz in 1793.
Hence his knowledge of war and exile, with their attendant cruelties
and sufferings. Thirdly, the personal experiences of his own life
could not but contribute to his description of the then German
present. Features of Frankfurt and Ilmenau reappear. The characters
show traits of Goethe's parents, and possibly something of his wife is
in Dorothea. Hermann's mother bears the name of the poet's and reveals
many of her qualities. But some of these are given to the
landlord-father, while the elder Goethe's pedantry and petty
weaknesses are shown in the apothecary. The poet's experiences in the
field are realistically reproduced in many particulars of character
and incident, as are doubtless also his mother's vivid reports of
events in Frankfurt during July and August, 1796. We may feel sure too
that it was the occurrences of this summer that led Goethe to
transform the short, pure idyl of his first intention into a longer
epic of his own present. The fourth source is literary tradition,
which we may trace back through the verse idyl of Voss to the prose
idyl of Gessner, thence through the unnatural Arcadian pastorals of
the seventeenth and earlier centuries to the great Greek
creators,--Theocritus, of the idyl, and Homer, of the epic.
From whatever source derived, the materials were transmuted and
combined by Goethe's genius into a broad, full picture of German life,
with characters typical of the truly human and of profound ethical
importance, interpreting to the attentive reader the significance of
life for the individual, the family, the nation.
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA (1797)[32]
TRANSLATED BY ELLEN FROTHINGHAM
CALLIOPE
FATE AND SYMPATHY
Truly, I never have seen the market and street so deserted!
How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished! Not fifty
Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it remaining.
What will not curiosity do! here is every one running,
Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful exiles.
Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pass over,
Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the noonday.
I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to witness the sorrows
Borne by good, fugitive people, who now, with their rescued possessions,
Driven, alas! from beyond the Rhine, their beautiful country,
Over to us are coming, and through the prosperous corner
Roam of this our luxuriant valley, and traverse its windings.
"Well hast thou done, good wife, our son in thus kindly dispatching,
Laden with something to eat and to drink, and with store of old linen,
'Mongst the poor folk to distribute; for giving belongs to the wealthy.
How the youth drives, to be sure! What control he has over the horses!
Makes not our carriage a handsome appearance,--the new one? With comfort,
Four could be seated within, with a place on the box for the coachman.
This time, he drove by himself. How lightly it rolled round the corner!"
Thus, as he sat at his ease in the porch of his house on the market,
Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion.
Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent housewife:
"Father, I am not inclined to be giving away my old linen:
Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased for money,
When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave, and with pleasure,
Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bed-clothes;
For I was told of the aged and children who had to go naked.
But wilt thou pardon me, father? thy wardrobe has also been plundered.
And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian flowers,
Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate flannel,
Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion."
Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent landlord:
"Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good old calico wrapper,
Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such another.
Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom compels us
Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket;
Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers."
[Illustration: HERMANN'S PARENTS IN THE DOORWAY OF THE TAVERN Ludwig
Richter]
"See!" interrupted the wife; "even now some are yonder returning,
Who have beheld the procession: it must, then, already be over.
Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their faces are glowing!
Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping the sweat off.
Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so suffer,
Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have in the telling."
Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father:
"Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is.
We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay was before it.
Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear is the heaven;
And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from the eastward.
That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields already;
We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious harvest."
Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men and of women
Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place wending;
And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters beside him,
Back to his modernized house on the opposite side of the market,
Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor,
Rapidly driving his open barouche,--it was builded in Landau.
Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely peopled.
Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures.
Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were sitting,
Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering people.
Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming:
"Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming, and with him
Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every thing tell us;
All they have witnessed abroad, and which 'tis a sorrow to look on."
Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple;
Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were placed in the doorway,
Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves with
their kerchiefs.
Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the mutual greetings,
First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation:
"Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just like another,
Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen his neighbor.
Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar in destruction;
Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted:
Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of these exiles,
Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar fortune,
May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise o'ertaken.
Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in man's nature."
Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent pastor;
Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime of his manhood.
He was acquainted with life,--with the needs of his hearers acquainted;
Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures' importance,
As they reveal man's destiny to us, and man's disposition;
Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings.
"I should be loath," he replied, "to censure an innocent instinct,
Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always been given.
What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to accomplish,
Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly with it.
Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction,
Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted together
Worldly experiences are? For first what is novel he covets;
Then with unwearying industry follows he after the useful;
Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and ennobled.
While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous companion,
Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as 'tis over.
He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness of temper,
Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed;
Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors:
Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth the evil."
Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming:
"Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!"
"Hardly," with emphasis then the village doctor made answer,
"Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes I have witnessed.
Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell them?
E'en before crossing the meadows, and while we were yet at a distance,
Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession
Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little.
But when at last we were come to the street that crosses the valley,
Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot and of wagons.
There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates passing,
And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was,
Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued.
Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels,--
All those things which are housed in every well-furnished dwelling,
All by the house-keeper's care set up in their suitable places,
Always ready for use; for useful is each and important.--
Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner of wagons,
One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been rescued.
Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool coverlet lying;
Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the sheets on the mirror.
Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great conflagration
Twenty years since, will take from a man all power of reflection,
So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what is precious behind him.
Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying with them
Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and oxen;
Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the bird-cage.
Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles,
Panting 'neath baskets and tubs, full of things of no manner of value:
So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession.
Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved forward,
All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts were the weaker,
Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry another.
Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed women and children,
And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing of cattle,
Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft on the wagon,
Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting and swaying.
Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of the highway,
Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance, and over
Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were flung to a distance,
Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by good fortune
Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to the wagon.
Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to see them
Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and of presses.
So lay the cart all broken to fragments, and helpless the people.
Keeping their onward way, the others drove hastily by them,
Each thinking only of self, and carried away by the current.
Then we ran to the spot, and found the sick and the aged,--
Those who at home and in bed could before their lingering ailments
Scarcely endure,--lying bruised on the ground, complaining and groaning,
Choked by the billowing dust and scorched by the heat of the noonday."
Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling:
"Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment
and clothing!
Loath should I be to behold them: the looking on suffering pains me.
Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel afflictions,
Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance,
Only that some might be strengthened, and we might ourselves be made easy.
But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures
Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of us mortals,
And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil.
Come with me into the room behind, our cool little parlor,
Where no sunbeam e'er shines, and no sultry breath ever enters
Through its thickness of wall. There mother will bring us a flagon
Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies.
Here 'tis not cosey to drink: the flies so buzz round the glasses."
Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the coolness.
Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious vintage,
Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering pewter,
Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups meet for the
Rhine wine.
So sat the three together about the highly waxed table,
Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet was supported.
Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and pastor,
But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in reflection,
Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged him, saying,--
"Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God in His mercy
Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future will keep us.
For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration,
When He so hardly chastised us, He now is continually blessing,
Constantly shielding, as man the apple of His eye watches over,
Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of His members?
Shall He in time to come not defend us and furnish us succor?
Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is His power.
Shall He this blooming town which He once by industrious burghers
Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterward blessed with abundance,
Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing?"
Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and kindly:
"Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide in this temper;
For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair, and when evil,
Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the sublimest."
Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly:
"Often the Rhine's broad stream have I with astonishment greeted,
As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business.
Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted.
But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly
Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman,
And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder.
See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us,
And thus protects us the Lord, who then will be weakly despondent?
Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful.
Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for,
Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred _Te Deum_ is rising,
Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,--
Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor,
Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar,
Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored,
My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing!
But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active
Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward.
Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others;
Nay, he will even avoid young ladies' society wholly;
Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in."
Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance
Clattering of horses' hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon,
Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway.
TERPSICHORE
HERMANN
Now when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,
Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him,
And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression,
Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing.
Then with a smile he spoke, and said in words of affection:
"Truly a different being thou comest! I never have seen thee
Cheerful as now, nor ever beheld I thy glances so beaming.
Joyous thou comest, and happy: 'tis plain that among the poor people
Thou hast been sharing thy gifts, and receiving their blessings
upon thee."
Quietly then, and with serious words, the son made him answer:
"If I have acted as ye will commend, I know not; but I followed
That which my heart bade me do, as I shall exactly relate you.
Thou wert, mother, so long in rummaging 'mong thy old pieces,
Picking and choosing, that not until late was thy bundle together;
Then, too, the wine and the beer took care and time in the packing.
When I came forth through the gateway at last, and out on the high-road,
Backward the crowd of citizens streamed with women and children,
Coming to meet me; for far was already the band of the exiles.
Quicker I kept on my way, and drove with speed to the village,
Where they were meaning to rest, as I heard, and tarry till morning.
Thitherward up the new street as I hasted, a stout-timbered wagon,
Drawn by two oxen, I saw, of that region the largest and strongest;
While, with vigorous steps, a maiden was walking beside them,
And, a long staff in her hand, the two powerful creatures was guiding,
Urging them now, now holding them back; with skill did she drive them.
[Illustration: HERMANN HANDS TO DOROTHEA THE LINEN FOR THE EMIGRANTS
Ludwig Richter]
Soon as the maiden perceived me, she calmly drew near to the horses,
And in these words she addressed me: 'Not thus deplorable always
Has our condition been, as to-day on this journey thou seest.
I am not yet grown used to asking gifts of a stranger,
Which he will often unwillingly give, to be rid of the beggar.
But necessity drives me to speak; for here, on the straw, lies
Newly delivered of child, a rich land-owner's wife, whom I scarcely
Have in her pregnancy, safe brought off with the oxen and wagon.
Naked, now in her arms the new-born infant is lying,
And but little the help our friends will be able to furnish,
If in the neighboring village, indeed, where to-day we would rest us,
Still we shall find them; though much do I fear they already have
passed it.
Shouldst thou have linen to spare of any description, provided
Thou of this neighborhood art, to the poor in charity give it.'
"Thus she spoke, and the pale-faced mother raised herself feebly
Up from the straw, and toward me looked. Then said I in answer
'Surely unto the good, a spirit from heaven oft speaketh,
Making them feel the distress that threatens a suffering brother.
For thou must know that my mother, already presaging thy sorrows,
Gave me a bundle to use it straightway for the need of the naked.'
Then I untied the knots of the string, and the wrapper of father's
Unto her gave, and gave her as well the shirts and the linen.
And she thanked me with joy, and cried: 'The happy believe not
Miracles yet can be wrought: for only in need we acknowledge
God's own hand and finger, that leads the good to show goodness.
What unto us He has done through thee, may He do to thee also!'
And I beheld with what pleasure the sick woman handled the linens,
But with especial delight the dressing-gown's delicate flannel.
'Let us make haste,' the maid to her said, 'and come to the village,
Where our people will halt for the night and already are resting.
There these clothes for the children I, one and all, straightway
will portion.'
Then she saluted again, her thanks most warmly expressing,
Started the oxen; the wagon went on; but there I still lingered,
Still held the horses in check; for now my heart was divided
Whether to drive with speed to the village, and there the provisions
Share 'mong the rest of the people, or whether I here to the maiden
All should deliver at once, for her discreetly to portion.
And in an instant my heart had decided, and quietly driving
After the maiden, I soon overtook her, and said to her quickly:
'Hearken, good maiden;--my mother packed up not linen-stuffs only
Into the carriage, that I should have clothes to furnish the naked;
Wine and beer she added besides, and supply of provisions:
Plenty of all these things I have in the box of the carriage.
But now I feel myself moved to deliver these offerings also
Into thy hand; for so shall I best fulfil my commission.
Thou wilt divide them with judgment, while I must by chance be directed.'
Thereupon answered the maiden: 'I will with faithfulness portion
These thy gifts, that all shall bring comfort to those who are needy.'
Thus she spoke, and quickly the bog of the carriage I opened,
Brought forth thence the substantial hams, and brought out the
breadstuffs,
Bottles of wine and beer, and one and all gave to the maiden.
Willingly would I have given her more, but the carriage was empty.
All she packed at the sick woman's feet, and went on her journey.
I, with my horses and carriage, drove rapidly back to the city."
Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative neighbor
Took up the word, and cried: "Oh happy, in days like the present,
Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself in his dwelling,
Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him in terror!
Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be called father;
Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom to be anxious.
Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have packed up together
All my best things already, the chains and old pieces of money
That were my sainted mother's, of which not one has been sold yet.
Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily gotten.
Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such industry gathered,
I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the goods is but trifling.
If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling contented.
When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued my person,
All is safe: none find it so easy to fly as the single."
"Neighbor," unto his words young Hermann with emphasis answered:
"I can in no wise agree with thee here, and censure thy language.
Is he indeed a man to be prized, who, in good and in evil,
Takes no thought but for self, and gladness and sorrow with others
Knows not how to divide, nor feels his heart so impel him?
Rather than ever to-day would I make up my mind to be married:
Many a worthy maiden is needing a husband's protection,
And the man needs an inspiriting wife when ill is impending."
Thereupon smiling the father replied: "Thus love I to hear thee!
That is a sensible word such as rarely I've known thee to utter."
Straightway, however, the mother broke in with quickness, exclaiming:
"Son, to be sure, thou art right! we parents have set the example;
Seeing that not in our season of joy did we choose one another;
Rather the saddest of hours it was that bound us together.
Monday morning--I mind it well; for the day that preceded
Came that terrible fire by which our city was ravaged--
Twenty years will have gone. The day was a Sunday as this is;
Hot and dry was the season; the water was almost exhausted.
All the people were strolling abroad in their holiday dresses,
'Mong the villages partly, and part in the mills and the taverns.
And at the end of the city the flames began, and went coursing
Quickly along the streets, creating a draught in their passage.
Burned were the barns where the copious harvest already was garnered;
Burned were the streets as far as the market; the house of my father,
Neighbor to this, was destroyed, and this one also fell with it.
Little we managed to save. I sat, that sorrowful night through,
Outside the town on the common, to guard the beds and the boxes.
Sleep overtook me at last, and when I again was awakened,
Feeling the chill of the morning that always descends before sunrise,
There were the smoke and the glare, and the walls and chimneys in ruins.
Then fell a weight on my heart; but more majestic than ever
Came up the sun again, inspiring my bosom with courage.
Then I rose hastily up, with a yearning the place to revisit
Whereon our dwelling had stood, and to see if the hens had been rescued,
Which I especially loved, for I still was a child in my feelings.
Thus as I over the still-smoking timbers of house and of court-yard
Picked my way, and beheld the dwelling so ruined and wasted,
Thou camest up to examine the place, from the other direction.
Under the ruins thy horse in his stall had been buried; the rubbish
Lay on the spot and the glimmering beams; of the horse we saw nothing.
Thoughtful and grieving we stood there thus, each facing the other,
Now that the wall was fallen that once had divided our court-yards.
Thereupon thou by the hand didst take me, and speak to me, saying,--
'Lisa, how camest thou hither? Go back! thy soles must be burning;
Hot the rubbish is here: it scorches my boots, which are stronger.'
And thou didst lift me up, and carry me out through thy court-yard.
There was the door of the house left standing yet with its archway,
Just as 'tis standing now, the one thing only remaining.
Then thou didst set me down and kiss me; to that I objected;
But thou didst answer and say with kindly significant language:
'See! my house lies in ruins: remain here and help me rebuild it;
So shall my help in return be given to building thy father's.'
Yet did I not comprehend thee until thou sentest thy mother
Unto my father, and quick were the happy espousals accomplished.
E'en to this day I remember with joy those half-consumed timbers,
And I can see once more the sun coming up in such splendor;
For 'twas the day that gave me my husband; and, ere the first season
Passed of that wild desolation, a son to my youth had been given.
Therefore I praise thee, Hermann, that thou, with an honest assurance,
Shouldst, in these sorrowful days, be thinking thyself of a maiden,
And amid ruins and war shouldst thus have the courage to woo her."
Straightway, then, and with warmth, the father replied to her, saying:
"Worthy of praise is the feeling, and truthful also the story,
Mother, that thou hast related; for so indeed every thing happened.
Better, however, is better. It is not the business of all men
Thus their life and estate to begin from the very foundation:
Every one needs not to worry himself as we and the rest did.
Oh, how happy is he whose father and mother shall give him,
Furnished and ready, a house which he can adorn with his increase.
Every beginning is hard; but most the beginning a household.
Many are human wants, and every thing daily grows dearer,
So that a man must consider the means of increasing his earnings.
This I hope therefore of thee, my Hermann, that into our dwelling
Thou wilt be bringing ere long a bride who is handsomely dowered;
For it is meet that a gallant young man have an opulent maiden.
Great is the comfort of home whene'er, with the woman elected,
Enter the useful presents, besides, in box and in basket.
Not for this many a year in vain has the mother been busy
Making her daughter's linens of strong and delicate texture;
God-parents have not in vain been giving their vessels of silver,
And the father laid by in his desk the rare pieces of money;
For there a day will come when she, with her gifts and possessions,
Shall that youth rejoice who has chosen her out of all others.
Well do I know how good in a house is a woman's position,
Who her own furniture round her knows, in kitchen and chamber;
Who herself the bed and herself the table has covered.
Only a well-dowered bride should I like to receive to my dwelling.
She who is poor is sure, in the end, to be scorned by her husband;
And will as servant be held, who as servant came in with her bundle.
Men will remain unjust when the season of love is gone over.
Yes, my Hermann, thy father's old age thou greatly canst gladden,
If thou a daughter-in-law will speedily bring to my dwelling,
Out of the neighborhood here,--from the house over yonder, the green one.
Rich is the man, I can tell thee. His manufactures and traffic
Daily are making him richer; for whence draws the merchant not profit?
Three daughters only he has, to divide his fortune among them.
True that the eldest already is taken; but there is the second
Still to be had, as well as the third; and not long so, it may be.
I would never have lingered till now, had I been in thy place;
But had fetched one of the maidens, as once I bore off thy dear mother."
Modestly then did the son to the urgent father make answer:
"Truly 'twas my wish too, as well as thine own, to have chosen
One of our neighbor's daughters, for we had been brought up together;
Played, in the early days, about the market-place fountain;
And, from the other boys' rudeness, I often have been their defender.
That, though, is long since past: the girls, as they grew to be older,
Properly stayed in the house, and shunned the more boisterous pastimes.
Well brought up are they, surely! I used sometimes to go over,
Partly to gratify thee, and because of our former acquaintance:
But no pleasure I ever could take in being among them;
For I was always obliged to endure their censures upon me.
Quite too long was my coat, the cloth too coarse, and the color
Quite too common; my hair was not cropped, as it should be, and frizzled.
I was resolved, at last, that I, also, would dress myself finely,
Just as those office-boys do who always are seen there on Sundays,
Wearing in summer their half-silken flaps, that dangle about them;
But I discovered, betimes, they made ever a laughing-stock of me.
And I was vexed when I saw it,--it wounded my pride; but more deeply
Felt I aggrieved that they the good-will should so far misinterpret
That in my heart I bore them,--especially Minna the youngest.
It was on Easter-day that last I went over to see them;
Wearing my best new coat, that is now hanging up in the closet,
And having frizzled my hair, like that of the other young fellows.
Soon as I entered, they tittered; but that not at me, as I fancied.
Minna before the piano was seated; the father was present,
Hearing his daughters sing, and full of delight and good-humor.
Much I could not understand of all that was said in the singing;
But of Pamina I often heard, and oft of Tamino:
And I, besides, could not stay there dumb; so, as soon as she ended,
Something about the words I asked, and about the two persons.
Thereupon all were silent and smiled; but the father made answer:
'Thou knowest no one, my friend, I believe, but Adam and Eve?'
No one restrained himself longer, but loud laughed out then the maidens,
Loud laughed out the boys, the old man held his sides for his laughing.
I, in embarrassment, dropped my hat, and the giggling continued,
On and on and on, for all they kept playing and singing.
Back to the house here I hurried, o'ercome with shame and vexation,
Hung up my coat in the closet, and pulled out the curls with my fingers,
Swearing that never again my foot should cross over that threshold.
And I was perfectly right; for vain are the maidens, and heartless.
E'en to this day, as I hear, I am called by them ever 'Tamino.'"
Thereupon answered the mother, and said: "Thou shouldest not, Hermann,
Be so long vexed with the children: indeed, they are all of them children.
Minna, believe me, is good, and was always disposed to thee kindly.
'Twas not long since she was asking about thee. Let her be thy chosen!"
Thoughtfully answered the son: "I know not. That mortification
Stamped itself in me so deeply, I never could bear to behold her
Seated before the piano or listen again to her singing."
Forth broke the father then, and in words of anger made answer:
"Little of joy will my life have in thee! I said it would be so
When I perceived that thy pleasure was solely in horses and farming:
Work which a servant, indeed, performs for an opulent master,
That thou doest; the father meanwhile must his son be deprived of,
Who should appear as his pride, in the sight of the rest of the townsmen.
Early with empty hopes thy mother was wont to deceive me,
When in the school thy studies, thy reading and writing, would never
As with the others succeed, but thy seat would be always the lowest.
That comes about, forsooth, when a youth has no feeling of honor
Dwelling within his breast, nor the wish to raise himself higher.
Had but my father so cared for me as thou hast been cared for;
If he had sent me to school, and provided me thus with instructors,
I should be other, I trow, than host of the Golden Lion!"
Then the son rose from his seat and noiselessly moved to the doorway,
Slowly, and speaking no word. The father, however, in passion
After him called, "Yes, go, thou obstinate fellow! I know thee!
Go and look after the business henceforth, that I have not to chide thee;
But do thou nowise imagine that ever a peasant-born maiden
Thou for a daughter-in-law shalt bring into my dwelling, the hussy!
Long have I lived in the world, and know how mankind should be dealt with;
Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen so that contented
They shall depart from my house, and strangers agreeably can flatter.
Yet I'm resolved that some day I one will have for a daughter,
Who shall requite me in kind and sweeten my manifold labors;
Who the piano shall play to me, too; so that there shall with pleasure
All the handsomest people in town and the finest assemble,
As they on Sundays do now in the house of our neighbor." Here Hermann
Softly pressed on the latch, and so went out from the chamber.
THALIA
THE CITIZENS
Thus did the modest son slip away from the angry up-braiding;
But in the tone he had taken at first, the father continued:
"That comes not out of a man which he has not in him; and hardly
Shall the joy ever be mine of seeing my dearest wish granted:
That my son may not as his father be, but a better.
What would become of the house, and what of the city if each one
Were not with pleasure and always intent on maintaining, renewing,
Yea, and improving, too, as time and the foreigner teach us!
Man is not meant, forsooth, to grow from the ground like a mushroom,
Quickly to perish away on the spot of ground that begot him,
Leaving no trace behind of himself and his animate action!
As by the house we straightway can tell the mind of the master,
So, when we walk through a city, we judge of the persons who rule it.
For where the towers and walls are falling to ruin; where offal
Lies in heaps in the gutters, and alleys with offal are littered;
Where from its place has started the stone, and no one resets it;
Where the timbers are rotting away, and the house is awaiting
Vainly its new supports,--that place we may know is ill governed.
Since if not from above work order and cleanliness downward,
Easily grows the citizen used to untidy postponement;
Just as the beggar grows likewise used to his ragged apparel.
