The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV by Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke
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Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke >> The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV
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LONGING AND PEACE
Lightly dressed, Lucinda and Julius stood by the window in the
summer-house, refreshing themselves in the cool morning air. They were
absorbed in watching the rising sun, which the birds were welcoming
with their joyous songs.
"Julius," asked Lucinda, "why is it that I feel a deep longing in this
serene peace?"
"It is only in longing that we find peace," answered Julius. "Yes,
there is peace only when the spirit is entirely free to long and to
seek, where it can find nothing higher than its own longing."
"Only in the peace of the night," said Lucinda, "do longing and love
shine full and bright, like this glorious sun."
"And in the daytime," responded Julius, "the happiness of love shines
dimly, even as the pale moonlight."
"Or it appears and vanishes suddenly into the general darkness," added
Lucinda, "like those flashes of lightning which lighted up the room
when the moon was hidden."
"Only in the night," said Julius, "does the little nightingale utter
wails and deep sighs. Only in the night does the flower shyly open and
breathe freely the fragrant air, intoxicating both mind and senses in
equal delight. Only in the night, Lucinda, does the bold speech of
deep passion flow divinely from the lips, which in the noise of the
day close with tender pride their sweet sanctuary."
LUCINDA
It is not I, my Julius, whom you portray as so holy; although I would
fain wail like the nightingale, and although I am, as I inwardly feel,
consecrated to the night. It is you, it is the wonderful flower of
your fantasy which you perceive in me, when the noise has died down
and nothing commonplace distracts your noble mind.
JULIUS
Away with modesty and flattery! Remember, you are the priestess of the
night. Even in the daylight the dark lustre of your abundant hair, the
bright black of your earnest eyes, the majesty of your brow and your
entire body, all proclaim it.
LUCINDA
My eyes droop while you praise, because the noisy morning dazzles and
the joyous songs of the merry birds strengthen and awe my soul. At
another time my ear would eagerly drink in my lovely friend's sweet
talk here in the quiet, dark coolness of the evening.
JULIUS
It is not vain fantasy. My longing for you is constant and
everlastingly unsatisfied.
LUCINDA
Be it what it may, you are the object in which my being finds peace.
JULIUS
Holy peace, dear friend, I have found only in that longing.
LUCINDA
And I have found that holy longing in this beautiful peace.
JULIUS
Alas, that the garish light is permitted to lift the veil that so
concealed those flames, that the play of the senses was fain to cool
and assuage the burning soul.
LUCINDA
And so sometimes the cold and serious day will annihilate the warm
night of life, when youth flies by and I renounce you, even as you
once more greatly renounced great love.
JULIUS
Oh, that I might show you my unknown friend, and her the wonder of my
wondrous happiness.
LUCINDA
You love her still and will love her forever, though forever mine.
That is the wonder of your wondrous heart.
JULIUS
No more wondrous than yours. I see you, clasped against my breast,
playing with your Guido's locks, while we twain in brotherly union
adorn your serious brow with eternal wreaths of joy.
LUCINDA
Let rest in darkness, bring not forth into light, that which blooms
sacredly in the quiet depths of the heart.
JULIUS
Where may the billow of life be sporting with the impulsive youth whom
tender feeling and wild fate vehemently dragged into the harsh world?
LUCINDA
Uniquely transfigured, the pure image of the noble Unknown shines in
the blue sky of your pure soul.
JULIUS
Oh eternal longing! But surely the futile desire, the vain glare, of
the day will grow dim and go out, and there will be forever more the
restful feeling of a great night of love.
LUCINDA
Thus does the woman's heart in my ardent breast feel, when I am
allowed to be as I am. It longs only for your longing, and is peaceful
where you find peace.
DALLYINGS OF THE FANTASY
Life itself, the delicate child of the gods, is crowded out by the
hard, loud preparations for living, and is pitifully stifled in the
loving embrace of apelike Care.
To have purposes, to carry out purposes, to interweave purposes
artfully with purposes for a purpose: this habit is so deeply rooted
in the foolish nature of godlike man, that if once he wishes to move
freely, without any purpose, on the inner stream of ever-flowing
images and feelings, he must actually resolve to do it and make it a
set purpose.
