pure and unadulterated while living among people who spoke quite differently. I do not know whether it was the contrast, or whether this really was the worst German I had ever heard in my life. While we were planning to visit some points of interest in Weimar, and while Chancellor Mueller, who had probably noticed my depression, was assuring me that Goethe’s formality was nothing but the embarrassment always displayed by him on meeting a stranger for the first time, the waiter entered and handed me a card containing an invitation from Goethe to dine with him the next day. I therefore had to prolong my stay and to countermand the order for the horses. The morning was passed in visiting the places that had become famous through their literary associations. Schiller’s house interested me most of all, and I was especially delighted to find in the poet’s study, really an attic-room in the second story, an old man who is said to have acted as prompter at the theatre in Schiller’s time, teaching his grandson to read. The little boy’s open and intelligently animated expression prompted the illusion that out of Schiller’s study a new Schiller might some day emerge–an illusion which, to be sure, has not been realized.
The exact order of events is now confused in my mind. I believe it was on this first day that I dined with Hummel _en famille_. There I found his wife, formerly the pretty singer, Miss Roeckel, whom I could well remember in page’s attire and close-fitting silk tights. Now she was an efficient, respected housewife, who vied with her husband in amiability. I felt myself strongly drawn to the whole family and, in spite of his rather mechanical disposition, I honored and venerated Hummel as the last genuine pupil of Mozart.
In the evening I attended the theatre with Chancellor Mueller, where an unimportant play was being given, in which, however, Graff, Schiller’s first Wallenstein, had a role. I saw nothing particularly remarkable in him, and when I was told that, after the first performance, Schiller had rushed upon the stage, embraced Graff, and exclaimed that now for the first time did he understand his Wallenstein, I thought to myself–how much greater might the great poet have become had he ever known a public and real actors! It is remarkable, by the way, that Schiller, who is not at bottom very objective, lends himself so perfectly to an objective representation. He became figurative, while believing himself to be only eloquent–one more proof of his incomparable genius. In Goethe we find the exact opposite. While he is ordinarily called objective and is so to a great extent, his characters lose in the actual representation. His figurativeness is only for the imagination; in the representation the delicate, poetic tinge is necessarily lost. However, these are reflections for another time; they do not belong here.
At last the momentous day with its dinner-hour arrived, and I went to Goethe. The other guests, all of them men, were already assembled, the charming Talvj having departed with her father the morning after the tea-party and Goethe’s daughter-in-law being absent from Weimar at the time. To the latter and to her daughter, who died when quite young, I later became very much attached. As I advanced into the room Goethe came toward me, and was now as amiable and cordial as he had recently been formal and cold. I was deeply moved. When we went in to dinner, and Goethe, who had become for me the embodiment of German Poetry and, because of the immeasurable distance between us, almost a mythological being, took my hand to lead me into the dining-room, the boy in me manifested itself once again and I burst into tears. Goethe took great pains to conceal my foolish emotion. I sat next to him at dinner and he was more cheerful and talkative than he had been for a long time, as the guests asserted later. The conversation, enlivened by him, became general, but Goethe frequently turned to me individually. However, I cannot recall what he said, except a good joke regarding Muellner’s _Midnight Journal_. Unfortunately I made no notes concerning this journey, or, rather, I did begin a diary, but as the accident I had in Berlin made it at first impossible for me to write and later difficult, a great gap ensued. This deterred me from continuing it, and, besides, the difficulty of writing remained, even in Weimar. I therefore determined to fill in what was lacking immediately after my return to Vienna, while the events were still fresh in my memory. But when I arrived there some other work demanded immediate attention, and the matter soon escaped my mind; and therefore I retained in my memory nothing but general impressions of what I had almost called the most important moment of my life. Only one occurrence at dinner stands out in my memory–namely, in the ardor of the conversation I yielded to an old habit of breaking up the piece of bread beside me into unsightly crumbs. Goethe lightly touched each individual crumb with his finger and arranged them in a little symmetrical heap. Only after the lapse of some time did I notice this, and then I discontinued my handiwork.
As I was taking my leave, Goethe requested me to come the next morning and have myself sketched, for he was in the habit of having drawings made of those of his visitors who interested him. They were done in black crayon by an artist especially engaged for the work, and the pictures were then put into a frame which hung in the reception-room for this purpose, being changed in regular rotation every week. This honor was also bestowed upon me.