Therefore I wished that our Hermann might early set out on some travels;
That he at least might behold the cities of Strasburg and Frankfort,
Friendly Mannheim, too, that is cheerful and evenly builded.
He that has once beheld cities so cleanly and large, never after
Ceases his own native city, though small it may be, to embellish.
Do not the strangers who come here commend the repairs in our gateway,
Notice our whitewashed tower, and the church we have newly rebuilded?
Are not all praising our pavement? the covered canals full of water,
Laid with a wise distribution, which furnish us profit and safety,
So that no sooner does fire break out than 'tis promptly arrested?
Has not all this come to pass since the time of our great conflagration?
Builder I six times was named by the council, and won the approval,
Won moreover the heartfelt thanks of all the good burghers,
Actively carrying out what I planned, and also fulfilling
What had by upright men been designed, and left uncompleted.
Finally grew the same zeal in every one of the council;
All now labor together, and firmly decided already
Stands it to build the new causeway that shall with the high-road
connect us.
But I am sorely afraid that will not be the way with our children.
Some think only of pleasure and perishable apparel;
Others will cower at home, and behind the stove will sit brooding.
One of this kind, as I fear, we shall find to the last in our Hermann."
Straightway answered and said the good and intelligent mother:
"Why wilt thou always, father, be doing our son such injustice?
That least of all is the way to bring thy wish to fulfilment.
We have no power to fashion our children as suiteth our fancy;
As they are given by God, we so must have them and love them;
Teach them as best we can, and let each of them follow his nature.
One will have talents of one sort, and different talents another.
Every one uses his own; in his own individual fashion,
Each must be happy and good. I will not have my Hermann found fault with;
For he is worthy, I know, of the goods he shall one day inherit;
Will be an excellent landlord, a pattern to burghers and builders;
Neither in council, as I can foresee, will he be the most backward.
But thou keepest shut up in his breast all the poor fellow's spirit,
Finding such fault with him daily, and censuring as thou but now hast."
And on the instant she quitted the room, and after him hurried,
Hoping she somewhere might find him, and might with her words of affection
Cheer him again, her excellent son, for well he deserved it.
Thereupon when she was gone, the father thus smiling continued:
"What a strange folk, to be sure, are these women; and just like
the children;
Both of them bent upon living according as suiteth their pleasure,
While we others must never do aught but flatter and praise them.
Once for all time holds good the ancients' trustworthy proverb:
'Whoever goes not forward comes backward.' So must it be always."
Thereupon answered and said, in a tone of reflection, the doctor:
"That, sir neighbor, I willingly grant; for myself I am always
Casting about for improvement,--things new, so they be not too costly.
[Illustration: THE MOTHER DEFENDING HERMANN Ludwig Richter]
But what profits a man, who has not abundance of money,
Being thus active and stirring, and bettering inside and outside?
Only too much is the citizen cramped: the good, though he know it,
Has he no means to acquire because too slender his purse is,
While his needs are too great; and thus is he constantly hampered.
Many things I had done; but then the cost of such changes
Who does not fear, especially now in this season of danger?
Long since my house was smiling upon me in modish apparel!
Long since great panes of glass were gleaming in all of the windows!
But who can do as the merchant does, who, with his resources,
Knows the methods as well by which the best is arrived at?
Look at that house over yonder,--the new one; behold with what splendor
'Gainst the background of green stand out the white spirals of stucco!
Great are the panes in the windows; and how the glass sparkles
and glitters,
Casting quite into the shade the rest of the market-place houses!
Yet just after the fire were our two houses the finest,
This of the Golden Lion, and mine of the sign of the Angel.
So was my garden, too, throughout the whole neighborhood famous:
Every traveller stopped and gazed through the red palisadoes,
Caught by the beggars there carved in stone and the dwarfs of
bright colors.
Then whosoever had coffee served in the beautiful grotto,--
Standing there now all covered with dust and partly in ruins,--
Used to be mightily pleased with the glimmering light of the mussels
Spread out in beautiful order; and even the eye of the critic
Used by the sight of my corals and potter's ore to be dazzled.
So in my parlor, too, they would always admire the painting,
Where in a garden are gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen walking,
And with their taper fingers are plucking and holding the flowers.
But who would look at it now! In sooth, so great my vexation
Scarcely I venture abroad. All now must be other and tasteful,
So they call it; and white are the laths and benches of woodwork;
Everything simple and smooth; no carving longer or gilding
Can be endured, and the woods from abroad are of all the most costly.
Well, I, too, should be glad could I get for myself something novel;
Glad to keep up with the times, and be changing my furniture often;
Yet must we all be afraid of touching the veriest trifle.
For who among us has means for paying the work-people's wages?
Lately I had an idea of giving the Archangel Michael,
Making the sign of my shop, another fresh coating of gilding,
And to the terrible dragon about his feet that is winding;
But I e'en let him stay browned as he is: I dreaded the charges."
EUTERPE
MOTHER AND SON
Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking. The mother
Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling,
First on the settle of stone, whereon 'twas his wont to be seated.
When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable,
If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the stallions,
Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted to no one.
And by the servant she there was told: He is gone to the garden.
Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double court-yards,
Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns, too, behind her;
Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city extended;
Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in every thing growing;
Set upright the supports on which were resting the branches
Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of the pear-tree.
Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling cabbage;
For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted.
Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching garden,
Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there did she find him,
More than she had hitherto in all her search through the garden.
But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the arbor,
Once by particular favor, had been through the walls of the city
Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster.
So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with comfort,
Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced vine-yard,
Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the sunshine.
Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was ascending
Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by their leafage
were hidden.
Shady and covered the way through the lofty middlemost alley,
Which upon steps that were made of unhewn blocks you ascended.
There were the Muscatel, and there were the Chasselas hanging
Side by side, of unusual size and colored with purple,
All set out with the purpose of decking the visitor's table;
While with single vine-stocks the rest of the hillside was covered,
Bearing inferior clusters, from which the delicate wine comes.
Thus up the slopes she went, enjoying already the vintage,
And that festive day on which the whole country, rejoicing,
Picks and tramples the grapes, and gathers the must into vessels:
Fireworks, when it is evening, from every direction and corner
Crackle and blaze, and so the fairest of harvests is honored.
But more uneasy she went, her son after twice or thrice calling,
And no answer receiving, except from the talkative echo,
That with many repeats rang back from the towers of the city.
Strange it was for her to seek him; he never had gone to a distance
That he told her not first, to spare his affectionate mother
Every anxious thought, and fear that aught ill had befallen.
Still did she constantly hope that, if further she went, she should
find him;
For the two doors of the vineyard, the lower as well as the upper,
Both were alike standing open. So now she entered the corn-field,
That with its broad expanse the ridge of the hill covered over.
Still was the ground that she walked on her own; and the crops she
rejoiced in,--
All of them still were hers, and hers was the proud-waving grain, too,
Over the whole broad field in golden strength that was stirring.
Keeping the ridgeway, the footpath, between the fields she went onward,
Having the lofty pear-tree in view, which stood on the summit,
And was the boundary-mark of the fields that belonged to her dwelling.
Who might have planted it, none could know, but visible was it
Far and wide through the country; the fruit of the pear-tree was famous.
'Neath it the reapers were wont to enjoy their meal at the noon-day,
And the shepherds were used to tend their flocks in its shadow.
Benches of unhewn stones and of turf they found set about it.
And she had not been mistaken, for there sat her Hermann, and rested,--
Sat with his head on his hand, and seemed to be viewing the landscape
That to the mountains lay: his back was turned to his mother.
Toward him softly she crept, and lightly touched on the shoulder;
Quick he turned himself round; there were tears in his eyes as he met her.
"Mother, how hast thou surprised me!" he said in confusion; and quickly
Wiped the high-spirited youth his tears away. But the mother,
"What! do I find thee weeping, my son?" exclaimed in amazement.
"Nay, that is not like thyself: I never before have so seen thee!
Tell me, what burdens thy heart? what drives thee here, to be sitting
Under the pear-tree alone? These tears in thine eyes, what has
brought them?"
Then, collecting himself, the excellent youth made her answer:
"Truly no heart can that man have in his bosom of iron,
Who is insensible now to the needs of this emigrant people;
He has no brains in his head, who not for his personal safety,
Not for his fatherland's weal, in days like the present is anxious.
Deeply my heart had been touched by the sights and sounds of the morning;
Then I went forth and beheld the broad and glorious landscape
Spreading its fertile slopes in every direction about us,
Saw the golden grain inclining itself to the reapers,
And the promise of well-filled barns from the plentiful harvest.
[Illustration: MOTHER AND SON Ludwig Richter]
But, alas, how near is the foe! The Rhine with its waters
Guards us, indeed; but, ah, what now are rivers and mountains
'Gainst that terrible people that onward bears like a tempest!
For they summon their youths from every quarter together,
Call up their old men too, and press with violence forward.
Death cannot frighten the crowd: one multitude follows another.
And shall a German dare to linger behind in his homestead?
Hopes he perhaps to escape the everywhere threatened evil?
Nay, dear mother, I tell thee, today has made me regretful
That I was lately exempt, when out of our townsmen were chosen
Those who should serve in the army. An only son I am truly,
Also our business is great, and the charge of our household is weighty.
Yet were it better, I deem, in the front to offer resistance
There on the border, than here to await disaster and bondage.
So has my spirit declared, and deep in my innermost bosom
Courage and longing have now been aroused to live for my country,
Yea, and to die, presenting to others a worthy example.
If but the strength of Germany's youth were banded together
There on the frontier, resolved that it never would yield to the stranger,
Ah, he should not on our glorious soil be setting his footsteps,
Neither consuming before our eyes the fruit of our labor,
Ruling our men, and making his prey of our wives and our daughters.
Hark to me, mother: for I in the depths of my heart am determined
Quickly to do, and at once, what appears to me right and in reason;
For he chooses not always the best who longest considers.
Hearken, I shall not again return to the house; but directly
Go from this spot to the city, and there present to the soldiers
This right arm and this heart, to be spent in the fatherland's service.
Then let my father say if there be no feeling of honor
Dwelling within my breast, nor a wish to raise myself higher."
Then with significant words spoke the good and intelligent mother,
While from her eyes the quick-starting tears were silently falling:
"Son, what change has come o'er thee today, and over thy temper,
That thou speakest no more, as thou yesterday didst, and hast always,
Open and free, to thy mother, and tellest exactly thy wishes?
Any one else, had he heard thee thus speak, would in sooth have commended,
And this decision of thine would have highly approved as most noble,
Being misled by thy tone and by thy significant language.
Yet have I nothing but censure to speak; for better I know thee.
Thou concealest thy heart, and thy thoughts are not such as thou tellest.
Well do I know that it is not the drum, not the trumpet that calls thee:
Neither in uniform wouldst thou figure in sight of the maidens;
Since, for all thou art honest and brave, it is thy vocation
Here in quiet to care for the farm and provide for the household.
Tell me honestly, therefore, what goads thee to such a decision?"
Earnestly answered the son: "Nay, thou art mistaken, dear mother:
One day is not like another. The youth matures into manhood:
Better in stillness oft ripening to deeds than when in the tumult
Wildering and wild of existence, that many a youth has corrupted.
And, for as still as I am and was always, there yet in my bosom
Has such a heart been shaped as abhors all wrong and injustice;
And I have learned aright between worldly things to distinguish.
Arm and foot, besides, have been mightily strengthened by labor.
All this, I feel, is true: I dare with boldness maintain it.
Yet dost thou blame me with reason, O mother! for thou hast surprised me
Using a language half truthful and half that of dissimulation.
For, let me honestly own,--it is not the near danger that calls me
Forth from my father's house; nor is it the lofty ambition
Helpful to be to my country, and terrible unto the foeman.
They were but words that I spoke: they only were meant for concealing
Those emotions from thee with which my heart is distracted;
And so leave me, O mother! for, since the wishes are fruitless
Which in my bosom I cherish, my life must go fruitlessly over.
For, as I know, he injures himself who is singly devoted,
When for the common cause the whole are not working together."
"Hesitate not," replied thereupon the intelligent mother,
"Every thing to relate me, the smallest as well as the greatest.
Men will always be hasty, their thoughts to extremes ever running:
Easily out of their course the hasty are turned by a hindrance.
Whereas a woman is clever in thinking of means, and will venture
E'en on a roundabout way, adroitly to compass her object.
Let me know every thing, then; say wherefore so greatly excited
As I ne'er saw thee before, why thy blood is coursing so hotly,
Wherefore, against thy will, tears are filling thine eyes to o'erflowing."
Then he abandoned himself, the poor boy, to his sorrow, and weeping,
Weeping aloud on his kind mother's breast, he brokenly answered:
"Truly my father's words today have wounded me sorely,--
Words which I have not deserved; not today, nor at any time have I:
For it was early my greatest delight to honor my parents.
No one knew more, so I deemed, or was wiser than those who begot me,
And had with strictness ruled throughout the dark season of childhood.
Many the things, in truth, I with patience endured from my playmates,
When the good-will that I bore them they often requited with malice.
Often I suffered their flings and their blows to pass unresented;
But if they ventured to ridicule father, when he of a Sunday
Home from Church would come, with his solemn and dignified bearing;
If they made fun of his cap-string, or laughed at the flowers of
the wrapper
He with such stateliness wore, which was given away but this morning--
Threateningly doubled my fist in an instant; with furious passion
Fell I upon them, and struck out and hit, assailing them blindly,
Seeing not where. They howled as the blood gushed out from their noses:
Scarcely they made their escape from my passionate kicking and beating.
Then, as I older grew, I had much to endure from my father;
Violent words he oft vented on me, instead of on others,
When, at the board's last session, the council had roused his displeasure,
And I was made to atone for the quarrels and wiles of his colleagues.
Thou has pitied me often thyself; for much did I suffer,
Ever remembering with cordial respect the kindness of parents,
Solely intent on increasing for us their goods and possessions,
Much denying themselves in order to save for their children.
But, alas! saving alone, for the sake of a tardy enjoyment,--
That is not happiness: pile upon pile, and acre on acre,
Make us not happy, no matter how fair our estates may be rounded.
For the father grows old, and with him will grow old the children,
Losing the joy of the day, and bearing the care of tomorrow.
Look thou below, and see how before us in glory are lying,
Fair and abundant, the corn-fields; beneath them, the vineyard and garden;
Yonder the stables and barns; our beautiful line of possessions.
But when I look at the dwelling behind, where up in the gable
We can distinguish the window that marks my room in the attic;
When I look back, and remember how many a night from that window
I for the moon have watched; for the sun, how many a morning!
When the healthful sleep of a few short hours sufficed me,--
Ah, so lonely they seem to me then, the chamber and courtyard,
Garden and glorious field, away o'er the hill that is stretching;
All so desert before me lie: 'tis the wife that is wanting."
Thereupon spoke the good mother, and thus with intelligence answered:
"Son, not greater thy wish to bring thee a bride to thy chamber,
That thou mayst find thy nights a beautiful part of existence,
And that the work of the day may gain independence and freedom,
Than is thy father's wish too, and thy mother's. We always have
counselled,--
Yea, we have even insisted,--that thou shouldst elect thee a maiden.
But I was ever aware, and now my heart gives me assurance,
That till the hour appointed is come, and the maiden appointed
Shall with the hour appear, the choice will be left for the future,
While more strong than all else will be fear of grasping the wrong one.
If I may say it, my son, I believe thou already hast chosen;
For thy heart has been touched, and been made more than wontedly tender.
Speak it out honestly, then; for my soul has told me before-hand:
That same maiden it is, the exile, whom thou hast elected."
"Thou hast said, mother!" the son thereupon with eagerness answered.
"Yes, it is she; and if I today as my bride do not bring her
Home to our dwelling, she from me will go, perhaps vanish for ever,
Lost in the war's confusion and sad movings hither and thither.
Mother, forever in vain would then our abundant possessions
Prosper before me, and seasons to come be in vain to me fruitful.
Yea, I should hold in aversion the wonted house and the garden:
Even my mother's love, alas! would not comfort my sorrow.
Every tie, so I feel in my heart, by love is unloosened
Soon as she fastens her own; and not the maid is it only
Leaves behind father and mother, to follow the man she has chosen.
He too, the youth, no longer knows aught of mother and father,
When he the maiden, his only beloved, sees vanishing from him.
Suffer me, then, to go hence wherever despair shall impel me:
Since by my father himself the decisive words have been spoken;
Since his house can no longer be mine if he shut out the maiden,
Her whom alone as my bride I desire to bring to our dwelling."
Thereupon quickly made answer the good and intelligent mother:
"How like to rocks, forsooth, two men will stand facing each other!
Proud and not to be moved, will neither draw near to his fellow;
Neither will stir his tongue to utter the first word of kindness.
Therefore I tell thee, my son, a hope yet lives in my bosom,
So she be honest and good, thy father will let thee espouse her,
Even though poor, and against a poor girl so decisive his sentence.
Many a thing he is wont to speak out in his violent fashion
Which he yet never performs; and so what he denies will consent to.
Yet he requires a kindly word, and is right to require it:
He is the father! Besides, we know that his wrath after dinner,--
When he most hastily speaks, and questions all others' opinions,--
Signifies naught; the full force of his violent will is excited
Then by the wine, which lets him not heed the language of others;
None but himself does he see and feel. But now is come evening,
Talk upon various subjects has passed between him and his neighbors.
Gentle, he is; I am sure, now his little excitement is over,
And he can feel how unjust his passion has made him to others.
Come, let us venture at once: success is alone to the valiant!
Further we need the friends, still sitting together there with him;
And in especial the worthy pastor will give us assistance."
Thus she hastily spoke, and up from the stone then arising,
Drew from his seat her son, who willingly followed. In silence
Both descended the hill, their important purpose revolving.
POLYHYMNIA
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD
There the three men, however, still sat conversing together,
With mine host of the Lion, the village doctor, and pastor;
And their talk was still on the same unvarying subject,
Turning it this way and that, and viewing from every direction.
But with his sober judgment the excellent pastor made answer:
"Here will I not contradict you. I know that man should be always
Striving for that which is better; indeed, as we see, he is reaching
Always after the higher, at least some novelty craving.
But be careful ye go not too far, for with this disposition
Nature has given us pleasure in holding to what is familiar;
Taught us in that to delight to which we have long been accustomed.
Every condition is good that is founded on reason and nature.
Many are man's desires, yet little it is that he needeth;
Seeing the days are short and mortal destiny bounded.
Ne'er would I censure the man whom a restless activity urges,
Bold and industrious, over all pathways of land and of ocean,
Ever untiring to roam; who takes delight in the riches,
Heaping in generous abundance about himself and his children.
Yet not unprized by me is the quiet citizen also,
Making the noiseless round of his own inherited acres,
Tilling the ground as the ever-returning seasons command him.
Not with every year is the soil transfigured about him;
Not in haste does the tree stretch forth, as soon as 'tis planted,
Full-grown arms toward heaven and decked with plenteous blossoms.
No: man has need of patience, and needful to him are also
Calmness and clearness of mind, and a pure and right understanding.
Few are the seeds he intrusts to earth's all-nourishing bosom;
Few are the creatures he knows how to raise and bring to perfection.
Centred are all his thoughts alone on that which is useful.
Happy to whom by nature a mind of such temper is given,
For he supports us all! And hail, to the man whose abode is
Where in a town the country pursuits with the city are blended.
On him lies not the pressure that painfully hampers the farmer,
Nor is he carried away by the greedy ambition of cities;
Where they of scanty possessions too often are given to aping,
Wives and daughters especially, those who are higher and richer.
Blessed be therefore thy son in his life of quiet employment;
Blessed the wife, of like mind with himself, whom he one day shall
choose him."
Thus he spoke; and scarce had he ended when entered the mother,
Holding her son by the hand, and so led him up to her husband.
"Father," she said, "how oft when we two have been chatting together,
Have we rejoiced in the thought of Hermann's future espousal,
When he should bring his bride to be the light of our dwelling!
Over and over again the matter we pondered: this maiden
Fixing upon for him first, and then that, with the gossip of parents.
But that day is now come; and Heaven at last has the maiden
Brought to him hither, and shown him; and now his heart has decided.
Said we not always then he should have his own choice in the matter?
Was it not just now thy wish that he might with lively affection
Feel himself drawn to some maiden? The hour is come that we hoped for.
Yes; he has felt and has chosen and come to a manly decision.
That same maiden it is that met him this morning, the stranger:
Say he may have her, or else, as he swears, his life shall be single."
"Give her me, father," so added the son: "my heart has elected
Clear and sure; she will be to you both the noblest of daughters."
But the father was silent. Then hastily rose the good pastor,
Took up the word and said: "The moment alone is decisive;
Fixes the life of man, and his future destiny settles.
After long taking of counsel, yet only the work of a moment
Every decision must be; and the wise alone seizes the right one.
Dangerous always it is comparing the one with the other
When we are making our choice, and so confusing our feelings.
Hermann is pure. From childhood up I have known him, and never
E'en as a boy was he wont to be reaching for this and the other:
What he desired was best for him too, and he held to it firmly.
Be not surprised and alarmed that now has appeared of a sudden,
What thou hast wished for so long. It is true that the present appearance
Bears not the form of the wish, exactly as thou hadst conceived it:
For our wishes oft hide from ourselves the object we wish for;
Gifts come down from above in the shapes appointed by Heaven.
Therefore misjudge not the maiden who now of thy dearly beloved,
Good and intelligent son has been first to touch the affections:
Happy to whom at once his first love's hand shall be given,
And in whose heart no tenderest wish must secretly languish.
Yes: his whole bearing assures me that now his fate is decided.
Genuine love matures in a moment the youth into manhood;
He is not easily moved; and I fear that if this be refused him,
Sadly his years will go by, those years that should be the fairest."
Straightway then in a thoughtful tone the doctor made answer,
On whose tongue for a long time past the words had been trembling:
"Pray let us here as before pursue the safe middle course only.
Make haste slowly: that was Augustus the emperor's motto.
Willingly I myself place at my well-beloved neighbor's disposal,
Ready to do him what service I can with my poor understanding.
Youth most especially stands in need of some one to guide it.
Let me therefore go forth that I may examine the maiden,
And may question the people among whom she lives and who know her.
Me 'tis not easy to cheat: I know how words should be valued."
Straightway the son broke in, and with wingèd words made he answer:
"Do so, neighbor, and go and make thine inquiries; but with thee
I should be glad if our minister here were joined in the errand:
Two such excellent men would be irreproachable judges.
O my father! believe me, she's none of those wandering maidens,
Not one of those who stroll through the land in search of adventure,
And who seek to ensnare inexperienced youth in their meshes.
No: the hard fortunes of war, that universal destroyer,
Which is convulsing the earth and has hurled from its deep foundations
Many a structure already, have sent the poor girl into exile.
Are not now men of high birth, the most noble, in misery roaming?
Princes fly in disguise and kings are in banishment living.