It is the acme of intelligence to keep silent from choice, to
surrender the soul to the fantasy, and not to disturb the sweet
dallyings of the young mother with her child. But rarely is the mind
so intelligent after the golden age of its innocence. It would fain
possess the soul alone; and even when she supposes herself alone with
her natural love, the understanding listens furtively and substitutes
for the holy child's-play mere memories of former purposes or
prospects of new ones. Yes, it even continues to give to the hollow,
cold illusions a tinge of color and a fleeting heat; and thus by its
imitative skill it tries to steal from the innocent fantasy its very
innermost being.
But the youthful soul does not allow itself to be cheated by the
cunning of the prematurely old Understanding, and is always watching
while its darling plays with the beautiful pictures of the beautiful
world. Willingly she allows her brow to be adorned with the wreaths
which the child plaits from the blossoms of life, and willingly she
sinks into waking slumber, dreaming of the music of love, hearing the
friendly and mysterious voices of the gods, like the separate sounds
of a distant romance.
Old, well-known feelings make music from the depths of the past and
the future. They touch the listening spirit but lightly, and quickly
lose themselves in the background of hushed music and dim love. Every
one lives and loves, complains and rejoices, in beautiful confusion.
Here at a noisy feast the lips of all the joyful guests open in
general song, and there the lonely maiden becomes mute in the presence
of the friend in whom she would fain confide, and with smiling mouth
refuses the kiss. Thoughtfully I strew flowers on the grave of the
prematurely dead son, flowers which presently, full of joy and hope, I
offer to the bride of the beloved brother; while the high priestess
beckons to me and holds out her hand for a solemn covenant to swear by
the pure eternal fire eternal purity and never-dying enthusiasm. I
hasten away from the altar and the priestess to seize my sword and
plunge with the host of heroes into a battle, which I soon forget,
seeing in the deepest solitude only the sky and myself.
The soul that has such dreams in sleep continues to have them even
when it is awake. It feels itself entwined by the blossoms of love, it
takes care not to destroy the loose wreaths; it gladly gives itself up
a prisoner, consecrates itself to the fantasy, and willingly allows
itself to be ruled by the child, which rewards all maternal cares by
its sweet playfulness.
Then a fresh breath of the bloom of youth and a halo of child-like
ecstasy comes over the whole of life. The man deifies his Beloved, the
mother her child, and all men everlasting humanity.
Now the soul understands the wail of the nightingale and the smile of
the new-born babe; the significance of the flowers and the mysterious
hieroglyphics of the starry sky; the holy import of life as well as
the beautiful language of Nature. All things speak to it, and
everywhere it sees the lovely spirit through the delicate envelope.
On this gaily decorated floor it glides through the light dance of
life, innocent, and concerned only to follow the rhythm of sociability
and friendship, and not to disturb the harmony of love. And during it
all an eternal song, of which it catches now and then a few words
which adumbrate still higher wonders.
Ever more beautifully this magic circle encompasses the charmed soul,
and that which it forms or speaks sounds like a wonderful romance of
childhood's beautiful and mysterious divinities--a romantic tale,
accompanied by the bewitching music of the feelings, and adorned with
the fairest flowers of lovely life.
APHORISMS
By FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL
From the _Lyceum and the Athenaeum_ (1797-1800)
TRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY
Perfect understanding of a classic work should never be possible; but
those who are cultivated and who are still striving after further
culture, must always desire to learn more from it.
If an author is to be able to write well upon a theme, he must no
longer feel interest in it; the thought which is to be soberly
expressed must already be entirely past and must no longer personally
concern the writer. So long as the artist invents and is inspired, he
is in an unfavorable situation, at least for communicating his
concepts. He will then wish to say everything--a false tendency of
young geniuses, or an instinctively correct prejudice of old bunglers.
In this way he mistakes the value and the dignity of self-restraint,
although for the artist, as for the man, this is the first and the
last, the most needful and the highest.
We should never appeal to the spirit of antiquity as an authority.
There is this peculiarity about spirits: they cannot be grasped with
the hands and be held up before others. Spirits reveal themselves only
to spirits. Here, too, the briefest and most concise course would
doubtless be to prove, through good works, our possession of the faith
which alone gives salvation.
He who desires something infinite knows not what he desires; but the
converse of this proposition is not true.
In the ordinary kind of fair or even good translation it is precisely
the best part of a work that is lost.