So alas! also is she, the best among all of her sisters,
Driven an exile from home; yet, her personal sorrows forgetting,
She is devoted to others; herself without help, she is helpful.
Great is the want and the suffering over the earth that are spreading:
Shall not some happiness, too, be begotten of all this affliction,
And shall not I in the arms of my wife, my trusted companion,
Look back with joy to the war, as do ye to the great conflagration?"
Outspoke the father then in a tone of decision, and answered:
"Strangely thy tongue has been loosened, my son, which many a year past
Seemed to have stuck in thy mouth, and only to move on compulsion!
I must experience to-day, it would seem, what threatens all fathers,
That the son's headstrong will the mother with readiness favors,
Showing too easy indulgence; and every neighbor sides with them
When there is aught to be carried against the father and husband.
But I will not oppose you, thus banded together: how could I?
For I already perceive here tears and defiance before-hand.
Go ye therefore, inquire, in God's name, bring me the daughter.
But if not so, then the boy is to think no more of the maiden."
Thus the father. The son cried out with joyful demeanor,
"Ere it is evening the noblest of daughters shall hither be brought you,
Such as no man with sound sense in his breast can fail to be pleased with.
Happy, I venture to hope, will be also the excellent maiden.
Yes; she will ever be grateful for having had father and mother
Given once more in you, and such as a child most delights in.
Now I will tarry no longer, but straightway harness the horses,
Drive forth our friends at once on the footsteps of my beloved,
Leaving them then to act for themselves, as their wisdom shall dictate,
Guide myself wholly, I promise, according to what they determine,
And, until I may call her my own, ne'er look on the maiden."
Thus he went forth: the others meanwhile remained in discussion,
Rapid and earnest, considering deeply their great undertaking.
Hermann hasted straightway to the stable, where quietly standing
Found he the spirited stallions, the clean oats quickly devouring,
And the well-dried hay that was cut from the richest of meadows.
On them without delay the shining bits he adjusted,
Hastily drew the straps through the buckles of beautiful plating,
Firmly fastened then the long broad reins, and the horses
Led without to the court-yard, whither the willing assistant
Had with ease, by the pole, already drawn forward the carriage.
Next to the whipple-tree they with care by the neatly kept traces
Joined the impetuous strength of the freely travelling horses.
Whip in hand took Hermann his seat and drove under the doorway.
Soon as the friends straightway their commodious places had taken,
Quickly the carriage rolled off, and left the pavement behind it,
Left behind it the walls of the town and the fresh-whitened towers.
Thus drove Hermann on till he came to the well-known causeway.
Rapidly, loitering nowhere, but hastening up hill and down hill.
But as he now before him perceived the spire of the village,
And no longer remote the garden-girt houses were lying,
Then in himself he thought that here he would rein up the horses.
Under the solemn shade of lofty linden-trees lying,
Which for centuries past upon this spot had been rooted,
Spread in front of the village a broad and grass-covered common,
Favorite place of resort for the peasants and neighboring townsfolk.
Here, at the foot of the trees, sunk deep in the ground was a well-spring;
When you descended the steps, stone benches you found at the bottom,
Stationed about the spring, whose pure, living waters were bubbling
Ceaselessly forth, hemmed in by low walls for convenience of drawing.
Hermann resolved that here he would halt, with his horses and carriage,
Under the shade of the trees. He did so, and said to the others:
"Here alight, my friends, and go your ways to discover
Whether the maiden in truth be worthy the hand that I offer.
That she is so, I believe; naught new or strange will ye tell me.
Had I to act for myself, I should go with speed to the village,
Where a few words from the maiden's own lips should determine my fortune.
Ye will with readiness single her out from all of the others,
For there can scarcely be one that to her may be likened in bearing.
But I will give you, besides, her modest attire for a token:
Mark, then, the stomacher's scarlet, that sets off the arch of her bosom,
Prettily laced, and the bodice of black fitting close to her figure;
Neatly the edge of her kerchief is plaited into a ruffle,
Which with a simple grace her chin's rounded outline encircles;
Freely and lightly rises above it the head's dainty oval;
And her luxuriant hair over silver bodkins is braided;
Down from under her bodice, the full, blue petticoat falling,
Wraps itself, when she is walking, about her neatly shaped ankles.
Yet one thing will I say, and would make it my earnest petition,--
Speak not yourselves with the maiden, nor let your intent be discovered;
Rather inquire of others, and hearken to what they may tell you.
When ye have tidings enough to satisfy father and mother,
Then return to me here, and we will consider what further.
So did I plan it all out in my mind while driving you hither."
Thus he spoke. The friends thereupon went their way to the village,
Where, in the houses and gardens and barns, the people were swarming;
Wagons on wagons stood crowded together along the broad highway.
Men for the harnessed horses and lowing cattle were caring,
While the women were busy in drying their clothes on the hedges,
And in the running brook the children were merrily splashing.
Making their way through the pressure of wagons, of people and cattle,
Went the commissioned spies, and to right and to left looked about them,
If they a figure might see that answered the maiden's description;
But not one of them all appeared the beautiful damsel.
Denser soon grew the press. A contest arose round the wagons
'Mongst the threatening men, wherein blended the cries of the women.
Rapidly then to the spot, and with dignified step, came an elder,
Joined the clamoring group, and straightway the uproar was silenced,
As he commanded peace, and rebuked with a fatherly sternness.
"Has, then, misfortune," he cried, "not yet so bound us together,
That we have finally learned to bear and forbear one another,
Though each one, it may be, do not measure his share of the labor?
He that is happy, forsooth, is contentious! Will sufferings never
Teach you to cease from your brawls of old between brother and brother?
Grudge not one to another a place on the soil of the stranger;
Rather divide what ye have, as yourselves ye would hope to find mercy."
[Illustration: THE EMIGRANTS IN THE VILLAGE Ludwig Richter]
Thus spoke the man and all became silent: restored to good humor,
Peaceably then the people arranged their cattle and wagons.
But when the clergyman now had heard what was said by the stranger,
And had the steadfast mind of the foreign justice discovered,
He to the man drew near and with words of meaning addressed him:
"True it is, father, that when in prosperity people are living,
Feeding themselves from the earth, which far and wide opens her bosom,
And in the years and months renews the coveted blessings,--
All goes on of itself, and each himself deems the wisest,
Deems the best, and so they continue abiding together,
He of greatest intelligence ranking no higher than others;
All that occurs, as if of itself, going quietly forward.
But let disaster unsettle the usual course of existence,
Tear down the buildings about us, lay waste the crops and the garden,
Banish the husband and wife from their old, familiar-grown dwelling,
Drive them to wander abroad through nights and days of privation,--
Then, ah then! we look round us to see what man is the wisest,
And no longer in vain his glorious words will be spoken.
Tell me, art thou not judge among this fugitive people,
Father, who thus in an instant canst bid their passions be quiet?
Thou dost appear to-day as one of those earliest leaders,
Who through deserts and wanderings guided the emigrant nations.
Yea, I could even believe I were speaking with Joshua or Moses."
Then with serious look the magistrate answered him, saying:
"Truly our times might well be compared with all others in strangeness,
Which are in history mentioned, profane or sacred tradition;
For who has yesterday lived and to-day in times like the present,
He has already lived years, events are so crowded together.
If I look back but a little, it seems that my head must be hoary
Under the burden of years, and yet my strength is still active.
Well may we of this day compare ourselves unto that people
Who, from the burning bush, beheld in the hour of their danger
God the Lord: we also in cloud and in fire have beheld Him."
Seeing the priest was inclined to speak yet more with the stranger,
And was desirous of learning his story and that of his people,
Privately into his ear his companion hastily whispered:
"Talk with the magistrate further, and lead him to speak of the maiden.
I, however, will wander in search, and as soon as I find her,
Come and report to thee here." The minister nodded, assenting;
And through the gardens, hedges, and barns, went the spy on his errand.
CLIO
THE AGE
Now when the foreign judge had been by the minister questioned
As to his people's distress, and how long their exile had lasted,
Thus made answer the man: "Of no recent date are our sorrows;
Since of the gathering bitter of years our people have drunken,--
Bitterness all the more dreadful because such fair hope had been blighted.
Who will pretend to deny that his heart swelled high in his bosom,
And that his freer breast with purer pulses was beating,
When we beheld the new sun arise in his earliest splendor,
When of the rights of men we heard, which to all should be common,
Were of a righteous equality told, and inspiriting freedom?
Every one hoped that then he should live his own life, and the fetters,
Binding the various lands, appeared their hold to be loosing,--
Fetters that had in the hand of sloth been held and self-seeking.
Looked not the eyes of all nations, throughout that calamitous season,
Toward the world's capital city, for so it had long been considered,
And of that glorious title was now, more than ever, deserving?
Were not the names of those men who first delivered the message,
Names to compare with the highest that under the heavens are spoken?
Did not, in every man, grow courage and spirit and language?
And, as neighbors, we, first of all, were zealously kindled.
Thereupon followed the war, and armèd bodies of Frenchmen
Pressed to us nearer; yet nothing but friendship they seemed to be
bringing;
Ay, and they brought it too; for exalted the spirit within them:
They with rejoicing the festive trees of liberty planted,
Promising every man what was his own, and to each his own ruling.
High beat the heart of the youths, and even the aged were joyful;
Gaily the dance began about the newly raised standard.
Thus had they speedily won, these overmastering Frenchmen,
First the spirits of men by the fire and dash of their bearing,
Then the hearts of the women with irresistible graces.
Even the pressure of hungry war seemed to weigh on us lightly,
So before our vision did hope hang over the future,
Luring our eyes abroad into newly opening pathways.
Oh, how joyful the time when with her beloved the maiden
Whirls in the dance, the longed-for day of their union awaiting!
But more glorious that day on which to our vision the highest
Heart of man can conceive seemed near and attainable to us.
Loosened was every tongue, and men--the aged, the stripling--
Spoke aloud in words that were full of high feeling and wisdom.
Soon, however, the sky was o'ercast. A corrupt generation
Fought for the right of dominion, unworthy the good to establish;
So that they slew one another, their new-made neighbors and brothers
Held in subjection, and then sent the self-seeking masses against us.
Chiefs committed excesses and wholesale plunder upon us,
While those lower plundered and rioted down to the lowest:
Every one seemed but to care that something be left for the morrow.
Great past endurance the need, and daily grew the oppression:
They were the lords of the day; there was none to hear our complaining.
Then fell trouble and rage upon even the quietest spirit.
One thought only had all, and swore for their wrongs to have vengeance,
And for the bitter loss of their hope thus doubly deluded.
Presently Fortune turned and declared on the side of the German,
And with hurried marches the French retreated before us.
Ah! then as never before did we feel the sad fortunes of warfare:
He that is victor is great and good,--or at least he appears so,--
And he, as one of his own, will spare the man he has conquered,
Him whose service he daily needs, and whose property uses.
But no law the fugitive knows, save of self-preservation,
And, with a reckless greed, consumes all the possessions about him;
Then are his passions also inflamed: the despair that is in him
Out of his heart breaks forth, and takes shape in criminal action.
Nothing is further held sacred; but all is for plunder. His craving
Turns in fury on woman, and pleasure is changed into horror.
Death he sees everywhere round him, and madly enjoys his last moments,
Taking delight in blood, in the shriekings of anguish exulting.
Thereupon fiercely arose in our men the stern resolution
What had been lost to avenge, and defend what'er was remaining.
Every man sprang to his arms, by the flight of the foeman encouraged,
And by his blanching cheeks, and his timorous, wavering glances.
Ceaselessly now rang out the clanging peal of the tocsin.
Thought of no danger to come restrained their furious anger.
Quick into weapons of war the husbandman's peaceful utensils
All were converted; dripped with blood the scythe and the ploughshare.
Quarter was shown to none: the enemy fell without mercy.
Fury everywhere raged and the cowardly cunning of weakness.
Ne'er may I men so carried away by injurious passion
See again! the sight of the raging wild beast would be better.
Let not man prattle of freedom, as if himself he could govern!
Soon as the barriers are torn away, then all of the evil
Seems let loose, that by law had been driven deep back into corners."
"Excellent man!" thereupon with emphasis answered the pastor:
"Though thou misjudgest mankind, yet can I not censure thee for it.
Evil enough, I confess, thou hast had to endure from man's passions.
Yet wouldst thou look behind over this calamitous season,
Thou wouldst acknowledge thyself how much good thou also hast witnessed.
How many excellent things that would in the heart have lain hidden,
Had not danger aroused them, and did not necessity's pressure
Bring forth the angel in man, and make him a god of deliv'rance."
Thereupon answered and said the reverend magistrate, smiling:
"There thou remindest me aptly of how we console the poor fellow,
After his house has been burned, by recounting the gold and the silver
Melted and scattered abroad in the rubbish, that still is remaining.
Little enough, it is true; but even that little is precious.
Then will the poor wretch after it dig and rejoice if he find it.
Thus I likewise with happier thoughts will gratefully turn me
Toward the few beautiful deeds of which I preserve the remembrance.
Yes, I will not deny, I have seen old quarrels forgotten,
Ill to avert from the state; I also have witnessed how friendship,
Love of parent and child, can impossibilities venture;
Seen how the stripling at once matured into man; how the aged
Grew again young; and even the child into youth was developed,
Yea, and the weaker sex too, as we are accustomed to call it,
Showed itself brave and strong and ready for every emergence.
Foremost among them all, one beautiful deed let me mention,
Bravely performed by the hand of a girl, an excellent maiden,
Who, with those younger than she, had been left in charge of a farmhouse,
Since there, also, the men had marched against the invader.
Suddenly fell on the house a fugitive band of marauders,
Eager for booty, who crowded straightway to the room of the women.
There they beheld the beautiful form of the fully grown maiden,
Looked on the charming young girls, who rather might still be called
children.
Savage desire possessed them; at once with merciless passion
They that trembling band assailed and the high-hearted maiden.
But she had snatched in an instant the sword of one from its scabbard,
Felled him with might to the ground, and stretched him bleeding before her.
Then with vigorous strokes she bravely delivered the maidens,
Smiting yet four of the robbers; who saved themselves only by flying.
Then she bolted the gates, and, armed, awaited assistance."
Now when this praise the minister heard bestowed on the maiden,
Rose straightway for his friend a feeling of hope in his bosom,
And he had opened his lips to inquire what further befell her,
If on this mournful flight she now with her people were present;
When with a hasty step the village doctor approached them,
Twitched the clergyman's coat, and said in his ear in a whisper:
"I have discovered the maiden at last among several hundreds;
By the description I knew her, so come, let thine own eyes behold her!
Bring too the magistrate with thee, that so we may hear him yet further."
But as they turned to go, the justice was summoned to leave them,
Sent for by some of his people by whom his counsel was needed.
Straightway the preacher, however, the lead of the doctor had followed
Up to a gap in the fence where his finger he meaningly pointed.
"Seest thou the maiden?" he said: "she has made some clothes for the baby
Out of the well-known chintz,--I distinguish it plainly; and further
There are the covers of blue that Hermann gave in his bundle.
Well and quickly, forsooth, she has turned to advantage the presents.
Evident tokens are these, and all else answers well the description.
Mark how the stomacher's scarlet sets off the arch of her bosom,
Prettily laced, and the bodice of black fits close to her figure;
Neatly the edge of her kerchief is plaited into a ruffle,
Which, with a simple grace, her chin's rounded outline encircles;
Freely and lightly rises above it the head's dainty oval,
And her luxuriant hair over silver bodkins is braided.
Now she is sitting, yet still we behold her majestical stature,
And the blue petticoat's ample plaits, that down from her bosom
Hangs in abundant folds about her neatly shaped ankles,
She without question it is; come, therefore, and let us discover
Whether she honest and virtuous be, a housewifely maiden."
Then, as the seated figure he studied, the pastor made answer:
"Truly, I find it no wonder that she so enchanted the stripling,
Since, to a man's experienced eye, she seems lacking in nothing.
Happy to whom mother Nature a shape harmonious has given!
Such will always commend him, and he can be nowhere a stranger.
All approach with delight, and all are delighted to linger,
If to the outward shape correspond but a courteous spirit.
I can assure thee, in her the youth has found him a maiden,
Who, in the days to come, his life shall gloriously brighten,
Standing with womanly strength in every necessity by him.
Surely the soul must be pure that inhabits a body so perfect,
And of a happy old age such vigorous youth is the promise."
Thereupon answered and said the doctor in language of caution:
"Often appearances cheat; I like not to trust to externals.
[Illustration: THE PARSON AND THE APOTHECARY WATCH DOROTHEA Ludwig
Richter]
For I have oft seen put to the test the truth of the proverb:
Till thou a bushel of salt with a new acquaintance hast eaten,
Be not too ready to trust him; for time alone renders thee certain
How ye shall fare with each other, and how well your friendship shall
prosper.
Let us then rather at first make inquiries among the good people
By whom the maiden is known, and who can inform us about her."
"Much I approve of thy caution," the preacher replied as he followed.
"Not for ourselves is the suit, and 'tis delicate wooing for others."
Toward the good magistrate, then, the men directed their footsteps,
Who was again ascending the street in discharge of his duties.
Him the judicious pastor at once addressed and with caution.
"Look! we a maiden have here descried in the neighboring garden,
Under an apple-tree sitting, and making up garments for children
Out of second-hand stuff that somebody doubtless has given;
And we were pleased with her aspect: she seems like a girl to be trusted.
Tell us whatever thou knowest: we ask it with honest intentions."
Soon as the magistrate nearer had come, and looked into the garden,
"Her thou knowest already," he said; "for when I was telling
Of the heroic deed performed by the hand of that maiden,
When she snatched the man's sword, and delivered herself and her charges,
This was the one! she is vigorous born, as thou seest by her stature;
Yet she is good as strong, for her aged kinsman she tended
Until the day of his death, which was finally hastened by sorrow
Over his city's distress, and his own endangered possessions.
Also, with quiet submission, she bore the death of her lover,
Who a high-spirited youth, in the earliest flush of excitement,
Kindled by lofty resolve to fight for a glorious freedom,
Hurried to Paris, where early a terrible death he encountered.
For as at home, so there, his foes were deceit and oppression."
Thus the magistrate spoke. The others saluted and thanked him,
And from his purse a gold-piece the pastor drew forth;--for the silver
He had some hours before already in charity given,
When he in mournful groups had seen the poor fugitives passing;--
And to the magistrate handed it, saying: "Apportion the money
'Mongst thy destitute people, and God vouchsafe it an increase."
But the stranger declined it, and, answering, said: "We have rescued
Many a dollar among us, with clothing and other possessions,
And shall return, as I hope, ere yet our stock is exhausted."
Then the pastor replied, and pressed the money upon him:
"None should be backward in giving in days like the present, and no one
Ought to refuse to accept those gifts which in kindness are offered.
None can tell how long he may hold what in peace he possesses,
None how much longer yet he shall roam through the land of the stranger,
And of his farm be deprived, and deprived of the garden that feeds him."
"Ay, to be sure!" in his bustling way interrupted the doctor:
"If I had only some money about me, ye surely should have it,
Little and big; for certainly many among you must need it.
Yet I'll not go without giving thee something to show what my will is,
Even though sadly behind my good-will must lag the performance."
Thus, as he spoke, by its straps his embroidered pocket of leather,
Where his tobacco was kept, he drew forth,-enough was now in it
Several pipes to fill,--and daintily opened, and portioned.
"Small is the gift," he added. The justice, however, made answer:
"Good tobacco can ne'er to the traveller fail to be welcome."
Then did the village doctor begin to praise his canaster.
But the clergyman drew him away, and they quitted the justice.
"Let us make haste," said the thoughtful man: "the youth's waiting
in torture;
Come! let him hear, as soon as he may, the jubilant tidings."
So they hastened their steps, and came to where under the lindens
Hermann against the carriage was leaning. The horses were stamping
Wildly the turf; he held them in check, and, buried in musing,
Stood, into vacancy gazing before him; nor saw the two envoys,
Till, as they came, they called out and made to him signals of triumph.
E'en as far off as they then were, the doctor began to address him;
But they were presently nearer come and then the good pastor
Grasped his hand and exclaimed, interrupting the word of his comrade:
"Hail to thee, O young man! thy true eye and heart have well chosen;
Joy be to thee and the wife of thy youth; for of thee she is worthy.
Come then and turn us the wagon, and drive straightway to the village,
There the good maid to woo, and soon bring her home to thy dwelling."
Still, however, the young man stood, without sign of rejoicing,
Hearing his messenger's words, though heavenly they were and consoling.
Deeply he sighed as he said: "With hurrying wheels we came hither,
And shall be forced, perchance, to go mortified homeward and slowly.
For disquiet has fallen upon me since here I've been waiting,
Doubt and suspicion, and all that can torture the heart of a lover.
Think ye we have but to come, and that then the maiden will follow
Merely because we are rich, while she is poor and an exile?
Poverty, too, makes proud, when it comes unmerited! Active
Seems she to be, and contented, and so of the world is she mistress.
Think ye a maiden like her, with the manners and beauty that she has,
Can into woman have grown, and no worthy man's love have attracted?
Think ye that love until now can have been shut out from her bosom?
Drive not thither too rashly: we might to our mortification
Have to turn softly homewards our horses' heads. For my fear is
That to some youth already this heart has been given; already
This brave hand has been clasped, has pledged faith to some
fortunate lover.
Then with my offer, alas! I should stand in confusion before her."
Straightway the pastor had opened his lips to speak consolation,
When his companion broke in, and said in his voluble fashion:
"Years ago, forsooth, unknown had been such a dilemma.
All such affairs were then conducted in regular fashion.
Soon as a bride for their son had been by the parents selected,
First some family friend they into their councils would summon,
Whom they afterward sent as a suitor to visit the parents
Of the elected bride. Arrayed in his finest apparel,
Soon after dinner on Sunday he sought the respectable burgher,
When some friendly words were exchanged upon general subjects,
He knowing how to direct the discourse as suited his purpose.
After much circumlocution he finally mentioned the daughter,
Praising her highly, and praising the man and the house that had sent him.
Persons of tact perceived his intent, and the politic envoy
Readily saw how their minds were disposed, and explained himself further.
Then were the offer declined, e'en the 'no' brought not mortification;
But did it meet with success, the suitor was ever thereafter
Made the chief guest in the house on every festive occasion.
For, through the rest of their lives, the couple ne'er failed to remember
That 'twas by his experienced hand the first knot had been gathered.
All that, however, is changed, and, with many another good custom,
Quite fallen out of the fashion; for every man woos for himself now.
Therefore let every man hear to his face pronounced the refusal,
If a refusal there be, and stand shamed in the sight of the maiden!"
"Let that be as it may!" made answer the youth, who had scarcely
Unto the words paid heed; but in silence had made his decision.
"I will go thither myself, will myself hear my destiny spoken
Out of the lips of a maiden in whom I a confidence cherish
Greater than heart of man has e'er before cherished in woman.
Say what she will, 'twill be good and wise; of that I am certain.
Should I behold her never again, yet this once will I see her;
Yet this once the clear gaze of those dark eyes will encounter.
If I must press her ne'er to my heart, yet that neck and that bosom
Will I behold once more, that my arm so longs to encircle;
Once more that mouth will see, whose kiss and whose 'yes' would for ever
Render me happy, from which a 'no' will for ever destroy me.
But ye must leave me alone. Do not wait for me here; but return ye
Back to my father and mother again, and give them the knowledge
That their son has not been deceived, that the maiden is worthy.
So then leave me alone! I shall follow the footpath that crosses
Over the hill by the pear-tree, and thence descends through our vineyard,
Taking a shorter way home. And oh, may I bring to our dwelling,
Joyful and quick my beloved! but perhaps I alone may come creeping
Over that path to the house, and ne'er again tread it with gladness."
Thus he spoke, and gave up the reins to the hand of the pastor,
Who understandingly grasped them, the foaming horses controlling,
Speedily mounted the carriage, and sat in the seat of the driver.
But thou didst hesitate, provident neighbor, and say in remonstrance:
"Heart and soul and spirit, my friend, I willingly trust thee;
But as for life and limb, they are not in the safest of keeping,
When the temporal reins are usurped by the hand of the clergy."
But thou didst laugh at his words, intelligent pastor, and answer:
"Sit thee down, and contentedly trust me both body and spirit;
For, in holding the reins, my hand grew long ago skilful,
Long has my eye been trained in making the nicest of turnings;
For we were practised well in driving the carriage in Strasburg,
When I the youthful baron accompanied thither; then daily
Rolled the carriage, guided by me, through the echoing gateway,
Out over dusty roads till we reached the meadows and lindens,
Steering through groups of the town's-folk beguiling the day there
with walking."
Thereupon, half-reassured, the neighbor ascended the wagon,
Sat like one who for a prudent leap is holding him ready,
And the stallions sped rapidly homeward, desiring their stable.
Clouds of dust whirled up from under their powerful hoof-beats.
Long the youth stood there yet, and saw the dust in its rising,
Saw the dust as it settled again: he stood there unheeding.
ERATO
DOROTHEA
Like as the traveller, who, when the sun is approaching its setting,
Fixes his eyes on it once again ere quickly it vanish,
Then on the sides of the rocks, and on all the darkening bushes,
Sees its hovering image; whatever direction he look in
That hastes before, and flickers and gleams in radiant colors,--
So before Hermann's eyes moved the beautiful shape of the maiden
Softly, and seeming to follow the path that led into the corn-field.
But he aroused from his wildering dream and turned himself slowly
Toward where the village lay and was wildered again; for again came
Moving to meet him the lofty form of the glorious maiden.
Fixedly gazed he upon her; herself it was and no phantom.
Bearing in either hand a larger jar and a smaller,
Each by the handle, with busy step she came on to the fountain.
Joyfully then he hastened to meet her; the sight of her gave him
Courage and strength; and thus the astonished girl he accosted:
"Do I then find thee, brave-hearted maiden, so soon again busy,
Rendering aid unto others, and happy in bringing them comfort?
Say why thou comest alone to this well which lies at such a distance,
When all the rest are content with the water they find in the village?
This has peculiar virtues, 'tis true; and the taste is delicious.
Thou to that mother wouldst bring it, I trow, whom thy faithfulness
rescued."
Straightway with cordial greeting the kindly maiden made answer:
"Here has my walk to the spring already been amply rewarded,
Since I have found the good friend who bestowed so abundantly on us;
For a pleasure not less than the gifts is the sight of the giver.
Come, I pray thee, and see for thyself who has tasted thy bounty;
Come, and the quiet thanks receive of all it has solaced.
But that thou straightway the reason may'st know for which I am hither
Come to draw, where pure and unfailing the water is flowing,
This I must tell thee,--that all the water we have in the village
Has by improvident people been troubled with horses and oxen
Wading direct through the source which brings the inhabitants water.
And furthermore they have also made foul with their washings and rinsings
All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied;
For but one thought is in all, and that how to satisfy quickest
Self and the need of the moment, regardless of what may come after."
[Illustration: HERMANN AND DOROTHEA MEET AT THE FOUNTAIN Ludwig
Richter]
Thus she spoke, and the broad stone steps meanwhile had descended
With her companion beside her, and on the low wall of the fountain
Both sat them down. She bent herself over to draw, and he also
Took in his hand the jar that remained, and bent himself over;
And in the blue of the heavens, they, seeing their image reflected,
Friendly greetings and nods exchanged in the quivering mirror.
"Give me to drink," the youth thereupon in his gladness petitioned,
And she handed the pitcher. Familiarly sat they and rested,
Both leaning over their jars, till she presently asked her companion:
"Tell me, why I find thee here, and without thy horses and wagon,
Far from the place where I met thee at first? How camest thou hither?"
Thoughtful he bent his eyes on the ground, then quietly raised them
Up to her face, and, meeting with frankness the gaze of the maiden,
Felt himself solaced and stilled. But then impossible was it,
That he of love should speak; her eye told not of affection,
Only of clear understanding, requiring intelligent answer.
And he composed himself quickly, and cordially said to the maiden:
"Hearken to me, my child, and let me reply to thy question.
'Twas for thy sake that hither I came; why seek to conceal it?
Know I live happy at home with both my affectionate parents,
Faithfully giving my aid their house and estates in directing,
Being an only son, and because our affairs are extensive.
Mine is the charge of the farm; my father bears rule in the household;
While the presiding spirit of all is the diligent mother.
But thine experience doubtless has taught thee how grievously servants,
Now through deceit, and now through their carelessness, harass the
mistress,
Forcing her ever to change and replace one fault with another.
Long for that reason my mother has wished for a maid in the household,
Who not with hand alone, but with heart, too, will lend her assistance,
Taking the daughter's place, whom alas! she was early deprived of.
Now when today by the wagon I saw thee, so ready and cheerful,
Witnessed the strength of thine arms, and thy limbs of such healthful
proportion,
When thy intelligent speech I heard, I was smitten with wonder.
Hastening homeward, I there to my parents and neighbors the stranger
Praised as she well deserved. But I now am come hither to tell thee
What is their wish as mine.--Forgive me my stammering language."
"Hesitate not," she, answering, said, "to tell me what follows.
Thou dost not give me offence; I have listened with gratitude to thee:
Speak it out honestly therefore; the sound of it will not alarm me.
Thou wouldst engage me as servant to wait on thy father and mother,
And to look after the well-ordered house of which ye are the owners;
And thou thinkest in me to find them a capable servant,
One who is skilled in her work, and not of a rude disposition.
Short thy proposal has been, and short shall be also my answer.
Yes, I will go with thee home, and the call of fate I will follow.
Here my duty is done: I have brought the newly made mother
Back to her kindred again, who are all in her safety rejoicing.
Most of our people already are gathered; the others will follow.
All think a few days more will certainly see them returning
Unto their homes; for such is the exile's constant delusion.
But by no easy hope do I suffer myself to be cheated
During these sorrowful days which promise yet more days of sorrow.
All the bands of the world have been loosed, and what shall unite them,
Saving alone the need, the need supreme, that is on us?
If in a good man's house I can earn my living by service,
Under the eye of an excellent mistress, I gladly will do it;
Since of doubtful repute, must be always a wandering maiden.
Yes, I will go with thee, soon as I first shall have carried the pitchers
Back to my friends, and prayed the good people to give me their blessing
Come, thou must see them thyself, and from their hands must receive me."
Joyfully hearkened the youth to the willing maiden's decision,
Doubtful whether he ought not at once to make honest confession.
Yet it appeared to him best to leave her awhile in her error,
Nor for her love to sue, before leading her home to his dwelling.
Ah! and the golden ring he perceived on the hand of the maiden,
Wherefore he let her speak on, and gave diligent ear to her language.
"Come," she presently said, "Let us back to the village; for maidens
Always are sure to be blamed if they tarry too long at the fountain.
Yet how delightful it is to chat by the murmuring water!"
Then from their seats they rose, and both of them turned to the fountain
One more look behind, and a tender longing possessed them.
Both of the water-jars then in silence she took by the handle,
Carried them up the steps, while behind her followed her lover.
One of the pitchers he begged her to give him to lighten the burden.
"Nay, let it be!" she said: "I carry them better so balanced.
Nor shall the master, who is to command, be doing me service.
Look not so gravely upon me, as thinking my fortune a hard one.
Early a woman should learn to serve, for that is her calling;
Since through service alone she finally comes to the headship,
Comes to the due command that is hers of right in the household.
Early the sister must wait on her brother, and wait on her parents;
Life must be always with her a perpetual coming and going,
Or be a fetching and carrying, making and doing for others.
Happy for her be she wonted to think no way is too grievous,
And if the hours of the night be to her as the hours of the daytime;
If she find never a needle too fine, nor a labor too trifling;
Wholly forgetful of self, and caring to live but in others!
For she will surely, as mother, have need of every virtue,
When, in the time of her illness, the cries of her infant arouse her
Calling for food from her weakness, and cares are to suffering added.
Twenty men bound into one were not able to bear such a burden;
Nor is it meant that they should, yet should they with gratitude view it."
Thus she spoke, and was come, meanwhile, with her silent companion,
Far as the floor of the barn, at the furthermost end of the garden,
Where was the sick woman lying, whom, glad, she had left with her
daughters,
Those late rescued maidens: fair pictures of innocence were they.
Both of them entered the barn; and, e'en as they did so, the justice,
Leading a child in each hand, came in from the other direction.
These had been lost, hitherto, from the sight of their sorrowing mother;
But in the midst of the crowd the old man now had descried them.
Joyfully sprang they forward to meet their dear mother's embraces,
And to salute with delight their brother, their unknown companion.
Next upon Dorothea they sprang with affectionate greeting,
Asking for bread and fruit, but more than all else for some water.
So then she handed the water about; and not only the children
Drank, but the sick woman, too, and her daughters, and with them
the justice.
All were refreshed, and highly commended the glorious water;
Acid it was to the taste, and reviving, and wholesome to drink of.
Then with a serious face the maiden replied to them, saying:
"Friends, for the last time now to your mouth have I lifted my pitcher;
And for the last time by me have your lips been moistened with water.
But henceforth in the heat of the day when the draught shall refresh you,
When in the shade ye enjoy your rest beside a clear fountain,
Think of me then sometimes and of all my affectionate service,
Prompted more by my love than the duty I owed you as kindred.
I shall acknowledge as long as I live the kindness ye've shown me.
'Tis with regret that I leave you; but every one now is a burden,
More than a help to his neighbor, and all must be finally scattered
Far through a foreign land, if return to our homes be denied us.
See, here stands the youth to whom we owe thanks for the presents.
He gave the cloak for the baby, and all these welcome provisions.
Now he is come, and has asked me if I will make one in his dwelling,
That I may serve therein his wealthy and excellent parents.
And I refuse not the offer; for maidens must always be serving;
Burdensome were it for them to rest and be served in the household.
Therefore I follow him gladly. A youth of intelligence seems he,
And so will also the parents be, as becometh the wealthy.
So then farewell, dear friend; and may'st thou rejoice in thy nursling,
Living, and into thy face already so healthfully looking!
When thou shalt press him against thy breast in these gay-colored
wrappings,
Oh, then remember the kindly youth who bestowed them upon us,
And who me also henceforth, thy sister, will shelter and nourish.
Thou, too, excellent man!" she said as she turned to the justice;
"Take my thanks that in many a need I have found thee a father."
Then she knelt down on the floor by the side of the newly made mother,
Kissing the weeping woman, and taking her low-whispered blessing.
Thou, meanwhile, worshipful justice, wast speaking to Hermann and saying:
"Justly mayst thou, my friend, be counted among the good masters,
Careful to manage their household affairs with capable servants.
For I have often observed how in sheep, as in horses and oxen,
Men conclude never a bargain without making closest inspection,
While with a servant who all things preserves, if honest and able,
And who will every thing lose and destroy, if he set to work falsely,
Him will a chance or an accident make us admit to our dwelling,
And we are left, when too late, to repent an o'er hasty decision.
Thou understandest the matter it seems; because thou hast chosen,
Thee and thy parents to serve in the house, a maid who is honest.
Hold her with care; for as long as thy household is under her keeping,
Thou shalt not want for a sister, nor yet for a daughter thy parents."
Many were come, meanwhile, near relatives all of the mother,
Bringing her various gifts, and more suitable quarters announcing.
All of them, hearing the maiden's decision, gave Hermann their blessing,
Coupled with glances of meaning, while each made his special reflections.
Hastily one and another would say in the ear of his neighbor:
"If in the master a lover she find, right well were she cared for."
Hermann took her at last by the hand, and said as he did so:
"Let us be going; the day is declining, and distant the city."
Eager and voluble then the women embraced Dorothea.
Hermann drew her away; but other adieus must be spoken:
Lastly the children with cries fell upon her and terrible weeping,
Clung to her garments, and would not their dear second mother should
leave them.
But in a tone of command the women said, one and another:
"Hush now, children, she's going to the town, and will presently bring you
Plenty of nice sweet cake that was by your brother bespoken
When by the stork just now he was brought past the shop of the baker.
Soon you will see her come back with sugar-plums splendidly gilded."
Then did the little ones loose their hold, and Hermann, though hardly,
Tore her from further embraces away, and far-waving kerchiefs.
MELPOMENE
HERMAN AND DOROTHEA
Toward the setting sun the two thus went on their journey:
Close he had wrapped himself round with clouds portending a tempest.
Out from the veil, now here and now there, with fiery flashes,
Gleaming over the field shot forth the ominous lightning.
"May not these threatening heavens," said Hermann, "be presently sending
Hailstones upon us and violent rains; for fair is the harvest."
And in the waving luxuriant grain they delighted together:
Almost as high it reached as the lofty shapes that moved through it.
Thereupon spoke the maiden, and said to her guide and companion:
"Friend, unto whom I soon am to owe so kindly a fortune,
Shelter and home, while many an exile's exposed to the tempest,
Tell me concerning thy parents, I pray thee, and teach me to know them,
Them whom with all my heart I desire to serve in the future.
Who understands his master, more easily gives satisfaction,
Having regard to the things which to him seem chief in importance,
And on the doing of which his firm-set mind is determined.
Tell me therefore, I pray, how to win thy father and mother."
And to her question made answer the good and intelligent Hermann:
"Ah, what wisdom thou showest, thou good, thou excellent maiden,
Asking thus first of all concerning the tastes of my parents!
Know that in vain hitherto I have labored in serving my father,
Taking upon me as were it my own, the charge of the household;
Early and late at work in the fields, and o'erseeing the vine-yard.
But my mother I fully content, who can value my service;
And thou wilt also appear in her eyes the worthiest of maidens,
If for the house thou carest, as were it thine own thou wast keeping.
Otherwise is it with father, who cares for the outward appearance.
Do not regard me, good maiden, as one who is cold and unfeeling,
That unto thee a stranger I straightway discover my father.
Nay, I assure thee that never before have words such as these are
Freely dropped from my tongue, which is not accustomed to prattle;
But from out of my bosom thou lurest its every secret.
Some of the graces of life my good father covets about him,
Outward signs of affection he wishes, as well as of honor;
And an inferior servant might possibly give satisfaction,
Who could turn these to account, while he might be displeased with a
better."
Thereupon said she with joy, the while him hastening footsteps
Over the darkening pathway with easy motion she quickened:
"Truly I hope to them both I shall equally give satisfaction:
For in thy mother's nature I find such an one as mine own is,
And to the outward graces I've been from my childhood accustomed.
Greatly was courtesy valued among our neighbors the Frenchmen,
During their earlier days; it was common to noble and burgher,
As to the peasant, and every one made it the rule of his household.
So, on the side of us Germans, the children were likewise accustomed
Daily to bring to their parents, with kissing of hands and with curtseys,
Morning good-wishes, and all through the day to be prettily mannered.
Every thing thus that I learned, and to which I've been used from my
childhood,
All that my heart shall suggest, shall be brought into play for thy
father.
But who shall tell me of thee, and how thyself shouldst be treated,
Thou the only son of the house, and henceforth my master?"
Thus she said, and e'en as she spoke they stood under the pear-tree.
Down from the heavens the moon at her full was shedding her splendor.
Night had come on, and wholly obscured was the last gleam of sunlight,
So that contrasting masses lay side by side with each other,
Clear and bright as the day, and black with the shadows of midnight;
Gratefully fell upon Hermann's ear the kindly asked question
Under the shade of the glorious tree, the spot he so treasured,
Which but this morning had witnessed the tears he had shed for the exile.
And while they sat themselves down to rest them here for a little,
Thus spoke the amorous youth, as he grasped the hand of the maiden:
"Suffer thy heart to make answer, and follow it freely in all things."
Yet naught further he ventured to say although so propitious
Seemed the hour; he feared he should only haste on a refusal.
Ah, and he felt besides the ring on her finger, sad token!
Therefore they sat there, silent and still, beside one another.
First was the maiden to speak: "How sweet is this glorious moonlight!"
Said she at length: "It is as the light of the day in its brightness.
[Illustration: HERMAN AND DOROTHEA UNDER THE PEAR TREE Ludwig Richter]
There in the city I plainly can see the houses and court-yards,
And in the gable--methinks I can number its panes--is a window."
"What thou seest," the modest youth thereupon made her answer,--
"What thou seest is our dwelling, to which I am leading thee downward,
And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic,
Which will be thine perhaps, for various changes are making.
All these fields, too, are ours; they are ripe for the harvest to-morrow.
Here in the shade we will rest, and partake of our noon-tide refreshment.
But it is time we began our descent through the vineyard and garden;
For dost thou mark how yon threatening storm-cloud comes nearer and
nearer,
Charged with lightning, and ready our fair full moon to extinguish?"
So they arose from their seats, and over the corn fields descended,
Through the luxuriant grain, enjoying the brightness of evening,
Until they came to the vineyard, and so entered into its shadow.
Then he guided her down o'er the numerous blocks that were lying,
Rough and unhewn on the pathway, and served as the steps of the alley.
Slowly the maiden descended, and leaning her hands on his shoulder,
While with uncertain beams, the moon through the leaves overlooked them,
Ere she was veiled by the cloud, and so left the couple in darkness.
Carefully Hermann's strength supported the maid that hung o'er him;
But, not knowing the path and the rough-hewn steps that led down it,
Missed she her footing, her ankle turned, and she surely had fallen,
Had not the dexterous youth his arm outstretched in an instant,
And his beloved upheld. She gently sank on his shoulder;
Breast was pressed against breast, and cheek against cheek. Thus he
stood there
Fixed as a marble statue, the force of will keeping him steadfast,
Drew her not to him more closely, but braced himself under her pressure.
Thus he the glorious burden felt, the warmth of her bosom,
And the perfume of her breath, that over his lips was exhaling;
Bore with the heart of a man the majestic form of the woman.
But she with playfulness said, concealing the pain that she suffered:
"That is a sign of misfortune, so timorous persons would tell us,
When on approaching a house we stumble not far from the threshold;
And for myself, I confess, I could wish for a happier omen.
Let us here linger awhile that thy parents may not have to blame thee,
Seeing a limping maid, and thou seem an incompetent landlord."
URANIA
PROSPECT
Muses, O ye who the course of true love so willingly favor,
Ye who thus far on his way the excellent youth have conducted,
Even before the betrothal have pressed to his bosom the maiden;
Further your aid vouchsafe this charming pair in uniting,
Straightway dispersing the clouds which over their happiness lower!
Yet first of all declare what is passing meanwhile at the Lion.
Now for the third time again the mother impatient had entered
Where were assembled the men, whom anxious but now she had quitted;
Spoke of the gathering storm, and the moonlight's rapid obscuring;
Then of her son's late tarrying abroad and the dangers of nightfall;
Sharply upbraided her friends that without having speech of the maiden,
And without urging his suit, they had parted from Hermann so early.
"Make it not worse than it is," the father replied with displeasure.
"For, as thou seest, we tarry ourselves and are waiting the issue."
Calmly, however, from where he was sitting the neighbor made answer:
"Never in hours of disquiet like this do I fail to be grateful
Unto my late, blessed father, who every root of impatience
Tore from my heart when a child, and left no fibre remaining;
So that I learned on the instant to wait as do none of your sages."
"Tell us," the pastor returned, "what legerdemain he made use of."
"That will I gladly relate, for all may draw from it a lesson;"
So made the neighbor reply. "When a boy I once stood of a Sunday
Full of impatience, and looking with eagerness out for the carriage
Which was to carry us forth to the spring that lies under the lindens.
Still the coach came not. I ran, like a weasel, now hither, now thither,
Up stairs and down, and forward and back, 'twixt the door and the window;
Even my fingers itched to be moving; I scratched on the tables,
Went about pounding and stamping, and hardly could keep me from weeping.
All was observed by the calm-tempered man; but at last when my folly
Came to be carried too far, by the arm he quietly took me,
Led me away to the window, and spoke in this serious language:
'Seest thou yonder the carpenter's shop that is closed for the Sunday?
He will re-open to-morrow, when plane and saw will be started,
And will keep on through the hours of labor from morning till evening.
But consider you this,--a day will be presently coming
When that man shall himself be astir and all of his workmen,
Making a coffin for thee to be quickly and skilfully finished.
Then that house of boards they will busily bring over hither,
Which must at last receive alike the impatient and patient,
And which is destined soon with close-pressing roof to be covered.'
Straightway I saw the whole thing in my mind as if it were doing;
Saw the boards fitting together, and saw the black color preparing,
Sat me down patiently then, and in quiet awaited the carriage.
Now when others I see, in seasons of anxious expectance,
Running distracted about, I cannot but think of the coffin."
Smiling, the pastor replied: "The affecting picture of death stands
Not as a dread to the wise, and not as an end to the pious.
Those it presses again into life, and teaches to use it;
These by affliction it strengthens in hope to future salvation.
Death becomes life unto both. Thy father was greatly mistaken
When to a sensitive boy he death in death thus depicted.
Let us the value of nobly ripe age, point out to the young man,
And to the aged the youth, that in the eternal progression
Both may rejoice, and life may in life thus find its completion."
But the door was now opened, and showed the majestical couple.
Filled with amaze were the friends, and amazed the affectionate parents,
Seeing the form of the maid so well matched with that of her lover.
Yea, the door seemed too low to allow the tall figures to enter,
As they together now appeared coming over the threshold.
Hermann, with hurried words, presented her thus to his parents:
"Here is a maiden," he said; "such a one as ye wish in the household.
Kindly receive her, dear father: she merits it well; and thou, mother,
Question her straightway on all that belongs to a house-keeper's duty,
That ye may see how well she deserves to ye both to be nearer."
Quickly he then drew aside the excellent clergyman, saying:
"Help me, O worthy sir, and speedily out of this trouble;
Loosen, I pray thee, this knot, at whose untying I tremble.
Know that 'tis not as a lover that I have brought hither the maiden;
But she believes that as servant she comes to the house, and I tremble
Lest in displeasure she fly as soon as there's mention of marriage.