It is impossible to offend a man if he will not be offended.
Every honest author writes for no one or for all men; he who writes
that this one or that one may read him, deserves not to be read at
all.
In the poetry of the Ancients we see the perfection of the letter: in
that of the moderns we divine the growth of the spirit.
The Germans are said to be the foremost nation of the world as regards
artistic sense and scientific genius. Very true, only--there are very
few Germans.
Almost all marriages are only concubinages, morganatic wedlock, or,
rather, provisional attempts and remote approximations to a real
marriage, the peculiar essence of which consists in the fact that more
than one person are to become but one, not in accordance with the
paradoxes of this system or that, but in harmony with all spiritual
and temporal laws. A fine concept, although its realization seems to
have many grave difficulties. For this very reason there should here
be the least possible restriction of the caprice which may well have a
word to say when it becomes a question of whether one is to be an
individual in himself or is to be merely an integral part of a
corporate personality; nor is it easy to see what objections, on
principle, could be made to a marriage a quatre. If the State,
however, is determined to hold together, even by force, the
unsuccessful attempts at marriage, it thereby impedes the very
possibility of marriage, which might be furthered by new--and perhaps
happier--attempts.
A regiment of soldiers on parade is, according to some philosophers, a
system.
A man can only become a philosopher, he cannot be one; so soon as he
believes that he is one, he ceases to become one.
The printed page is to thought what a nursery is to the first kiss.
The historian is a prophet looking backward.
There are people whose entire activity consists in saying "No." It
would be no small thing always to be able rightly to say "No," but he
who can do nothing more, surely cannot do it rightly. The taste of
these negationists is an admirable shears to cleanse the extremities
of genius; their enlightenment a great snuffer for the flame of
enthusiasm; and their reason a mild laxative for immoderate passion
and love.
Every great philosopher has always so explained his
predecessors--often unintentionally--that it seemed as though they had
not in the least been understood before him.
As a transitory condition skepticism is logical insurrection; as a
system it is anarchy; skeptical method would thus be approximately
like insurgent government.
At the phrases "his philosophy," "my philosophy," we always recall the
words in Nathan the Wise: "Who owns God? What sort of a God is that
who is owned by a man?"
What happens in poetry happens never or always; otherwise, it is no
true poetry. We ought not to believe that it is now actually
happening.
Women have absolutely no sense of art, though they may have of poetry.
They have no natural disposition for the sciences, though they may
have for philosophy. They are by no means wanting in power of
speculation and intuitive perception of the infinite; they lack only
power of abstraction, which is far more easy to be learned.
That is beautiful which is charming and sublime at the same time.
Romantic poetry is a progressive universal poetry. Its mission is not
merely to reunite all the separate categories of poetry, and to bring
poetry into contact with philosophy and with rhetoric. It will, and
should, also now mingle and now amalgamate poetry and prose, genius
and criticism, artistic poetry and natural poetry; make poetry living
and social, and life and society poetic; poetize wit; and fill and
saturate the forms of art with sterling material of every kind, and
inspire them with the vibrations of humor. It embraces everything, if
only it is poetic--from the greatest system of art which, in its turn,
includes many systems within itself, down to the sigh, the kiss, which
the musing child breathes forth in artless song. It can so be lost in
what it represents that it might be supposed that its one and all is
the characterization of poetic individuals of every type; and yet no
form has thus far arisen which would be equally adapted perfectly to
express the author's mind; so that many artists who desired only to
write a romance have more or less described themselves. Romantic
poetry alone can, like the epic, become a mirror of the entire world
that surrounds it, and a picture of its age. And yet, free from all
real and ideal interests, it, too, most of all, can soar, mid-way
between that which is presented and him who presents, on the wings of
poetic reflection; it can ever re-intensify this reflection and
multiply it as in an endless series of mirrors. It is capable of the
highest and of the most universal culture--not merely from within
outward, but also from without inward--since it organizes similarly
all parts of that which is destined to become a whole; thus the
prospect of an endlessly developing classicism is opened up to it.