But be it straightway decided; for she no longer in error
Thus shall be left, and I this suspense no longer can suffer.
Hasten and show us in this a proof of the wisdom we honor."
Toward the company then the clergyman instantly turned him;
But already, alas! had the soul of the maiden been troubled,
Hearing the father's speech; for he, in his sociable fashion,
Had in these playful words, with the kindest intention addressed her:
"Ay, this is well, my child! with delight I perceive that my Hermann
Has the good taste of his father, who often showed his in his young days,
Leading out always the fairest to dance, and bringing the fairest
Finally home as his wife; our dear little mother here that was.
For by the bride that a man shall elect we can judge what himself is,
Tell what the spirit is in him, and whether he feel his own value.
Nor didst thou need for thyself, I'll engage, much time for decision;
For, in good sooth, methinks, he's no difficult person to follow."
Hermann had heard but in part; his limbs were inwardly trembling,
And of a sudden a stillness had fallen on all of the circle.
But by these words of derision, for such she could not but deem them,
Wounded, and stung to the depths of her soul, the excellent maiden,
Stood, while the fugitive blood o'er her cheeks and e'en to her bosom
Poured its flush. But she governed herself, and her courage collecting,
Answered the old man thus, her pain not wholly concealing:
"Truly for such a reception thy son had in no wise prepared me,
When he the ways of his father described, the excellent burgher.
Thou art a man of culture, I know, before whom I am standing;
Dealest with every one wisely, according as suits his position;
But thou hast scanty compassion, it seems, on one such as I am,
Who, a poor girl, am now crossing thy threshold with purpose to serve thee;
Else, with such bitter derision, thou wouldst not have made me remember
How far removed my fortune from that of thyself and thy son is.
True, I come poor to thy house, and bring with me naught but my bundle
Here where is every abundance to gladden the prosperous inmates.
Yet I know well myself; I feel the relations between us.
Say, is it noble, with so much of mockery straightway to greet me,
That I am sent from the house while my foot is scarce yet on the
threshold?"
Anxiously Hermann turned and signed to his ally the pastor
That he should rush to the rescue and straightway dispel the delusion.
Then stepped the wise man hastily forward and looked on the maiden's
Tearful eyes, her silent pain and repressed indignation,
And in his heart was impelled not at once to clear up the confusion,
Rather to put to the test the girl's disquieted spirit.
Therefore he unto her said in language intended to try her:
"Surely, thou foreign-born maiden, thou didst not maturely consider,
When thou too rashly decidedst to enter the service of strangers,
All that is meant by the placing thyself 'neath the rule of a master;
For by our hand to a bargain the fate of the year is determined,
And but a single 'yea' compels to much patient endurance.
Not the worst part of the service the wearisome steps to be taken,
Neither the bitter sweat of a labor that presses unceasing;
Since the industrious freeman must toil as well as the servant.
But 'tis to bear with the master's caprice when he censures unjustly,
Or when, at variance with self, he orders now this, now the other;
Bear with the petulance, too, of the mistress, easily angered,
And with the rude, overbearing ways of unmannerly children.
All this is hard to endure, and yet to go on with thy duties
Quickly, without delay, nor thyself grow sullen and stubborn.
Yet thou appearest ill fitted for this, since already so deeply
Stung by the father's jests: whereas there is nothing more common
Than for a girl to be teased on account of a youth she may fancy."
Thus he spoke. The maiden had felt the full force of his language,
And she restrained her no more; but with passionate out-burst her feelings
Made themselves way; a sob broke forth from her now heaving bosom,
And, while the scalding tears poured down, she straightway made answer
"Ah, that rational man who thinks to advise us in sorrow,
Knows not how little of power his cold words have in relieving
Ever a heart from that woe which a sovereign fate has inflicted.
Ye are prosperous and glad; how then should a pleasantry wound you?
Yet but the lightest touch is a source of pain to the sick man.
Nay, concealment itself, if successful, had profited nothing.
Better show now what had later increased to a bitterer anguish,
And to an inward consuming despair might perhaps have reduced me.
Let me go back! for here in this house I can tarry no longer.
I will away, and wander in search of my hapless companions,
Whom I forsook in their need; for myself alone choosing the better.
This is my firm resolve, and I therefore may make a confession
Which might for years perhaps have else lain hid in my bosom.
Deeply indeed was I hurt by the father's words of derision;
Not that I'm sensitive, proud beyond what is fitting a servant;
But that my heart in truth had felt itself stirred with affection
Toward the youth who to-day had appeared to my eyes as a savior.
When he first left me there on the road, he still remained present,
Haunting my every thought; I fancied the fortunate maiden
Whom as a bride, perhaps, his heart had already elected.
When at the fountain I met him again, the sight of him wakened
Pleasure as great as if there had met me an angel from heaven;
And with what gladness I followed, when asked to come as his servant.
True, that I flattered myself in my heart,--I will not deny it,--
While we were hitherward coming, I might peradventure deserve him,
Should I become at last the important stay of the household.
Now I, alas! for the first time see what risk I was running,
When I would make my home so near to the secretly loved one;
Now for the first time feel how far removed a poor maiden
Is from an opulent youth, no matter how great her deserving.
All this I now confess, that my heart ye may not misinterpret,
In that 'twas hurt by a chance to which I owe my awaking.
Hiding my secret desires, this dread had been ever before me,
That at some early day he would bring him a bride to his dwelling;
And ah, how could I then my inward anguish have suffered!
Happily I have been warned, and happily now has my bosom
Been of its secret relieved, while yet there is cure for the evil.
But no more; I have spoken; and now shall nothing detain me
Longer here in a house where I stay but in shame and confusion,
Freely confessing my love and that foolish hope that I cherished.
Not the night which abroad is covered with lowering storm clouds;
Not the roll of the thunder--I hear its peal--shall deter me;
Not the pelt of the rain which without is beating in fury;
Neither the blustering tempest; for all these things have I suffered
During our sorrowful flight, and while the near foe was pursuing.
Now I again go forth, as I have so long been accustomed,
Carried away by the whirl of the times, and from every thing parted.
Fare ye well! I tarry no longer; all now is over."
Thus she spoke and back to the door she hastily turned her,
Still bearing under her arm, as she with her had brought it, her bundle.
But with both of her arms the mother seized hold of the maiden,
Clasping her round the waist, and exclaiming, amazed and bewildered:
"Tell me, what means all this? and these idle tears, say, what mean they?
I will not let thee depart: thou art the betrothed of my Hermann."
But still the father stood, observing the scene with displeasure,
Looked on the weeping girl, and said in a tone of vexation:
"This then must be the return that I get for all my indulgence,
That at the close of the day this most irksome of all things should happen!
For there is naught I can tolerate less than womanish weeping,
Violent outcries, which only involve in disorder and passion,
What with a little of sense had been more smoothly adjusted.
Settle the thing for yourselves: I'm going to bed; I've no patience
Longer to be a spectator of these your marvelous doings."
Quickly he turned as he spoke, and hastened to go to the chamber
Where he was wonted to rest, and his marriage bed was kept standing,
But he was held by his son, who said in a tone of entreaty:
"Father, hasten not from us, and be thou not wroth with the maiden.
I, only I, am to blame as the cause of all this confusion,
Which by his dissimulation our friend unexpectedly heightened.
Speak, O worthy sir; for to thee my cause I intrusted.
Heap not up sorrow and anger, but rather let all this be ended;
For I could hold thee never again in such high estimation,
If thou shouldst show but delight in pain, not superior wisdom."
Thereupon answered and said the excellent clergyman, smiling:
"Tell me, what other device could have drawn this charming confession
Out of the good maiden's lips, and thus have revealed her affection?
Has not thy trouble been straightway transformed into gladness and rapture?
Therefore speak up for thyself; what need of the tongue of another?"
Thereupon Hermann came forward, and spoke in these words of affection:
"Do not repent of thy tears, nor repent of these passing distresses;
For they complete my joy, and--may I not hope it--thine also?
Not to engage the stranger, the excellent maid, as a servant,
Unto the fountain I came; but to sue for thy love I came thither.
Only, alas! my timorous look could thy heart's inclination
Nowise perceive; I read in thine eyes of nothing but kindness,
As from the fountain's tranquil mirror thou gavest me greeting.
Might I but bring thee home, the half of my joy was accomplished.
But thou completest it unto me now; oh, blest be thou for it!"
Then with a deep emotion the maiden gazed on the stripling;
Neither forbade she embrace and kiss, the summit of rapture,
When to a loving pair they come as the longed for assurance,
Pledge of a lifetime of bliss, that appears to them now never-ending.
Unto the others, meanwhile, the pastor had made explanation.
But with feeling and grace the maid now advanced to the father,
Bent her before him, and kissing the hand he would fain have withholden,
Said: "Thou wilt surely be just and forgive one so startled as I was,
First for my tears of distress, and now for the tears of my gladness.
That emotion forgive me, and oh! forgive me this also.
For I can scarce comprehend the happiness newly vouchsafed me.
Yes, let that first vexation of which I, bewildered, was guilty
Be, too, the last. Whatever the maid of affectionate service
Faithfully promised, shall be to thee now performed by the daughter."
Straightway then, concealing his tears, the father embraced her,
Cordially, too, the mother came forward and kissed her with fervor,
Pressing her hands in her own: the weeping women were silent.
Thereupon quickly he seized, the good and intelligent pastor,
First the father's hand, and the wedding-ring drew from his finger,--
Not so easily either: the finger was plump and detained it,--
Next took the mother's ring also, and with them betrothed he the children,
Saying: "These golden circlets once more their office performing
Firmly a tie shall unite, which in all things shall equal the old one,
Deeply is this young man imbued with love of the maiden,
And, as the maiden confesses, her heart is gone out to him also.
[Illustration: THE BETROTHAL Ludwig Richter]
Here do I therefore betroth you and bless for the years that are coming,
With the consent of the parents, and having this friend as a witness."
Then the neighbor saluted at once, and expressed his good wishes;
But when the clergyman now the golden circlet was drawing
Over the maiden's hand, he observed with amazement the other,
Which had already by Hermann been anxiously marked at the fountain.
And with a kindly raillery thus thereupon he addressed her:
"So, then thy second betrothal is this? Let us hope the first bridegroom
May not appear at the altar, and so prohibit the marriage."
But she, answering, said: "Oh, let me to this recollection
Yet one moment devote; for so much is due the good giver,
Him who bestowed it at parting, and never came back to his kindred.
All that should come he foresaw, when in haste the passion for freedom,
When a desire in the newly changed order of things to be working,
Urged him onward to Paris, where chains and death he encountered.
'Fare thee well,' were his words; 'I go, for all is in motion
Now for a time on the earth, and every thing seems to be parting.
E'en in the firmest states fundamental laws are dissolving;
Property falls away from the hand of the ancient possessor;
Friend is parted from friend; and so parts lover from lover.
Here I leave thee, and where I shall find thee again, or if ever,
Who can tell? Perhaps these words are our last ones together.
Man's but a stranger here on the earth, we are told and with reason;
And we are each of us now become more of strangers than ever.
Ours no more is the soil, and our treasures are all of them changing:
Silver and gold are melting away from their time-honored patterns.
All is in motion as though the already-shaped world into chaos
Meant to resolve itself backward into night, and to shape itself over.
Mine thou wilt keep thine heart, and should we be ever united
Over the ruins of earth, it will be as newly made creatures,
Beings transformed and free, no longer dependent on fortune;
For can aught fetter the man who has lived through days such as these are!
But if it is not to be, that, these dangers happily over,
Ever again we be granted the bliss of mutual embraces,
Oh, then before thy thoughts so keep my hovering image
That with unshaken mind thou be ready for good or for evil!
Should new ties allure thee again, and a new habitation,
Enter with gratitude into the joys that fate shall prepare thee;
Love those purely who love thee; be grateful to them who show kindness.
But thine uncertain foot should yet be planted but lightly,
For there is lurking the twofold pain of a new separation.
Blessings attend thy life; but value existence no higher
Than thine other possessions, and all possessions are cheating!'
Thus spoke the noble youth, and never again I beheld him.
Meanwhile I lost my all, and a thousand times thought of his warning.
Here, too, I think of his words, when love is sweetly preparing
Happiness for me anew, and glorious hopes are reviving.
Oh, forgive me, excellent friend, that e'en while I hold thee
Close to my side I tremble! So unto the late-landed sailor
Seem the most solid foundations of firmest earth to be rocking."
Thus she spoke, and placed the two rings on her finger together.
But her lover replied with a noble and manly emotion:
"So much the firmer then, amid these universal convulsions,
Be, Dorothea, our union! We two will hold fast and continue,
Firmly maintaining ourselves, and the right to our ample possessions.
For that man, who, when times are uncertain, is faltering in spirit,
Only increases the evil, and further and further transmits it;
While he refashions the world, who keeps himself steadfastly minded.
Poorly becomes it the German to give to these fearful excitements
Aught of continuance, or to be this way and that way inclining.
This is our own! let that be our word, and let us maintain it!
For to those resolute peoples respect will be ever accorded,
Who for God and the laws, for parents, women and children,
Fought and died, as together they stood with their front to the foeman.
Thou art mine own; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever.
Not with anxiety will I preserve it, and trembling enjoyment;
Rather with courage and strength. To-day should the enemy threaten,
Or in the future, equip me thyself and hand me my weapons.
Let me but know that under thy care are my house and dear parents,
Oh! I can then with assurance expose my breast to the foeman.
And were but every man minded like me, there would be an upspring
Might against might, and peace should revisit us all with its gladness."
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION TO IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS
BY ARTHUR H. PALMER, A.M., LL.D.
Professor of German Language and Literature, Yale University
To what literary genus does Goethe's _Iphigenia_ belongs? Dramatic in
form, is it a drama? For A. W. Schlegel "an echo of Greek song," and
for many German critics the best modern reproduction of Greek tragedy,
it is for others a thoroughly German work in its substitution of
profound moral struggles for the older passionate, more external
conflicts. Schiller said: "It is, however, so astonishingly modern and
un-Greek, that I cannot understand how it was ever thought to resemble
a Greek play. It is purely moral; but the sensuous power, the life,
the agitation, and everything which specifically belongs to a dramatic
work is wanting." He adds, however, that it is a marvelous production
which must forever remain the delight and wonderment of mankind. This
is the view of G. H. Lewes, whose characterization is so apt also in
other respects: "A drama it is not; it is a marvelous dramatic poem.
The grand and solemn movement responds to the large and simple ideas
which it unfolds. It has the calmness of majesty. In the limpid
clearness of its language the involved mental processes of the
characters are as transparent as the operations of bees within a
crystal hive; while a constant strain of high and lofty music makes
the reader feel as if in a holy temple. And above all witcheries of
detail there is one capital witchery, belonging to Greek statues more
than to other works of human cunning--the perfect unity of impression
produced by the whole, so that nothing in it seems _made_, but all to
_grow_; nothing is superfluous, but all is in organic dependence;
nothing is there for detached effect, but the whole is effect. The
poem fills the mind; beautiful as the separate passages are, admirers
seldom think of passages, they think of the wondrous whole."
But may we not deepen and spiritualize our conception of the drama and
say that in _Iphigenia_, Goethe created a new dramatic genus, the
soul-drama--the first psychological drama of modern literature, the
result of ethical and artistic development through two milleniums?
Surely a Greek dramatist of the first rank, come to life again in
Goethe's age and entering into the heritage of this development, would
have modernized both subject and form in the same way.
Most intimate is the relation of _Iphigenia_ to Goethe's inner life,
and this relation best illumines the spiritual import of the drama.
Like his _Torquato Tasso_, it springs entirely from conditions and
experiences of the early Weimar years and those just preceding. It was
conceived and the first prose version written early in 1779; it
received its final metrical form December, 1786--in Rome indeed, but
it owed to Italy only a higher artistic finish.
In his autobiography Goethe has revealed to us that his works are
fragments of a great confession. Moods of his pre-Weimar storm and
stress vibrate in his _Iphigenia_--feverish unrest, defiance of
conventionality, Titanic trust in his individual genius,
self-reproach, and remorse for guilt toward those he
loved,--Friederike and Lili. Thus feeling his inner conflicts to be
like the sufferings of Orestes, he wrote in a letter, August, 1775,
shortly after returning to Frankfurt from his first Swiss journey:
"Perhaps the invisible scourge of the Eumenides will soon drive me out
again from my fatherland."
In November, 1775, Goethe went to Weimar, and there he found
redemption from his unrest and dejection in the friendship of Frau von
Stein. Her beneficent influence effected his new-birth into calm
self-control and harmony of spirit. On August 7, 1779, Goethe wrote in
his diary: "May the idea of purity, extending even to the morsel I
take into my mouth, become ever more luminous in me!" If Orestes is
Goethe, Iphigenia is Frau von Stein; and in the personal sense the
theme of the drama is the restoration of the poet to spiritual purity
by the influence of noble womanhood.
But there is a larger, universally human sense. Such healing of
Orestes is typically human; noble womanhood best realizes the ideal of
the truly human (_Humanität_). In a way that transcends understanding,
one pure, strong human personality may by its influence restore moral
vigor and bring peace and hope to other souls rent by remorse and sunk
in despair. This Goethe himself expressed as the central thought of
this drama in the lines:
Alle menschlichen Gebrechen
Sühnet reine Menschlichkeit
(For each human fault and frailty
Pure humanity atones).
The eighteenth century's conception of "humanity," the ideal of the
truly human, found two-fold classic, artistic expression in Germany at
the same time; in Lessing's _Nathan the Wise_ and in Goethe's
_Iphigenia in Tauris_, the former rationalistic, the latter broader,
more subtle, mystical.
IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS (1787)[33]
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWICK
Like _Torquato Tasso, Iphigenia_ was originally written in prose, and
in that form was acted at the Weimar Court Theatre about 1779. Goethe
himself took the part of Orestes.
* * * * *
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
IPHIGENIA.
THOAS, _King of the Taurians_.
ORESTES.
PYLADES.
ARKAS.
* * * * *
ACT I
SCENE I. _A Grove before the Temple of Diana_.
IPHIGENIA
Beneath your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs
Of this old, shady, consecrated grove,
As in the goddess' silent sanctuary,
With the same shuddering feeling forth I step,
As when I trod it first, nor ever here
Doth my unquiet spirit feel at home.
Long as a higher will, to which I bow,
Hath kept me here conceal'd, still, as at first,
I feel myself a stranger. For the sea
Doth sever me, alas! from those I love,
And day by day upon the shore I stand,
The land of Hellas seeking with my soul;
But to my sighs, the hollow-sounding waves
Bring, save their own hoarse murmurs, no reply.
Alas for him! who friendless and alone,
Remote from parents and from brethren dwells;
From him grief snatches every coming joy
Ere it doth reach his lip. His yearning thoughts
Throng back for ever to his father's halls,
Where first to him the radiant sun unclosed
The gates of heav'n; where closer, day by day,
Brothers and sisters, leagued in pastime sweet,
Around each other twin'd love's tender bonds.
I will not reckon with the gods; yet truly
Deserving of lament is woman's lot.
Man rules alike at home and in the field,
Nor is in foreign climes without resource;
Him conquest crowneth, him possession gladdens,
And him an honorable death awaits.
How circumscrib'd is woman's destiny!
Obedience to a harsh, imperious lord,
Her duty, and her comfort; sad her fate,
Whom hostile fortune drives to lands remote!
Thus Thoas holds me here, a noble man
Bound with a heavy though a sacred chain.
O how it shames me, goddess, to confess
That with repugnance I perform these rites
For thee, divine protectress! unto whom
I would in freedom dedicate my life.
In thee, Diana, I have always hoped,
And still I hope in thee, who didst infold
Within the holy shelter of thine arm
The outcast daughter of the mighty king.
Daughter of Jove! hast thou from ruin'd Troy
Led back in triumph to his native land
The mighty man, whom thou didst sore afflict,
His daughter's life in sacrifice demanding,--
Hast thou for him, the godlike Agamemnon,
Who to thine altar led his darling child,
Preserv'd his wife, Electra, and his son,
His dearest treasures?--then at length restore
Thy suppliant also to her friends and home,
And save her, as thou once from death didst save,
So now, from living here, a second death.
[Illustration: IPHIGENIA Anselm Feuerbach]
SCENE II
IPHIGENIA, ARKAS
ARKAS
The king hath sent me hither, bade me greet
With hail, and fair salute, Diana's priestess.
For new and wondrous conquest, this the day,
When to her goddess Tauris renders thanks.
I hasten on before the king and host,
Himself to herald, and its near approach.
IPHIGENIA
We are prepar'd to give them worthy greeting;
Our goddess doth behold with gracious eye
The welcome sacrifice from Thoas' hand.
ARKAS
Would that I also found the priestess' eye,
Much honor'd, much revered one, found thine eye,
O consecrated maid, more calm, more bright,
To all a happy omen! Still doth grief,
With gloom mysterious, shroud thy inner mind;
Vainly, through many a tedious year we wait
For one confiding utterance from thy breast.
Long as I've known thee in this holy place,
That look of thine hath ever made me shudder;
And, as with iron bands, thy soul remains
Lock'd in the deep recesses of thy breast.
IPHIGENIA
As doth become the exile and the orphan.
ARKAS
Dost thou then here seem exil'd and an orphan?
IPHIGENIA
Can foreign scenes our fatherland replace?
ARKAS
Thy fatherland is foreign now to thee.
IPHIGENIA
Hence is it that my bleeding heart ne'er heals.
In early youth, when first my soul, in love,
Held father, mother, brethren fondly twin'd,
A group of tender germs, in union sweet,
We sprang in beauty from the parent stem,
And heavenward grew; alas, a foreign curse
Then seized and sever'd me from those I loved,
And wrench'd with iron grasp the beauteous bands
It vanish'd then, the fairest charm of youth,
The simple gladness of life's early dawn;
Though sav'd I was a shadow of myself,
And life's fresh joyance blooms in me no more.
ARKAS
If thou wilt ever call thyself unblest,
I must accuse thee of ingratitude.
IPHIGENIA
Thanks have you ever.
ARKAS
Not the honest thanks
Which prompt the heart to offices of love;
The joyous glance, revealing to the host
A grateful spirit, with its lot content.
When thee a deep mysterious destiny
Brought to this sacred fane, long years ago,
To greet thee, as a treasure sent from heaven,
With reverence and affection, Thoas came.
Benign and friendly was this shore to thee,
To every stranger else with horror fraught,
For, till thy coming, none e'er trod our realm
But fell, according to an ancient rite,
A bloody victim at Diana's shrine.
IPHIGENIA
Freely to breathe alone is not to live.
Say, is it life, within this holy fane,
Like a poor ghost around its sepulchre
To linger out my days? Or call you that
A life of conscious happiness and joy,
When every hour, dream'd listlessly away,
Still leadeth onward to those gloomy days,
Which the sad troop of the departed spend
In self-forgetfulness on Lethe's shore?
A useless life is but an early death;
This woman's destiny hath still been mine.
ARKAS
I can forgive, though I must needs deplore,
The noble pride which underrates itself;
It robs thee of the happiness of life.
But hast thou, since thy coming here, done naught?
Who hath the monarch's gloomy temper cheered?
Who hath with gentle eloquence annull'd,
From year to year, the usage of our sires,
By which, a victim at Diana's shrine,
Each stranger perish'd, thus from certain death
Sending so oft the rescued captive home?
Hath not Diana, harboring no revenge
For this suspension of her bloody rites,
In richest measure heard thy gentle prayer?
On joyous pinions o'er the advancing host,
Doth not triumphant conquest proudly soar?
And feels not every one a happier lot,
Since Thoas, who so long hath guided us
With wisdom and with valor, sway'd by thee.
The joy of mild benignity approves,
Which leads him to relax the rigid claims
Of mute submission? Call thyself useless! Thou,
When from thy being o'er a thousand hearts,
A healing balsam flows? when to a race,
To whom a god consign'd thee, thou dost prove
A fountain of perpetual happiness,
And from this dire inhospitable coast,
Dost to the stranger grant a safe return?
IPHIGENIA
The little done doth vanish to the mind,
Which forward sees how much remains to do.
ARKAS
Him dost thou praise, who underrates his deeds?
IPHIGENIA
Who weigheth his own deeds is justly blam'd.
ARKAS
He too, real worth too proudly who condemns,
As who, too vainly, spurious worth o'er-rateth.
Trust me, and heed the counsel of a man
With honest zeal devoted to thy service:
When Thoas comes to-day to speak with thee,
Lend to his purposed words a gracious ear.
IPHIGENIA
Thy well-intention'd counsel troubles me:
His offer I have ever sought to shun.
ARKAS
Thy duty and thy interest calmly weigh.
Sithence King Thoas lost his son and heir,
Among his followers he trusts but few,
And trusts those few no more as formerly.
With jealous eye he views each noble's son
As the successor of his realm, he dreads
A solitary, helpless age--perchance
Sudden rebellion and untimely death.
A Scythian studies not the rules of speech,
And least of all the king. He who is used
To act and to command, knows not the art,
From far, with subtle tact, to guide discourse
Through many windings to its destin'd goal.
Thwart not his purpose by a cold refusal,
By an intended misconception. Meet,
With gracious mien, half-way the royal wish.
IPHIGENIA
Shall I then speed the doom that threatens me?
ARKAS
His gracious offer canst thou call a threat?
IPHIGENIA
'Tis the most terrible of all to me.
ARKAS
For his affection grant him confidence.
IPHIGENIA
If he will first redeem my soul from fear.
ARKAS
Why dost thou hide from him thy origin?
IPHIGENIA
A priestess secrecy doth well become.
ARKAS
Naught to a monarch should a secret be;
And, though he doth not seek to fathom thine,
His noble nature feels, ay, deeply feels,
That thou with care dost hide thyself from him.
IPHIGENIA
Ill-will and anger harbors he against me?
ARKAS
Almost it seems so. True, he speaks not of thee,
But casual words have taught me that the wish
Thee to possess hath firmly seiz'd his soul;
O leave him not a prey unto himself,
Lest his displeasure, rip'ning in his breast,
Should work thee woe, so with repentance thou
Too late my faithful counsel shalt recall.
IPHIGENIA
How! doth the monarch purpose what no man
Of noble mind, who loves his honest name,
Whose bosom reverence for the gods restrains,
Would ever think of? Will he force employ
To drag me from the altar to his bed?
Then will I call the gods, and chiefly thee,
Diana, goddess resolute, to aid me;
Thyself a virgin, wilt a virgin shield,
And to thy priestess gladly render aid.
ARKAS
Be tranquil! Passion, and youth's fiery blood
Impel not Thoas rashly to commit
A deed so lawless. In his present mood,
I fear from him another harsh resolve,
Which (for his soul is steadfast and unmov'd)
He then will execute without delay.
Therefore I pray thee, canst thou grant no more;
At least be grateful--give thy confidence.
IPHIGENIA
Oh tell me what is further known to thee.
ARKAS
Learn it from him. I see the king approach:
Him thou dost honor, thine own heart enjoins
To meet him kindly and with confidence.
A man of noble mind may oft be led
By woman's gentle word.
IPHIGENIA (_alone_)
How to observe
His faithful counsel see I not in sooth.
But willingly the duty I perform
Of giving thanks for benefits receiv'd,
And much I wish that to the king my lips
With truth could utter what would please his ear.
SCENE III
IPHIGENIA, THOAS
IPHIGENIA
Her royal gifts the goddess shower on thee
Imparting conquest, wealth, and high renown
Dominion, and the welfare of thy house,
With the fulfilment of each pious wish,
That thou, whose sway for multitudes provides,
Thyself may'st be supreme in happiness!
THOAS
Contented were I with my people's praise;
My conquests others more than I enjoy.
Oh! be he king or subject, he's most blest;
Whose happiness is centred in his home.
My deep affliction thou didst share with me
What time, in war's encounter, the fell sword
Tore from my side my last, my dearest son;
So long as fierce revenge possessed my heart,
I did not feel my dwelling's dreary void;
But now, returning home, my rage appeas'd,
Their kingdom wasted, and my son aveng'd,
I find there nothing left to comfort me.
The glad obedience I was wont to see
Kindling in every eye, is smother'd now
In discontent and gloom; each, pondering, weighs
The changes which a future day may bring,
And serves the childless king, because he must.
To-day I come within this sacred fane,
Which I have often enter'd to implore
And thank the gods for conquest. In my breast
I bear an old and fondly-cherish'd wish,
To which methinks thou canst not be a stranger;
I hope, a blessing to myself and realm,
To lead thee to my dwelling as my bride.
IPHIGENIA
Too great thine offer, king, to one unknown;
Abash'd the fugitive before thee stands,
Who on this shore sought only what thou gavest,
Safety and peace.
THOAS
Thus still to shroud thyself
From me, as from the lowest, in the veil
Of mystery which wrapp'd thy coming here,
Would in no country be deem'd just or right.
Strangers this shore appall'd; 'twas so ordain'd,
Alike by law and stern necessity.
From thee alone--a kindly welcom'd guest,
Who hast enjoy'd each hallow'd privilege,
And spent thy days in freedom unrestrain'd--
From thee I hop'd that confidence to gain
Which every faithful host may justly claim.
IPHIGENIA
If I conceal'd, O king, my name, my race,
It was embarrassment, and not mistrust.
For didst thou know who stands before thee now,
And what accursed head thine arm protects,
Strange horror would possess thy mighty heart;
And, far from wishing me to share thy throne,
Thou, ere the time appointed, from thy realm
Wouldst banish me; wouldst thrust me forth, perchance
Before a glad reunion with my friends
And period to my wand'rings is ordain'd,
To meet that sorrow, which in every clime,
With cold, inhospitable, fearful hand,
Awaits the outcast, exil'd from his home.
THOAS
Whate'er respecting thee the gods decree,
Whate'er their doom for thee and for thy house,
Since thou hast dwelt amongst us, and enjoy'd
The privilege the pious stranger claims,
To me hath fail'd no blessing sent from heaven;
And to persuade me, that protecting thee
I shield a guilty head, were hard indeed.
IPHIGENIA
Thy bounty, not the guest, draws blessings down.
THOAS
The kindness shown the wicked is not blest.
End then thy silence, priestess; not unjust
Is he who doth demand it. In my hands
The goddess placed thee; thou hast been to me
As sacred as to her, and her behest
Shall for the future also be my law:
If thou canst hope in safety to return
Back to thy kindred, I renounce my claims:
But is thy homeward path for ever closed--
Or doth thy race in hopeless exile rove,
Or lie extinguish'd by some mighty woe--
Then may I claim thee by more laws than one.
Speak openly, thou know'st I keep my word.
IPHIGENIA
Its ancient bands reluctantly my tongue
Doth loose, a long hid secret to divulge;
For once imparted, it resumes no more
The safe asylum of the inmost heart,
But thenceforth, as the powers above decree,
Doth work its ministry of weal or woe.
Attend! I issue from the Titan's race.
THOAS
A word momentous calmly hast thou spoken.
Him nam'st thou ancestor whom all the world
Knows as a sometime favorite of the gods?
Is it that Tantalus, whom Jove himself
Drew to his council and his social board?
On whose experienc'd words, with wisdom fraught,
As on the language of an oracle,
E'en gods delighted hung?
IPHIGENIA
'Tis even he;
But the immortal gods with mortal men
Should not, on equal terms, hold intercourse;
For all too feeble is the human race,
Not to grow dizzy on unwonted heights.
Ignoble was he not, and no betrayer;
To be the Thunderer's slave, he was too great;
To be his friend and comrade,--but a man.
His crime was human, and their doom severe;
For poets sing, that treachery and pride
Did from Jove's table hurl him headlong down
To grovel in the depths of Tartarus.
Alas, and his whole race must bear their hate.
THOAS
Bear they their own guilt, or their ancestor's?
IPHIGENIA
The Titan's mighty breast and nervous frame
Was his descendants' certain heritage;
But round their brow Jove forg'd a band of brass.
Wisdom and patience, prudence and restraint,
He from their gloomy, fearful eye conceal'd;
In them each passion grew to savage rage,
And headlong rush'd with violence uncheck'd.
Already Pelops, Tantalus' loved son,
Mighty of will, obtained his beauteous bride,
Hippodamia, child of Oenomaus,
Through treachery and murder; she ere long,
To glad her consort's heart, bare him two sons,
Thyest and Atreus. They with envy marked
The ever-growing love their father bare
To his first-born, sprung from another union.
Hate leagued the pair, and secretly they wrought,
In fratricide, the first dread crime. The sire
Hippodamia held as murderess,
With savage rage he claim'd from her his son,
And she in terror did destroy herself--
THOAS
Thou'rt silent? Pause not in thy narrative;
Repent not of thy confidence--say on!
IPHIGENIA
How blest is he who his progenitors
With pride remembers, to the listener tells
The story of their greatness, of their deeds,
And, silently rejoicing, sees himself
The latest link of this illustrious chain!
For seldom does the selfsame stock produce
The monster and the demigod: a line
Of good or evil ushers in, at last,
The glory or the terror of the world.--
After the death of Pelops, his two sons
Rul'd o'er the city with divided sway.
But such an union could not long endure.
His brother's honor first Thyestes wounds.
In vengeance Atreus drove him from the realm.
Thyestes, planning horrors, long before
Had stealthily procur'd his brother's son,
Whom he in secret nurtur'd as his own.
Revenge and fury in his breast he pour'd,
Then to the royal city sent him forth,
That in his uncle he might slay his sire.
The meditated murder was disclos'd,
And by the king most cruelly aveng'd,
Who slaughter'd as he thought, his brother's son.
Too late he learn'd whose dying tortures met
His drunken gaze; and seeking to assuage
The insatiate vengeance that possess'd his soul,
He plann'd a deed unheard of. He assum'd
A friendly tone, seem'd reconcil'd, appeas'd,
And lur'd his brother, with his children twain,
Back to his kingdom; these he seiz'd and slew;
Then plac'd the loathsome and abhorrent food
At his first meal before the unconscious sire.
And when Thyestes had his hunger still'd
With his own flesh, a sadness seiz'd his soul;
He for his children ask'd,--their steps, their voice
Fancied he heard already at the door;
And Atreus, grinning with malicious joy,
Threw in the members of the slaughter'd boys.--
Shudd'ring, O king, thou dost avert thy face:
So did the sun his radiant visage hide,
And swerve his chariot from the eternal path.
These, monarch, are thy priestess' ancestors,
And many a dreadful fate of mortal doom,
And many a deed of the bewilder'd brain,
Dark night doth cover with her sable wing,
Or shroud in gloomy twilight.
THOAS
Hidden there
Let them abide. A truce to horror now,
And tell me by what miracle thou sprangest
From race so savage.
IPHIGENIA
Atreus' eldest son
Was Agamemnon; he, O king, my sire:
But I may say with truth, that, from a child,
In him the model of a perfect man
I witness'd ever. Clytemnestra bore
To him, myself, the firstling of their love,
Electra then. Peaceful the monarch rul'd,
And to the house of Tantalus was given
A long-withheld repose. A son alone
Was wanting to complete my parents' bliss;
Scarce was this wish fulfill'd, and young Orestes,
The household's darling, with his sisters grew,
When new misfortunes vex'd our ancient house.
To you hath come the rumor of the war,
Which, to avenge the fairest woman's wrongs,
The force united of the Grecian kings
Round Ilion's walls encamp'd. Whether the town
Was humbled, and achieved their great revenge,
I have not heard. My father led the host.
In Aulis vainly for a favoring gale
They waited; for, enrag'd against their chief,
Diana stay'd their progress, and requir'd,
Through Chalcas' voice, the monarch's eldest daughter.
They lured me with my mother to the camp,
They dragged me to the altar, and this head
There to the goddess doomed.--She was appeased;
She did not wish my blood, and shrouded me
In a protecting cloud; within this temple
I first awakened from the dream of death;
Yes, I myself am she, Iphigenia,
Grandchild of Atreus, Agamemnon's child,
Diana's priestess, I who speak with thee.
THOAS
I yield no higher honor or regard
To the king's daughter than the maid unknown;
Once more my first proposal I repeat;
Come follow me, and share what I possess.
IPHIGENIA
How dare I venture such a step, O king?
Hath not the goddess who protected me
Alone a right to my devoted head?
'Twas she who chose for me this sanctuary,
Where she perchance reserves me for my sire,
By my apparent death enough chastis'd.
To be the joy and solace of his age.
Perchance my glad return is near; and how,
If I, unmindful of her purposes,
Had here attach'd myself against her will?
I ask'd a signal, did she wish my stay.
THOAS
The signal is that still thou tarriest here.
Seek not evasively such vain pretexts.
Not many words are needed to refuse,
The _no_ alone is heard by the refused.
IPHIGENIA
Mine are not words meant only to deceive;
I have to thee my inmost heart reveal'd.
And doth no inward voice suggest to thee,
How I with yearning soul must pine to see
My father, mother, and my long-lost home?
Oh let thy vessels bear me thither, king?
That in the ancient halls, where sorrow still
In accents low doth fondly breathe my name,
Joy, as in welcome of a new-born child,
May round the columns twine the fairest wreath.
New life thou wouldst to me and mine impart.
THOAS
Then go! Obey the promptings of thy heart;
And to the voice of reason and good counsel,
Close thou thine ear. Be quite the woman, give
To every wish the rein, that brideless
May seize on thee, and whirl thee here and there.
When burns the fire of passion in her breast,
No sacred tie withholds her from the wretch
Who would allure her to forsake for him
A husband's or a father's guardian arms;
Extinct within her heart its fiery glow,
The golden tongue of eloquence in vain
With words of truth and power assails her ear.
IPHIGENIA
Remember now, O king, thy noble words!
My trust and candor wilt thou thus repay?
Thou seem'st, methinks, prepar'd to hear the truth.
THOAS
For this unlook'd-for answer not prepar'd.
Yet 'twas to be expected; knew I not
That with a woman I had now to deal?
IPHIGENIA
Upbraid not thus, O king, our feeble sex!
Though not in dignity to match with yours,
The weapons woman wields are not ignoble.
And trust me, Thoas, in thy happiness
I have a deeper insight than thyself.
Thou thinkest, ignorant alike of both,
A closer union would augment our bliss;
Inspir'd with confidence and honest zeal
Thou strongly urgest me to yield consent;
And here I thank the gods, who give me strength
To shun a doom unratified by them.
THOAS
'Tis not a god, 'tis thine own heart that speaks.
IPHIGENIA
'Tis through the heart alone they speak to us.
THOAS
To hear them have I not an equal right?
IPHIGENIA
The raging tempest drowns the still small voice.
THOAS
This voice no doubt the priestess hears alone.
IPHIGENIA
Before all others should the prince attend it.
THOAS
Thy sacred office, and ancestral right
To Jove's own table, place thee with the gods
In closer union than an earth-born savage.
IPHIGENIA
Thus must I now the confidence atone
Thyself didst wring from me!
THOAS
I am a man.
And better 'tis we end this conference.
Hear then my last resolve. Be priestess still
Of the great goddess who selected thee;
And may she pardon me, that I from her,
Unjustly and with secret self-reproach,
Her ancient sacrifice so long withheld.
From olden time no stranger near'd our shore
But fell a victim at her sacred shrine.
But thou, with kind affection (which at times
Seem'd like a gentle daughter's tender love,
At times assum'd to my enraptur'd heart
The modest inclination of a bride),
Didst so inthral me, as with magic bowls,
That I forgot my duty. Thou didst rock
My senses in a dream: I did not hear
My people's murmurs: now they cry aloud,
Ascribing my poor son's untimely death
To this my guilt. No longer for thy sake
Will I oppose the wishes of the crowd,
Who urgently demand the sacrifice.
IPHIGENIA
For mine own sake I ne'er desired it from thee.
Who to the gods ascribe a thirst for blood
Do misconceive their nature, and impute
To them their own inhuman dark desires.
Did not Diana snatch me from the priest,
Holding my service dearer than my death?
THOAS
'Tis not for us, on reason's shifting grounds,
Lightly to guide and construe rites divine.
Perform thy duty; I'll accomplish mine.
Two strangers, whom in caverns of the shore
We found conceal'd, and whose arrival here
Bodes to my realm no good, are in my power.
With them thy goddess may once more resume
Her ancient, pious, long-suspended rites!
I send them here,--thy duty not unknown.
[_Exit_.]
IPHIGENIA (_alone_)
Gracious protectress! thou hast clouds
To shelter innocence distress'd,
And from the arms of iron fate,
Gently to waft her o'er the sea,
O'er the wide earth's remotest realms,
Where'er it seemeth good to thee.
Wise art thou,--thine all-seeing eye
The future and the past surveys;
Thy glance doth o'er thy children rest,
E'en as thy light, the life of night,
Keeps o'er the earth its silent watch.
O Goddess! keep my hands from blood!
Blessing it never brings, and peace;
And still in evil hours the form
Of the chance-murder'd man appears
To fill the unwilling murderer's soul
With horrible and gloomy fears.
For fondly the Immortals view
Man's widely scatter'd simple race;
And the poor mortal's transient life
Gladly prolong, that he may lift
Awhile to their eternal heavens
His sympathetic joyous gaze.
ACT II
SCENE I
ORESTES, PYLADES
ORESTES
It is the path of death that now we tread
At every step my soul grows more serene.
When I implor'd Apollo to remove
The grisly band of Furies from my side,
He seem'd, with hope-inspiring, godlike words,
To promise aid and safety in the fane
Of his lov'd sister, who o'er Tauris rules.
Thus the prophetic word fulfils itself,
That with my life shall terminate my woe.
How easy 'tis for me, whose heart is crush'd,
Whose sense is deaden'd by a hand divine,
Thus to renounce the beauteous light of day!
And must the son of Atreus not entwine
The wreath of conquest round his dying brow--
Must I, as my forefathers, as my sire,
Bleed like a victim,--an ignoble death--
So be it! Better at the altar here,
Than in a nook obscure, where kindred hands
Have spread assassination's wily net.
Yield me this brief repose, infernal Powers!
Ye, who, like loosen'd hounds, still scent the blood
Which, trickling from my feet, betrays my path.
Leave me! ere long I come to you below.
Nor you, nor I, should view the light of day.
The soft green carpet of the beauteous earth
Is no arena for unhallow'd fiends.
Below I seek you, where an equal fate
Binds all in murky, never-ending night.
Thee only, thee, my Pylades, my friend,
The guiltless partner of my crime and curse,
Thee am I loath, before thy time, to take
To yonder cheerless shore! Thy life or death
Alone awakens in me hope or fear.
PYLADES
Like thee, Orestes, I am not prepared
Downwards to wander to yon realm of shade.
I purpose still, through the entangled paths,
Which seem as they would lead to blackest night,
Again to wind our upward way to life.
Of death I think not; I observe and mark
Whether the gods may not perchance present
Means and fit moment for a joyful flight.
Dreaded or not, the stroke of death must come;
And though the priestess stood with hand uprais'd,
Prepar'd to cut our consecrated locks,
Our safety still should be my only thought;
Uplift thy soul above this weak despair;
Desponding doubts but hasten on our peril.
Apollo pledg'd to us his sacred word,
That in his sister's holy fane for thee
Were comfort, aid, and glad return prepar'd.
The words of Heaven are not equivocal,
As in despair the poor oppress'd one thinks.
ORESTES
The mystic web of life my mother cast
Around my infant head, and so I grew
An image of my sire; and my mute look
Was aye a bitter and a keen reproof
To her and base Ægisthus. Oh, how oft,
When silently within our gloomy hall
Electra sat, and mus'd beside the fire,
Have I with anguish'd spirit climb'd her knee,
And watch'd her bitter tears with sad amaze!
Then would she tell me of our noble sire
How much I long'd to see him--be with him!
Myself at Troy one moment fondly wish'd,
My sire's return, the next. The day arrived--
PYLADES
Oh, of that awful hour let fiends of hell
Hold nightly converse! Of a time more fair
May the remembrance animate our hearts
To fresh heroic deeds. The gods require
On this wide earth the service of the good,
To work their pleasure. Still they count on thee;
For in thy father's train they sent thee not,
When he to Orcus went unwilling down.
ORESTES
Would I had seized the border of his robe,
And followed him!
PYLADES
They kindly cared for me
Who held thee here; for hadst thou ceased to live,
I know not what had then become of me;
Since I with thee, and for thy sake alone,
Have from my childhood liv'd, and wish to live.
ORESTES
Remind me not of those delightsome days,
When me thy home a safe asylum gave;
With fond solicitude thy noble sire
The half-nipp'd, tender flow'ret gently rear'd:
While thou, a friend and playmate always gay,
Like to a light and brilliant butterfly
Around a dusky flower, didst day by day
Around me with new life thy gambols urge,
And breathe thy joyous spirit in my soul,
Until, my cares forgetting, I with thee
Was lur'd to snatch the eager joys of youth.
PYLADES
My very life began when thee I lov'd.
ORESTES
Say, then thy woes began, and thou speak'st truly.
This is the sharpest sorrow of my lot,
That, like a plague-infected wretch, I bear
Death and destruction hid within my breast;
That, where I tread, e'en on the healthiest spot,
Ere long the blooming faces round betray
The anguish'd features of a ling'ring death.
PYLADES
Were thy breath venom, I had been the first
To die, that death, Orestes. Am I not,
As ever, full of courage and of joy?
And love and courage are the spirit's wings
Wafting to noble actions.
ORESTES
Noble actions?
Time was, when fancy painted such before us!
When oft, the game pursuing, on we roam'd
O'er hill and valley; hoping that ere long,
Like our great ancestors in heart and hand,
With club and weapon arm'd, we so might track
The robber to his den, or monster huge.