Among the arts romantic poetry is what wit is to philosophy, and what
society, association, friendship, and love are in life. Other types of
poetry are finished, and can now be completely analyzed. The romantic
type of poetry is still in process of development; indeed, it is its
peculiar essence that it can eternally only be in process of
development, and that it can never be completed. It can be exhausted
by no theory, and only a divinatory criticism might dare to wish to
characterize its ideal. It alone is infinite, even as it alone is
free; and as its first law it recognizes that the arbitrariness of the
poet brooks no superior law. The romantic style of poetry is the only
one which is more than a style, and which is, as it were, poetry
itself; for in a certain sense all poetry is, or should be, romantic.
In the ancients every man has found what he needed or
desired--especially himself.
The French Revolution, Fichte's _Wissenschaftslehre_, and Goethe's
_Wilhelm Meister_ are the three greatest tendencies of the age.
Whoever is offended at this juxtaposition, and whoever can deem no
revolution important which is not boisterous and material, has not yet
risen to the broad and lofty viewpoint of the history of mankind. Even
in our meagre histories of culture, which, for the most part, resemble
a collection of variant readings accompanied by a running commentary
the classical text of which has perished, many a little book of which
the noisy rabble took scant notice in its day, plays a greater role
than all that this rabble did.
It is very one-sided and presumptuous to assert that there is only one
Mediator. To the ideal Christian--and in this respect the unique
Spinoza comes nearest to being one--everything ought to be a Mediator.
He alone can be an artist who has a religion of his own, an original
view of the infinite.
It is a peculiar trait of humanity that it must exalt itself above
humanity.
Plato's philosophy is a worthy preface to the religion of the future.
Man is free when he brings forth God or makes Him visible; and thereby
he becomes immortal.
The morality of a book lies not in its theme or in the relation of the
writer to his public, but in the spirit of the treatment. If this
breathes the full abundance of humanity, it is moral. If it is merely
the work of an isolated power and art, it is not moral.
He is an artist who has his centre within himself. He who lacks this
must choose a definite leader and mediator outside himself--naturally,
not forever, but only at the first. For without a living centre man
cannot exist, and if he does not yet have it within himself he can
seek it only in a human being, and only a human being and his centre
can arouse and awaken the artist's own.
NOVALIS (FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG)
* * * * *
THE STORY OF HYACINTH AND ROSEBLOSSOM
From _The Novices at Sais_ (1798)
TRANSLATED BY LILLIE WINTER
Long ages ago there lived in the far west a guileless youth. He was
very good, but at the same time peculiar beyond measure. He constantly
grieved over nothing at all, always went about alone and silent, sat
down by himself whenever the others played and were happy, and was
always thinking about strange things. Woods and caves were his
favorite haunts, and there he talked constantly with birds and
animals, with rocks and trees--naturally not a word of sense, nothing
but stuff silly enough to make one die a-laughing. Yet he continued to
remain morose and grave in spite of the fact that the squirrel, the
long-tailed monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch took great pains to
distract him and lead him into the right path. The goose would tell
fairy-tales, and in the midst of them the brook would tinkle a ballad;
a great heavy stone would caper about ludicrously; the rose stealing
up affectionately behind him would creep through his locks, and the
ivy stroke his careworn forehead. But his melancholy and his gravity
were obstinate. His parents were greatly grieved; they did not know
what to do. He was healthy and ate well. His parents had never hurt
his feelings, nor until a few years since had any one been more
cheerful and lively than he; always he had been at the head of every
game, and was well liked by all the girls. He was very handsome
indeed, looked like a picture, danced beautifully. Among the girls
there was one sweet and very pretty child.
[Illustration: #NOVALIS# (Friedrich von Hardenberg) EDUARD EICHENS]
She looked as though she were of wax, with hair like silk spun of
gold, lips as red as cherries, a figure like a little doll, eyes black
as the raven. Such was her charm that whoever saw her might have pined
away with love. At that time Roseblossom, that was her name, cherished
a heart-felt affection for the handsome Hyacinth, that was his name,
and he loved her with all his life. The other children did not know
it. A little violet had been the first to tell them; the house-cats
had noticed it, to be sure, for their parents' homes stood near each
other. When, therefore, Hyacinth was standing at night at his window
and Roseblossom at hers, and the pussies ran by on a mouse-hunt, they
would see both standing, and would often laugh and titter so loudly
that the children would hear them and grow angry. The violet had
confided it to the strawberry, she told it to her friend, the
gooseberry, and she never stopped taunting when Hyacinth passed; so
that very soon the whole garden and the goods heard the news, and
whenever Hyacinth went out they called on every side: "Little
Roseblossom is my sweetheart!" Now Hyacinth was vexed, and again he
could not help laughing from the bottom of his heart when the lizard
would come sliding up, seat himself on a warm stone, wag his little
tail, and sing
Little Roseblossom, good and kind,
Suddenly was stricken blind.