And then at twilight, by the boundless sea,
Peaceful we sat, reclin'd against each other,
The waves came dancing to our very feet,
And all before us lay the wide, wide world;
Then on a sudden one would seize his sword,
And future deeds shone round us like the stars,
Which gemm'd in countless throngs the vault of night.
PYLADES
Endless, my friend, the projects which the soul
Burns to accomplish. We would every deed
At once perform as grandly as it shows
After long ages, when from land to land
The poet's swelling song hath roll'd it on.
It sounds so lovely what our fathers did,
When, in the silent evening shade reclin'd,
We drink it in with music's melting tones;
And what we do is, as their deeds to them,
Toilsome and incomplete!
Thus we pursue what always flies before;
We disregard the path in which we tread,
Scarce see around the footsteps of our sires,
Or heed the trace of their career on earth.
We ever hasten on to chase their shades,
Which, godlike, at a distance far remote,
On golden clouds, the mountain summits crown.
The man I prize not who esteems himself
Just as the people's breath may chance to raise him.
But thou, Orestes, to the gods give thanks.
That they through thee have early done so much.
ORESTES
When they ordain a man to noble deeds,
To shield from dire calamity his friends,
Extend his empire, or protect its bounds,
Or put to flight its ancient enemies,
Let him be grateful! For to him a god
Imparts the first, the sweetest joy of life.
Me have they doom'd to be a slaughterer,
To be an honor'd mother's murderer,
And shamefully a deed of shame avenging,
Me through their own decree they have o'erwhelm'd.
Trust me, the race of Tantalus is doom'd;
And I, his last descendant, may not perish,
Or crown'd with honor or unstain'd by crime.
PYLADES
The gods avenge not on the son the deeds
Done by the father. Each, or good or bad,
Of his own actions reaps the due reward.
The parents' blessing, not their curse, descends.
ORESTES
Methinks their blessing did not lead us here.
PYLADES
It was at least the mighty gods' decree.
ORESTES
Then is it their decree which doth destroy us.
PYLADES
Perform what they command, and wait the event.
Do thou Apollo's sister bear from hence,
That they at Delphi may united dwell,
There by a noble-thoughted race revered,
Thee, for this deed, the lofty pair will view
With gracious eye, and from the hateful grasp
Of the infernal Powers will rescue thee.
E'en now none dares intrude within this grove.
ORESTES
So shall I die at least a peaceful death.
PYLADES
Far other are my thoughts, and not unskill'd
Have I the future and the past combin'd
In quiet meditation. Long, perchance,
Hath ripen'd in the counsel of the gods
The great event. Diana yearns to leave
The savage coast of these barbarians,
Foul with their sacrifice of human blood.
We were selected for the high emprize;
To us it is assign'd, and strangely thus
We are conducted to the threshold here.
ORESTES
My friend, with wondrous skill thou link'st thy wish
With the predestin'd purpose of the gods.
PYLADES
Of what avail is prudence, if it fail
Heedful to mark the purposes of Heaven!
A noble man, who much hath sinn'd, some god
Doth summon to a dangerous enterprize,
Which to achieve appears impossible.
The hero conquers, and atoning serves
Mortals and gods, who thenceforth honor him.
ORESTES
Am I foredoom'd to action and to life,
Would that a god from my distemper'd brain
Might chase this dizzy fever, which impels
My restless steps along a slipp'ry path.
Stain'd with a mother's blood, to direful death;
And pitying, dry the fountain, whence the blood,
For ever spouting from a mother's wounds,
Eternally defiles me!
PYLADES
Wait in peace!
Thou dost increase the evil, and dost take
The office of the Furies on thyself.
Let me contrive,--be still! And when at length
The time for action claims our powers combin'd,
Then will I summon thee, and on we'll stride,
With cautious boldness to achieve the event.
ORESTES
I hear Ulysses speak.
PYLADES
Nay, mock me not.
Each must select the hero after whom
To climb the steep and difficult ascent
Of high Olympus. And to me it seems
That him nor stratagem nor art defiles
Who consecrates himself to noble deeds.
ORESTES
I most esteem the brave and upright man.
PYLADES
And therefore have I not desir'd thy counsel.
One step's already taken. From our guards
E'en now I this intelligence have gained.
A strange and godlike woman holds in check
The execution of that bloody law
Incense, and prayer, and an unsullied heart,
These are the gifts she offers to the gods.
Rumor extols her highly, it is thought
That from the race of Amazon she springs,
And hither fled some great calamity.
ORESTES
Her gentle sway, it seems, lost all its power
When hither came the culprit, whom the curse,
Like murky night, envelops and pursues.
Our doom to seal, the pious thirst for blood
The ancient cruel rite again unchains
The monarch's savage will decrees our death;
A woman cannot save when he condemns.
PYLADES
That 'tis a woman, is a ground for hope!
A man, the very best, with cruelty
At length may so familiarize his mind,
His character through custom so transform,
That he shall come to make himself a law
Of what at first his very soul abhorr'd.
But woman doth retain the stamp of mind
She first assum'd. On her we may depend
In good or evil with more certainty.
She comes; leave us alone. I dare not tell
At once our names, nor unreserv'd confide
Our fortunes to her. Now retire awhile,
And ere she speaks with thee we'll meet again.
SCENE II
IPHIGENIA, PYLADES
IPHIGENIA
Whence art thou? Stranger, speak! To me thy bearing
Stamps thee of Grecian, not of Scythian race.
[_She unbinds his chains_.]
The freedom that I give is dangerous;
The gods avert the doom that threatens you!
PYLADES
Delicious music! dearly welcome tones
Of our own language in a foreign land
With joy my captive eye once more beholds
The azure mountains of my native coast.
Oh, let this joy that I, too, am a Greek
Convince thee, priestess! How I need thine aid,
A moment I forget, my spirit rapt
In contemplation of so fair a vision.
If fate's dread mandate doth not seal thy lips,
From which of our illustrious races say,
Dost thou thy godlike origin derive?
IPHIGENIA
The priestess whom the goddess hath herself
Selected and ordained, doth speak with thee.
Let that suffice: but tell me, who art thou,
And what unbless'd o'erruling destiny
Hath hither led thee with thy friend?
PYLADES
The woe,
Whose hateful presence ever dogs our steps,
I can with ease relate. Oh, would that thou
Couldst with like ease, divine one, shed on us
One ray of cheering hope! We are from Crete,
Adrastus' sons, and I, the youngest born,
Named Cephalus; my eldest brother, he,
Laodamas. Between us stood a youth
Savage and wild, who severed e'en in sport
The joy and concord of our early youth.
Long as our father led his powers at Troy,
Passive our mother's mandate we obey'd;
But when, enrich'd with booty, he return'd,
And shortly after died, a contest fierce
Both for the kingdom and their father's wealth,
His children parted. I the eldest joined;
He slew our brother; and the Furies hence
For kindred murder dog his restless steps.
But to this savage shore the Delphian god
Hath sent us, cheer'd by hope. He bade us wait
Within his sister's consecrated fane
The blessed hand of aid. Captives we are,
And, hither brought, before thee now we stand
Ordain'd for sacrifice. My tale is told.
IPHIGENIA
Fell Troy! Dear man, assure me of its fall.
PYLADES
Prostrate it lies. O unto us ensure
Deliverance. The promised aid of Heaven
More swiftly bring. Take pity on my brother.
O say to him a kind, a gracious word;
But spare him when thou speakest, earnestly
This I implore: for all too easily
Through joy and sorrow and through memory
Torn and distracted is his inmost being.
A feverish madness oft doth seize on him,
Yielding his spirit, beautiful and free,
A prey to furies.
IPHIGENIA
Great as is thy woe,
Forget it, I conjure thee, for a while,
Till I am satisfied.
PYLADES
The stately town,
Which ten long years withstood the Grecian host,
Now lies in ruins, ne'er to rise again;
Yet many a hero's grave will oft recall
Our sad remembrance to that barbarous shore.
There lies Achilles and his noble friend.
IPHIGENIA
So are ye godlike forms reduc'd to dust!
PYLADES
Nor Palamede, nor Ajax, ere again
The daylight of their native land beheld.
IPHIGENIA
He speaks not of my father, doth not name
Him with the fallen. He may yet survive!
I may behold him! still hope on, fond heart!
PYLADES
Yet happy are the thousands who receiv'd
Their bitter death-blow from a hostile hand!
For terror wild, and end most tragical.
Some hostile, angry deity prepar'd,
Instead of triumph, for the home-returning.
Do human voices never reach this shore?
Far as their sound extends, they bear the fame
Of deeds unparallel'd. And is the woe
Which fills Mycene's halls with ceaseless sighs
To thee a secret still?--And know'st thou not
That Clytemnestra, with Ægisthus' aid,
Her royal consort artfully ensnar'd,
And murder'd on the day of his return?--
The monarch's house thou honorest! I perceive.
Thy breast with tidings vainly doth contend
Fraught with such monstrous and unlook'd for woe.
Art thou the daughter of a friend? Art born
Within the circuit of Mycene's walls?
Conceal it not, nor call me to account
That here the horrid crime I first announce.
IPHIGENIA
Proceed, and tell me how the deed was done.
PYLADES
The day of his return, as from the bath
Arose the monarch, tranquil and refresh'd,
His robe demanding from his consort's hand,
A tangled garment, complicate with folds,
She o'er his shoulders flung and noble head;
And when, as from a net, he vainly strove
To extricate himself, the traitor, base
Ægisthus, smote him, and envelop'd thus
Great Agamemnon sought the shades below.
IPHIGENIA
And what reward receiv'd the base accomplice?
PYLADES
A queen and kingdom he possess'd already.
IPHIGENIA
Base passion prompted then the deed of shame?
PYLADES
And feelings, cherish'd long, of deep revenge.
IPHIGENIA
How had the monarch injured Clytemnestra?
PYLADES
By such a dreadful deed, that if on earth
Aught could exculpate murder, it were this.
To Aulis he allur'd her, when the fleet
With unpropitious winds the goddess stay'd;
And there, a victim at Diana's shrine,
The monarch, for the welfare of the Greeks,
Her eldest daughter doomed, Iphigenia.
And this, so rumor saith, within her heart
Planted such deep abhorrence that forthwith
She to Ægisthus hath resigned herself,
And round her husband flung the web of death.
IPHIGENIA (_veiling herself_)
It is enough! Thou wilt again behold me.
PYLADES (_alone_)
The fortune of this royal house, it seems,
Doth move her deeply. Whosoe'er she be,
She must herself have known the monarch well;--
For our good fortune, from a noble house,
She hath been sold to bondage. Peace, my heart!
And let us steer our course with prudent zeal
Toward the star of hope which gleams upon us.
ACT III
SCENE I
IPHIGENIA, ORESTES
IPHIGENIA
Unhappy man, I only loose thy bonds
In token of a still severer doom.
The freedom which the sanctuary imparts,
Like the last life-gleam o'er the dying face,
But heralds death. I cannot, dare not, say
Your doom is hopeless; for, with murderous hand,
Could I inflict the fatal blow myself?
And while I here am priestess of Diana,
None, be he who he may, dare touch your heads.
But the incensed king, should I refuse
Compliance with the rites himself enjoin'd,
Will choose another virgin from my train
As my successor. Then, alas! with naught,
Save ardent wishes, can I succor you.
Much honored countrymen! The humblest slave,
Who had but near'd our sacred household hearth,
Is dearly welcome in a foreign land;
How with proportion'd joy and blessing, then,
Shall I receive the man who doth recall
The image of the heroes, whom I learn'd
To honor from my parents, and who cheers
My inmost heart with flatt'ring gleams of hope!
ORESTES
Does prudent forethought prompt thee to conceal
Thy name and race? or may I hope to know
Who, like a heavenly vision, meets me thus?
IPHIGENIA
Yes, thou shalt know me. Now conclude the tale
Of which thy brother only told me half
Relate their end, who coming home from Troy,
On their own threshold met a doom severe
And most unlook'd for. Young I was in sooth
When first conducted to this foreign shore,
Yet well I recollect the timid glance
Of wonder and amazement which I cast
On those heroic forms. When they went forth
It seem'd as though Olympus had sent down
The glorious figures of a bygone world,
To frighten Ilion; and above them all,
Great Agamemnon tower'd preeminent!
Oh, tell me! Fell the hero in his home,
Through Clytemnestra's and Ægisthus' wiles?
ORESTES
He fell!
IPHIGENIA
Unblest Mycene! Thus the sons
Of Tantalus, with barbarous hands, have sown
Curse upon curse; and, as the shaken weed
Scatters around a thousand poison-seeds,
So they assassins ceaseless generate,
Their children's children ruthless to destroy.--
Now tell the remnant of thy brother's tale,
Which horror darkly hid from me before.
How did the last descendant of the race,--
The gentle child, to whom the Gods assign'd
The office of avenger,--how did he
Escape that day of blood? Did equal fate
Around Orestes throw Avernus' net
Say, was he saved? and is he still alive?
And lives Electra, too?
ORESTES
They both survive.
IPHIGENIA
Golden Apollo, lend thy choicest beams!
Lay them an offering at the throne of Jove!
For I am poor and dumb.
ORESTES
If social bonds
Or ties more close connect thee with this house,
As this thy rapturous joy betrayeth to me,
O then rein in thy heart and hold it fast!
For insupportable the sudden plunge
From happiness to sorrow's gloomy depth.
Thou knowest only Agamemnon's death.
IPHIGENIA
And is not this intelligence enough?
ORESTES
Half of the horror only hast thou heard.
IPHIGENIA
What should I fear'? Orestes, Electra lives.
ORESTES
And fearest thou for Clytemnestra naught?
IPHIGENIA
Her, neither hope nor fear have power to save.
ORESTES
She to the land of hope hath bid farewell.
IPHIGENIA
Did her repentant hand shed her own blood?
ORESTES
Not so; yet her own blood inflicted death.
IPHIGENIA
More plainly speak, nor leave me in suspense.
Uncertainty around my anxious head
Her dusky, thousand-folded pinion waves.
ORESTES
Have then the powers above selected me
To be the herald of a dreadful deed,
Which in the drear and soundless realms of night
I fain would hide for ever? 'Gainst my will
Thy gentle voice constrains me; it demands,
And shall receive, a tale of direst woe.
Electra, on the day when fell her sire,
Her brother from impending doom conceal'd;
Him Strophius, his father's relative,
Receiv'd with kindest care, and rear'd him up
With his own son, named Pylades, who soon
Around the stranger twin'd love's fairest bonds.
And as they grew, within their inmost souls
There sprang the burning longing to revenge
The monarch's death. Unlook'd for, and disguis'd,
They reach Mycene, feigning to have brought
The mournful tidings of Orestes' death,
Together with his ashes. Them the queen
Gladly receives. Within the house they enter;
Orestes to Electra shows himself:
She fans the fires of vengeance into flame,
Which in the sacred presence of a mother
Had burn'd more dimly. Silently she leads
Her brother to the spot where fell their sire;
Where lurid blood-marks, on the oft-wash'd floor,
With pallid streaks, anticipate revenge.
With fiery eloquence she pictured forth
Each circumstance of that atrocious deed,
Her own oppress'd and miserable life,
The prosperous traitor's insolent demeanor,
The perils threat'ning Agamemnon's race
From her who had become their stepmother,
Then in his hand the ancient dagger thrust,
Which often in the house of Tantalus
With savage fury rag'd,--and by her son
Was Clytemnestra slain.
IPHIGENIA
Immortal powers!
Whose pure and blest existence glides away
'Mid ever shifting clouds, me have ye kept
So many years secluded from the world,
Retain'd me near yourselves, consign'd to me
The childlike task to feed the sacred fire,
And taught my spirit, like the hallow'd flame,
With never-clouded brightness to aspire
To your pure mansions,--but at length to feel
With keener woe the horror of my house?
O tell me of the poor unfortunate!
Speak of Orestes!
ORESTES
O could I speak to tell thee of his death!
Forth from the slain one's spouting blood arose
His mother's ghost;
And to the ancient daughters of the night
Cries,--"Let him not escape,--the matricide!
Pursue the victim, dedicate to you!"
They hear, and glare around with hollow eyes,
Like greedy eagles. In their murky dens
They stir themselves, and from the corners creep
Their comrades, dire Remorse and pallid Fear;
Before them fumes a mist of Acheron;
Perplexingly around the murderer's brow
The eternal contemplation of the past
Rolls in its cloudy circles. Once again
The grisly band, commission'd to destroy,
Pollute earth's beautiful and heaven-sown fields,
From which an ancient curse had banish'd them.
Their rapid feet the fugitive pursue;
They only pause to start a wilder fear.
IPHIGENIA
Unhappy one; thy lot resembles his,
Thou feel'st what he, poor fugitive, must suffer.
ORESTES
What say'st thou? why presume my fate like his?
IPHIGENIA
A brother's murder weighs upon thy soul;
Thy younger brother told the mournful tale.
ORESTES
I cannot suffer that thy noble soul
Should by a word of falsehood be deceived.
In cunning rich and practised in deceit
A web ensnaring let the stranger weave
To snare the stranger's feet; between us twain
Be truth!
I am Orestes! and this guilty head
Is stooping to the tomb, and covets death;
It will be welcome now in any shape.
Whoe'er thou art, for thee and for my friend
I wish deliverance--I desire it not.
Thou seem'st to linger here against thy will;
Contrive some means of flight, and leave me here
My lifeless corpse hurl'd headlong from the rock,
My blood shall mingle with the dashing waves,
And bring a curse upon this barbarous shore!
Return together home to lovely Greece,
With joy a new existence to commence.
[ORESTES _retires_.]
IPHIGENIA
At length Fulfilment, fairest child of Jove,
Thou dost descend upon me from on high!
How vast thine image! Scarce my straining eye
Can reach thy hands, which, fill'd with golden fruit
And wreaths of blessing, from Olympus' height
Shower treasures down. As by his bounteous gifts
We recognize the monarch (for what seems
To thousands opulence, is naught to him),
So you, ye heavenly Powers, are also known
By bounty long withheld, and wisely plann'd.
Ye only know what things are good for us;
Ye view the future's wide-extended realm,
While from our eye a dim or starry veil
The prospect shrouds. Calmly ye hear our prayers,
When we like children sue for greater speed.
Not immature ye pluck heaven's golden fruit;
And woe to him, who with impatient hand,
His date of joy forestalling, gathers death.
Let not this long-awaited happiness,
Which yet my heart hath scarcely realiz'd,
Like to the shadow of departed friends,
Glide vainly by with triple sorrow fraught!
ORESTES (_returning_)
Dost thou for Pylades and for thyself
Implore the gods, blend not my name with yours;
Thou wilt not save the wretch whom thou wouldst join,
But will participate his curse and woe.
IPHIGENIA
My destiny is firmly bound to thine.
ORESTES
No; say not so: alone and unattended
Let me descend to Hades. Though thou shouldst
In thine own veil enwrap the guilty one,
Thou couldst not shroud him from his wakeful foes;
And e'en thy sacred presence, heavenly maid,
But driveth them aside and scares them not.
With brazen, impious feet they dare not tread
Within the precincts of this sacred grove
Yet in the distance, ever and anon,
I hear their horrid laughter, like the howl
Of famish'd wolves, beneath the tree wherein
The traveler hides. Without, encamp'd they lie,
And should I quit this consecrated grove,
Shaking their serpent locks, they would arise,
And, raising clouds of dust on every side,
Ceaseless pursue their miserable prey.
IPHIGENIA
Orestes, canst thou hear a friendly word
ORESTES
Reserve it for one favor'd by the gods.
IPHIGENIA
To thee they give anew the light of hope.
ORESTES
Through clouds and smoke I see the feeble gleam
Of the death-stream which lights me down to hell.
IPHIGENIA
Hast thou one sister only, thy Electra?
ORESTES
I knew but one: yet her kind destiny,
Which seemed to us so terrible, betimes
Removed an elder sister from the woe
Which o'er the house of Pelops aye impends.
O cease thy questions, nor thus league thyself
With the Erinnys; still they blow away,
With fiendish joy, the ashes from my soul,
Lest the last embers of the fiery brand
The fatal heritage of Pelops' house,
Should there be quenched. Must then the fire for aye,
Deliberately kindled and supplied
With hellish sulphur, sear my tortured soul!
IPHIGENIA
I scatter fragrant incense in the flame.
O let the pure, the gentle breath of love,
Low murmuring, cool thy bosom's fiery glow.
Orestes, fondly lov'd,--canst thou not hear me?
Hath the terrific Furies' grisly band
Dried up the blood of life within thy veins?
Creeps there, as from the Gorgon's direful head,
A petrifying charm through all thy limbs?
With hollow accents from a mother's blood,
If voices call thee to the shades below,
May not a sister's word with blessing rife
Call from Olympus' height help-rendering gods?
ORESTES
She calls! she calls!--Dost thou desire my doom?
Is there a Fury shrouded in thy form?
Who art thou, that thy voice thus horribly
Can harrow up my bosom's inmost depths!
IPHIGENIA
Thine inmost heart reveals it. I am she,--
Iphigenia,--look on me, Orestes!
ORESTES
Thou!
IPHIGENIA
My own brother!
ORESTES
Hence, away, begone!
I counsel thee, touch not these fatal locks!
As from Creusa's bridal robe, from me
An inextinguishable fire is kindled.
Leave me! Like Hercules, a death of shame,
Unworthy wretch, locked in myself, I'll die!
IPHIGENIA
Thou shalt not perish! Would that I might hear
One quiet word from thee! dispel my doubts,
Make sure the bliss I have implored so long.
A wheel of joy and sorrow in my heart,
Ceaseless revolves. I from a man unknown
With horror turn; but with resistless might
My inmost heart impels me to my brother.
ORESTES
Is this Lyæus' temple? Doth the glow
Of holy rage unbridled thus possess
The sacred priestess?
IPHIGENIA
Hear me, oh, look up!
See how my heart, which hath been closed so long
Doth open to the bliss of seeing thee,
The dearest treasure that the world contains,--
Of falling on thy neck, and folding thee
Within my longing arms, which have till now
Met the embraces of the empty wind.
Do not repulse me,--the eternal spring,
Whose crystal waters from Parnassus flow,
Bounds not more gaily on from rock to rock,
Down to the golden vale, than from my heart
The waters of affection freely gush,
And round me form a circling sea of bliss.
Orestes! O my brother!
ORESTES
Lovely nymph!
Nor thy caresses, nor thyself I trust;
Diana claims attendants more severe,
And doth avenge her desecrated fane.
Remove thy circling arm! Wilt thou indeed
Safety and love upon a youth bestow,
And fondly tender him earth's fairest joy
Unto my friend, more worthy than myself,
Impart thy favors; 'mong yon rocks he roves.
Go, seek him; guide him hence, and heed not me.