Her mother Hyacinth she thought
And to embrace him forthwith sought.
But when she felt the face was strange,
Just think, no terror made her change!
But on his cheek pressed she her kiss,
And she had noted naught amiss.
Alas, how soon did all this bliss pass away! There came along a man
from foreign lands; he had traveled everywhere, had a long beard,
deep-set eyes, terrible eyebrows, a strange cloak with many folds and
queer figures woven in it. He seated himself in front of the house
that belonged to Hyacinth's parents. Now Hyacinth was very curious and
sat down beside him and fetched him bread and wine. Then the man
parted his white beard and told stories until late at night and
Hyacinth did not stir nor did he tire of listening. As far as one
could learn afterward the man had related much about foreign lands,
unknown regions, astonishingly wondrous things, staying there three
days and creeping down into deep pits with Hyacinth. Roseblossom
cursed the old sorcerer enough, for Hyacinth was all eagerness for his
tales and cared for nothing, scarcely even eating a little food.
Finally the man took his departure, not, however, without leaving
Hyacinth a booklet that not a soul could read. The youth had even
given him fruit, bread, and wine to take along and had accompanied him
a long way. Then he came back melancholy and began an entirely new
mode of life. Roseblossom grieved for him very pitifully, for from
that time on he paid little attention to her and always kept to
himself.
Now it came about that he returned home one day and was like one
new-born. He fell on his parents' neck and wept. "I must depart for
foreign lands," he said; "the strange old woman in the forest told me
that I must get well again; she threw the book into the fire and urged
me to come to you and ask for your blessing. Perhaps I shall be back
soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Roseblossom for me. I should
have liked to speak to her, I do not know what is the matter,
something drives me away; whenever I want to think of old times,
mightier thoughts rush in immediately; my peace is gone, my courage
and love with it, I must go in quest of them. I should like to tell
you whither, but I do not know myself; thither where dwells the mother
of all things, the veiled virgin. For her my heart burns. Farewell!"
He tore himself away and departed. His parents lamented and shed
tears. Roseblossom kept in her chamber and wept bitterly. Hyacinth now
hastened as fast as he could through valleys and wildernesses, across
mountains and streams, toward the mysterious country. Everywhere he
asked men and animals, rocks and trees, for the sacred goddess (Isis).
Some laughed, some were silent, nowhere did he receive an answer. At
first he passed through wild, uninhabited regions, mist and clouds
obstructed his path, it was always storming; later he found unbounded
deserts of glowing hot sand, and as he wandered his mood changed, time
seemed to grow longer, and his inner unrest was calmed. He became more
tranquil and the violent excitement within him was gradually
transformed to a gentle but strong impulse, which took possession of
his whole nature. It seemed as though many years lay behind him. Now,
too, the region again became richer and more varied, the air warm and
blue, the path more level; green bushes attracted him with their
pleasant shade but he did not understand their language, nor did they
seem to speak, and yet they filled his heart with verdant colors, with
quiet and freshness. Mightier and mightier grew within him that sweet
longing, broader and softer the leaves, noisier and happier the birds
and animals, balmier the fruits, darker the heavens, warmer the air
and more fiery his love; faster and faster passed the Time, as though
it knew that it was approaching the goal.
One day he came upon a crystal spring and a bevy of flowers that were
going down to a valley between black columns reaching to the sky. With
familiar words they greeted him kindly. "My dear countrymen," he said,
"pray, where am I to find the sacred abode of Isis? It must be
somewhere in this vicinity, and you are probably better acquainted
here than I." "We, too, are only passing through this region," the
flowers answered; "a family of spirits is traveling and we are making
ready the road and preparing lodgings for them; but we came through a
region lately where we heard her name called. Just walk upward in the
direction from which we are coming and you will be sure to learn
more." The flowers and the spring smiled as they said this, offered
him a drink of fresh water, and went on.
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