IPHIGENIA
Brother, command thyself, and better know
Thy sister, newly found! Misconstrue not
Her pure and heavenly rapture, blaming it
As lustful heat unbridled. O ye gods,
Remove delusion from his rigid gaze,
Lest that this moment, fraught with bliss supreme,
Should make us trebly wretched! She is here,
Thine own, thy long-lost sister! From the altar
The goddess rescued me, and placed me here,
Secure within her consecrated fane--
A captive thou, prepared for sacrifice,
And findest here a sister in the priestess.
ORESTES
Unblessèd one! So may the radiant sun
The final horror of our house behold!
Is not Electra here? That she with us
May also perish, nor her life prolong
For heavier destiny and direr woe.
'Tis well,--I follow, priestess! Fratricide
Is an old custom of our ancient house;
And you, ye gods, I thank, that ye resolve
Childless to root me hence. Thee let me counsel
To view too fondly neither sun nor stars.
Come, follow to the gloomy realms below!
As dragons, gender'd in the sulphur pool,
Swallow each other with voracious rage,
So our accursed race destroys itself.
Childless and guiltless come below with me!
There's pity in thy look! oh, gaze not so,--
'Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought
An entrance to her son Orestes' heart,
And yet his uprais'd arm her bosom pierc'd.
His mother fell!--Appear, indignant shade!
Within the circle step, ye fiends of hell,
Be present at the welcome spectacle,
The last, most horrible that ye prepare!
Nor hate, nor vengeance whets the poniard now;
A loving sister is constrain'd to deal
The fatal blow. Weep not! Thou hast no guilt.
From earliest infancy I naught have lov'd,
As thee I could have lov'd, my sister. Come,
The weapon raise, spare not, this bosom rend,
And make an outlet for its boiling streams!
[_He sinks exhausted_.]
IPHIGENIA
Alone I cannot bear this bliss and woe.
Where art thou, Pylades? Thine aid I need.
[IPHIGENIA _retires_.]
SCENE II
ORESTES (_recovering from his swoon and standing up_)
Give yet another! reach from Lethe's stream
The last reviving draught of cool refreshment!
Soon shall its waters in my bosom still
Life's fitful fever; and my spirit then
Adown oblivion's stream shall glide to you,
Ye spirits shrouded in eternal mist.
With tranquil pleasure in your deep repose
A weary son of earth may lave his soul!--
What whisp'ring sounds pervade the dreary grove?
What hollow murmurs haunt its twilight gloom?--
They gather round to view the stranger guest!
Who are you troop in high communion met,
Like an assembled family of princes?
They mingle peacefully, of every age,
Of either sex; godlike, of kindred mould,
Appear the gliding figures. Yes, 'tis they,
The fathers of my race! With Atreus,
In friendly converse glides Thyestes' shade,
And children playfully around them sport.
Is there no enmity among you now?
And is revenge extinguish'd with the sun
So am I also welcome, and may hope
To mingle in your solemn company.
Welcome, my sires! Orestes bids you hail!
The seed that ye have sow'd, that hath he reap'd.
Laden with curses he descends to you.
But burdens here are lighter far to bear.
Receive him, oh, receive him in your circle!
Thee, Atreus, I revere, and thee, Thyestes
Here all are free from enmity and hate.--
Show me my father, whom I only once
In life beheld.--Art thou my father, thou,
My mother leading thus familiarly?
Dares Clytemnestra reach her hand to thee
Then may Orestes also draw near her,
And say, Behold thy son!--My ancestors,
Behold your son, and bid him welcome here.
Among the sons of ancient Tantalus,
A kind salute on earth was murder's watchword,
And all their joys commence beyond the grave.
Ye welcome me! Ye bid me join your circle!
Oh, lead me to my honor'd ancestor!
Where is our aged sire? Let me behold
The dear, the venerable head of him
Who with the immortal gods in council sat.
Ye seem to shudder and to turn away!
What may this mean? Suffers the godlike man?
Alas! the mighty gods, with ruthless hate,
To his heroic breast, with brazen chains,
Have cruel pangs indissolubly bound.
SCENE III
ORESTES, IPHIGENIA, PYLADES
ORESTES
How! Are ye come already here below?
Welcome, my sister! Still Electra fails;
O that some kindly god, with gentle arrow,
Her too, full speedily, would downward send!
Thee, hapless friend, I must compassionate!
Come with me! Come! To Pluto's gloomy throne,
There to salute our hosts like stranger guests.
IPHIGENIA
Celestial pair, who from the realms above
By night and day shed down the beauteous light
To cheer mankind, but who may not illume
Departed spirits, save a mortal pair!
A brother's and a sister's anguish pity!
For thou, Diana, lov'st thy gentle brother
Beyond what earth and heaven can offer thee;
And dost, with quiet yearning, ever turn
Thy virgin face to his eternal light.
[Illustration: MEETING OF ORESTES AND PYLADES]
Let not my only brother, found so late,
Rave in the darkness of insanity!
And is thy will, when 'thou didst here conceal me,
At length fulfill'd,--wouldst thou to me through him
To him through me, thy gracious aid extend,--
Oh, free him from the fetters of this curse,
Lest vainly pass the precious hours of safety.
PYLADES
Dost thou not know us, and this sacred grove,
And this blest light, which shines not on the dead?
Dost thou not feel thy sister and thy friend,
Who hold thee living in their firm embrace?
Us firmly grasp; we are not empty shades.
Mark well my words! Collect thy scatter'd thoughts!
Attend! Each moment is of priceless worth,
And our return hangs on a slender thread,
Which, as it seems, some gracious fate doth spin.
ORESTES (_to_ IPHIGENIA)
My sister, let me for the first time taste,
With open hearts pure joy within thine arms!
Ye gods, who charge the heavy clouds with dread,
And sternly gracious send the long-sought rain
With thunder and the rush of mighty winds,
A horrid deluge on the trembling earth;
Yet dissipate at length man's dread suspense,
Exchanging timid wonder's anxious gaze
For grateful looks and joyous songs of praise,
When in each sparkling drop which gems the leaves,
Apollo, thousand-fold, reflects his beam,
And Iris colors with a magic hand
The dusty texture of the parting clouds;
Oh, let me also in my sister's arms,
And on the bosom of my friend, enjoy
With grateful thanks the bliss ye now bestow;
My heart assures me that your curses cease.
The dread Eumenides at length retire,
The brazen gates of Tartarus I hear
Behind them closing with a thunderous clang.
A quick'ning odor from the earth ascends,
Inviting me to chase, upon its plains,
The joys of life and deeds of high emprize.
PYLADES
Lose not the moments which are limited!
The favoring gale, which swells our parting sail,
Must to Olympus waft our perfect joy.
Quick counsel and resolve the time demands.
ACT IV
SCENE I
IPHIGENIA
When the Powers on high decree
For a feeble child of earth
Dire perplexity and woe,
And his spirit doom to pass
With tumult wild from joy to grief,
And back again from grief to joy,
In fearful alternation;
They in mercy then provide,
In the precincts of his home,
Or upon the distant shore,
That to him may never fail
Ready help in hours of need,
A tranquil, faithful friend.
Oh, bless, ye heavenly powers, our Pylades,
And whatsoever he may undertake!
He is in fight the vigorous arm of youth,
And his the thoughtful eye of age in counsel;
For tranquil is his soul; he guardeth there
Of calm a sacred and exhaustless dower,
And from its depths, in rich supply, outpours
Comfort and counsel for the sore distressed.
He tore me from my brother, upon whom,
With fond amaze, I gaz'd and gaz'd again;
I could not realize my happiness,
Nor loose him from my arms, and heeded not
The danger's near approach that threatens us.
To execute their project of escape,
They hasten to the sea, where in a bay
Their comrades in the vessel lie conceal'd
Waiting a signal. Me they have supplied
With artful answers, should the monarch send
To urge the sacrifice. Alas! I see
I must consent to follow like a child,
I have not learn'd deception, nor the art
To gain with crafty wiles my purposes.
Detested falsehood! it doth not relieve
The breast like words of truth: it comforts not,
But is a torment in the forger's heart,
And, like an arrow which a god directs,
Flies back and wounds the archer. Through my heart
One fear doth chase another; perhaps with rage,
Again on the unconsecrated shore,
The Furies' grisly band my brother seize.
Perchance they are surpris'd! Methinks, I hear
The tread of armèd men. A messenger
Is coming from the king, with hasty steps.
How throbs my heart, how troubled is my soul,
Now that I gaze upon the face of one,
Whom with a word untrue I must encounter!
SCENE II
IPHIGENIA, ARKAS
ARKAS
Priestess, with speed conclude the sacrifice!
Impatiently the king and people wait.
IPHIGENIA
I had perform'd my duty and thy will,
Had not an unforeseen impediment
The execution of my purpose thwarted.
ARKAS
What is it that obstructs the king's commands?
IPHIGENIA
Chance, which from mortals will not brook control.
ARKAS
Possess me with the reason, that with speed
I may inform the king, who hath decreed
The death of both.
IPHIGENIA
The gods have not decreed it.
The elder of these men doth bear the guilt
Of kindred murder; on his steps attend
The dread Erinnys. In the inner fane
They seized upon their prey, polluting thus
The holy sanctuary. I hasten now,
Together with my virgin-train, to bathe
The goddess' image in the sea, and there
With solemn rites its purity restore.
Let none presume our silent march to follow!
ARKAS
This hindrance to the monarch I'll announce
Commence not thou the rite till he permit.
IPHIGENIA
The priestess interferes alone in this.
ARKAS
An incident so strange the king should know.
IPHIGENIA
Here, nor his counsel nor command avails.
ARKAS
Oft are the great consulted out of form.
IPHIGENIA
Do not insist on what I must refuse.
ARKAS
A needful and a just demand refuse not.
IPHIGENIA
I yield, if thou delay not.
ARKAS
I with speed
Will bear these tidings to the camp, and soon
Acquaint thee, priestess, with the king's reply.
There is a message I would gladly bear him;
'Twould quickly banish all perplexity
Thou didst not heed thy faithful friend's advice.
IPHIGENIA
I willingly have done whate'er I could.
ARKAS
E'en now 'tis not too late to change thy purpose.
IPHIGENIA
To do so is, alas, beyond our power.
ARKAS
What thou wouldst shun, thou deem'st impossible.
IPHIGENIA
Thy wish doth make thee deem it possible.
ARKAS
Wilt thou so calmly venture everything?
IPHIGENIA
My fate I have committed to the gods.
ARKAS
The gods are wont to save by human means.
IPHIGENIA
By their appointment everything is done.
ARKAS
Believe me, all doth now depend on thee.
The irritated temper of the king
Alone condemns these men to bitter death.
The soldiers from the cruel sacrifice
And bloody service long have been disused;
Nay, many, whom their adverse fortunes cast
In foreign regions, there themselves have felt
How godlike to the exil'd wanderer
The friendly countenance of man appears.
Do not deprive us of thy gentle aid!
With ease thou canst thy sacred task fulfil;
For nowhere doth benignity, which comes
In human form from heaven, so quickly gain
An empire o'er the heart, as where a race,
Gloomy and savage, full of life and power,
Without external guidance, and oppress'd
With vague forebodings, bear life's heavy load.
IPHIGENIA
Shake not my spirit, which thou canst not bend
According to thy will.
ARKAS
While there is time
Nor labor nor persuasion shall be spar'd.
IPHIGENIA
Thy labor but occasions pain to me;
Both are in vain; therefore, I pray, depart.
ARKAS
I summon pain to aid me, 'tis a friend
Who counsels wisely.
IPHIGENIA
Though it shakes my soul,
It doth not banish thence my strong repugnance.
ARKAS
Can then a gentle soul repugnance feel
For benefits bestow'd by one so noble?
[Illustration: IPHIGENIA From the Painting by Max Nonnenbruch]
IPHIGENIA
Yes, when the donor, for those benefits,
Instead of gratitude, demands myself.
ARKAS
Who no affection feels doth never want
Excuses. To the king I will relate
What hath befallen. O that in thy soul
Thou wouldst revolve his noble conduct to thee
Since thy arrival to the present day!
SCENE III
IPHIGENIA (_alone_)
These words at an unseasonable hour
Produce a strong revulsion in my breast;
I am alarm'd!--For as the rushing tide
In rapid currents eddies o'er the rocks
Which lie among the sand upon the shore;
E'en so a stream of joy o'erwhelm'd my soul.
I grasp'd what had appear'd impossible.
It was as though another gentle cloud
Around me lay, to raise me from the earth,
And rock my spirit in the same sweet sleep
Which the kind goddess shed around my brow,
What time her circling arm from danger snatched me.
My brother forcibly engross'd my heart;
I listen'd only to his friend's advice;
My soul rush'd eagerly to rescue them,
And as the mariner with joy surveys
The less'ning breakers of a desert isle,
So Tauris lay behind me. But the voice
Of faithful Arkas wakes me from my dream,
Reminding me that those whom I forsake
Are also men. Deceit doth now become
Doubly detested. O my soul, be still!
Beginn'st thou now to tremble and to doubt?
Thy lonely shelter on the firm-set earth
Must thou abandon? and, embark'd once more,
At random drift upon tumultuous waves,
A stranger to thyself and to the world?
SCENE IV
IPHIGENIA, PYLADES
PYLADES
Where is she? that my words with speed may tell
The joyful tidings of our near escape!
IPHIGENIA
Oppress'd with gloomy care, I much require
The certain comfort thou dost promise me.
PYLADES
Thy brother is restor'd! The rocky paths
Of this unconsecrated shore we trod
In friendly converse, while behind us lay,
Unmark'd by us, the consecrated grove;
And ever with increasing glory shone
The fire of youth around his noble brow.
Courage and hope his glowing eye inspir'd;
And his exultant heart resigned itself
To the delight, the joy, of rescuing
Thee, his deliverer, also me, his friend.
IPHIGENIA
The gods shower blessings on thee, Pylades!
And from those lips which breathe such welcome news
Be the sad note of anguish never heard!
PYLADES
I bring yet more,--for Fortune, like a prince,
Comes not alone, but well accompanied.
Our friends and comrades we have also found.
Within a bay they had conceal'd the ship,
And mournful sat expectant. They beheld
Thy brother, and a joyous shout uprais'd,
Imploring him to haste the parting hour.
Each hand impatient long'd to grasp the oar,
While from the shore a gently murmuring breeze,
Perceiv'd by all, unfurl'd its wing auspicious.
Let us then hasten; guide me to the fane,
That I may tread the sanctuary, and win
With sacred awe the goal of our desires.
I can unaided on my shoulder bear
The goddess' image: how I long to feel
The precious burden!
(_While speaking the last words, he approaches the
Temple, without perceiving that he is not followed
by_ IPHIGENIA: _at length he turns around_.)
Why thus lingering stand?
Why art thou silent? wherefore thus confus'd?
Doth some new obstacle oppose our bliss?
Inform me, hast thou to the king announc'd
The prudent message we agreed upon?
IPHIGENIA
I have, dear Pylades; yet wilt thou chide.
Thy very aspect is a mute reproach.
The royal messenger arriv'd, and I,
According to thy counsel, fram'd my speech.
He seem'd surpris'd, and urgently besought,
That to the monarch I should first announce
The rite unusual, and attend his will.
I now await the messenger's return.
PYLADES
Danger again doth hover o'er our heads!
Alas! Why hast thou failed to shroud thyself
Within the veil of sacerdotal rites?
IPHIGENIA
I never have employ'd them as a veil.
PYLADES
Pure soul! thy scruples will destroy alike
Thyself and us. Why did I not forsee
Such an emergency, and tutor thee
This counsel also wisely to elude?
IPHIGENIA
Chide only me, for mine alone the blame.
Yet other answer could I not return
To him, who strongly and with reason urged
What my own heart acknowledg'd to be right.
PYLADES
The danger thickens; but let us be firm.
Nor with incautious haste betray ourselves;
Calmly await the messenger's return,
And then stand fast, whatever his reply:
For the appointment of such sacred rites
Doth to the priestess, not the king, belong.
Should he demand the stranger to behold,
Who is by madness heavily oppress'd,
Evasively pretend, that in the fane,
Well guarded, thou retainest him and me.
Thus you secure us time to fly with speed,
Bearing the sacred treasure from this race,
Unworthy its possession. Phoebus sends
Auspicious omens, and fulfils his word,
Ere we the first conditions have perform'd.
Free is Orestes, from the curse absolv'd!
Oh, with the freed one, to the rocky isle
Where dwells the god, waft us, propitious gales.
Thence to Mycene, that she may revive;
That from the ashes of the extinguish'd hearth,
The household gods may joyously arise,
And beauteous fire illumine their abode!
Thy hand from golden censers first shall strew
The fragrant incense. O'er that threshold thou
Shalt life and blessing once again dispense,
The curse atone, and all thy kindred grace
With the fresh bloom of renovated life.
IPHIGENIA
As doth the flower revolve to meet the sun,
Once more my spirit to sweet comfort turns,
Struck by thy words' invigorating ray.
How dear the counsel of a present friend,
Lacking whose godlike power, the lonely one
In silence droops! for, lock'd within his breast,
Slowly are ripen'd purpose and resolve,
Which friendship's genial warmth had soon matur'd.
PYLADES
Farewell! I haste to re-assure our friends,
Who anxiously await us: then with speed
I will return, and, hid within the brake,
Attend thy signal.--Wherefore, all at once,
Doth anxious thought o'ercloud thy brow serene?
IPHIGENIA
Forgive me! As light clouds athwart the sun,
So cares and fears float darkling o'er my soul.
PYLADES
Oh, banish fear! With danger it hath form'd
A close alliance,--they are constant friends.
IPHIGENIA
It is an honest scruple, which forbids
That I should cunningly deceive the king,
And plunder him who was my second father.
PYLADES
Him thou dost fly, who would have slain thy brother.
IPHIGENIA
To me, at least, he hath been ever kind.
PYLADES
What Fate commands is not ingratitude.
IPHIGENIA
Alas! it still remains ingratitude;
Necessity alone can justify it.
PYLADES
Thee, before gods and men, it justifies.
IPHIGENIA
But my own heart is still unsatisfied.
PYLADES
Scruples too rigid are a cloak for pride.
IPHIGENIA
I cannot argue, I can only feel.
PYLADES
Conscious of right, thou shouldst respect thyself.
IPHIGENIA
Then only doth the heart know perfect ease.
When not a stain pollutes it.
PYLADES
In this fane
Pure hast thou kept thy heart. Life teaches us
To be less strict with others and ourselves;
Thou'lt learn the lesson too. So wonderful
Is human nature, and its varied ties
Are so involv'd and complicate, that none
May hope to keep his inmost spirit pure,
And walk without perplexity through life.
Nor are we call'd upon to judge ourselves;
With circumspection to pursue his path,
Is the immediate duty of a man;
For seldom can he rightly estimate,
Of his past conduct or his present deeds.
IPHIGENIA
Almost thou dost persuade me to consent.
PYLADES
Needs there persuasion when no choice is granted?
To save thyself, thy brother, and a friend,
One path presents itself, and canst thou ask
If we shall follow it?
IPHIGENIA
Still let me pause,
For such injustice thou couldst not thyself
Calmly return for benefits receiv'd.
PYLADES
If we should perish, bitter self-reproach,
Forerunner of despair, will be thy portion.
It seems thou art not used to suffer much,
when, to escape so great calamity,
Thou canst refuse to utter one false word.
IPHIGENIA
Oh, that I bore within a manly heart!
Which, when it hath conceiv'd a bold resolve,
'Gainst every other voice doth close itself.
PYLADES
In vain thou dost refuse; with iron hand
Necessity commands; her stern decree
Is law supreme, to which the gods themselves
Must yield submission. In dread silence rules
The uncounsell'd sister of eternal fate.
What she appoints thee to endure,--endure;
What to perform,--perform. The rest thou knowest.
Ere long I will return, and then receive
The seal of safety from thy sacred hand.
SCENE V
IPHIGENIA (_alone_)
I must obey him, for I see my friends
Beset with peril. Yet my own sad fate
Doth with increasing anguish move my heart.
May I no longer feed the silent hope
Which in my solitude I fondly cherish'd?
Shall the dire curse eternally endure?
And shall our fated race ne'er rise again
With blessings crown'd?--All mortal things decay--
The noblest powers, the purest joys of life
At length subside: then wherefore not the curse?
And have I vainly hoped that, guarded here,
Secluded from the fortunes of my race,
I, with pure heart and hands, some future day
Might cleanse the deep defilement of our house?
Scarce was my brother in my circling arms
From raging madness suddenly restor'd,
Scarce had the ship, long pray'd for, near'd the strand
Once more to waft me to my native shores,
When unrelenting Fate, with iron hand,
A double crime enjoins; commanding me
To steal the image, sacred and rever'd,
Confided to my care, and him deceive
To whom I owe my life and destiny.
Let not abhorrence spring within my heart!
Nor the old Titan's hate, toward you, ye gods
Infix its vulture talons in my breast!
Save me and save your image in my soul!
An ancient song comes back upon mine ear--
I had forgotten it, and willingly--
The Parcæ's song, which horribly they sang,
What time, hurl'd headlong from his golden seat,
Fell Tantalus. They with their noble friend
Keen anguish suffer'd; savage was their breast
And horrible their song. In days gone by,
When we were children, oft our ancient nurse
Would sing it to us, and I mark'd it well.
Oh, fear the immortals,
Ye children of men!
Eternal dominion
They hold in their hands,
And o'er their wide empire
Wield absolute sway.
Whom they have exalted
Let him fear them most!
Around golden tables,
On cliffs and clouds resting
The seats are prepar'd.
If contest ariseth,
The guests are hurl'd headlong,
Disgrac'd and dishonor'd,
To gloomy abysses,
And, fetter'd in darkness,
Await the vain longing
A juster decree.
But in feasts everlasting,
Around the gold tables
Still dwell the immortals.
From mountain to mountain
They stride; while ascending
From fathomless chasms
The breath of the Titans,
Half-stifled with anguish,
Like volumes of incense
Fumes up to the skies.
From races ill-fated,
Their-aspect joy-bringing,
Oft turn the celestials,
And shun in the children
To gaze on the features
Once lov'd and still speaking
Of their mighty sire.
So chanted the Parcae;
The banish'd one hearkens
The song, the hoar captive
Immur'd in his dungeon,
His children's doom ponders,
And boweth his head.
ACT V
SCENE I
THOAS, ARKAS
ARKAS
I own I am perplex'd and scarcely know
'Gainst whom to point the shaft of my suspicion,
Whether the priestess aids the captives' flight,
Or they themselves clandestinely contrive it.
'Tis rumor'd that the ship which brought them here
Is lurking somewhere in a bay conceal'd.
This stranger's madness, these new lustral rites,
The specious pretext for delay, excite
Mistrust, and call aloud for vigilance.
THOAS
Summon the priestess to attend me here!
Then go with speed, and strictly search the shore,
From yonder headland to Diana's grove:
Forbear to violate its sacred depths,
A watchful ambush set, attack and seize,
According to your wont, whome'er ye find.
[ARKAS _retires_.]