When I arrived the next morning the artist had not yet appeared; I was therefore directed to Goethe, who was walking up and down in his little garden. The cause of his stiff bearing before strangers now became clear to me. The years had not passed without leaving some traces. As he walked about in the garden, one could see that the upper part of his body, his head and shoulders, were bent slightly forward. This he wished to hide from strangers, and hence that forced straightening-up which produced an unpleasant impression. The sight of him in this unaffected carriage, wearing a long dressing-gown, a small skull-cap on his white hair, had something infinitely touching about it. He looked like a king, and again like a father. We walked up and down, engaged in conversation. He mentioned my _Sappho_ and seemed to think well of it, thus in a way praising himself, for I had followed fairly closely in his footsteps. When I complained of my isolated position in Vienna he remarked what we have since read in his printed works, that man can do efficient work only in the company of likeminded or congenial spirits. If he and Schiller had attained universal recognition, they owed it largely to this stimulating and supplementing reciprocal influence.
In the meantime the artist had arrived. We entered the house and I was sketched. Goethe had gone into his room, whence he emerged from time to time to satisfy himself as to the progress of the picture, which pleased him when completed. When the artist had departed Goethe had his son bring in some of his choicest treasures. There was his correspondence with Lord Byron; everything relating to his acquaintance with the Empress and the Emperor of Austria at Karlsbad; and finally the imperial Austrian copyright of his collected works. This latter he seemed to value very highly, either because he liked the conservative attitude of Austria, or because he regarded it as an oddity in contradistinction to the usual policy pursued in literary matters by this country. These treasures were wrapped separately in half-oriental fashion in pieces of silk, Goethe handling them with reverence. At last I was most graciously dismissed.
In the course of the day Chancellor Mueller suggested my visiting Goethe toward evening; he would be alone, and my visit would by no means be unwelcome to him. Not until later did it occur to me that Mueller could not have made the suggestion without Goethe’s knowledge.
Now I committed my second blunder in Weimar. I was afraid to be alone with Goethe for an entire evening, and after considerable vacillation decided not to go. Several elements combined to produce this fear. In the first place, it seemed to me that there was nothing within the whole range of my intellect worthy of being displayed before Goethe. Secondly, it was not until later that I learned to place the proper value upon my own works by comparing them with those of my contemporaries, the former appearing exceedingly crude and insignificant in contrast with the works of my predecessors, especially here in the home of German poetry. Finally, as I stated before, I had left Vienna with the feeling that my poetic talent had completely exhausted itself, a feeling which was intensified in Weimar to the point of actual depression. It seemed to me an utterly unworthy proceeding to fill Goethe’s ears with lamentations and to listen to words of encouragement for which there seemed to be no guarantee of fulfilment.
Yet there was some method in this madness after all. Goethe’s aversion at that time for anything violent and forced was well known to me. Now I was of the opinion that calmness and deliberation are appropriate only to one who is capable of introducing such a wealth of thought into his works as Goethe has done in his _Iphigenia_ and _Tasso_. At the same time I held the opinion that every one must emphasize those qualities with which he is most strongly endowed, and these in my case were at that time warmth of feeling and vividness of imagination. Occupying, as I then did, the viewpoint of impartial observation, I felt that I was far too weak to defend against Goethe the causes of such divergence from his own views, and I had far too much reverence for him to accept his exposition with pretended approval or in hypocritical silence.
At all events I did not go, and that displeased Goethe. He had good cause to feel astonished that I should display such indifference to the proffered opportunity of enlightening him concerning my works and myself; or else he came nearer to the truth, and imagined that _The Ancestress_ and my predilection for similar effusions, which were repugnant to him, were not entirely quenched within me; or perhaps he divined my entire mood, and concluded that an unmanly character was bound to ruin even a great talent. From that time on he was much colder toward me.
But as far as this unmanliness is concerned, I confess, as I have previously done, to falling a prey to this weakness whenever I find myself confronted with a confused mass of sensations of lesser importance, especially with goodwill, reverence, and gratitude. Whenever I was able to define the opposing factors sharply to myself in the rejection of the bad as well as in the perseverance in a conviction, I displayed both before and after this period a firmness which, indeed, might even be called obstinacy. But in general it may safely be asserted: Only the union of character and talent produces what is called genius.
On one of these days I was also commanded to appear before the grand duke, whom I met in all his simplicity and unaffectedness in the so-called Roman House. He conversed with me for over an hour, and my description of Austrian conditions seemed to interest him. Not he, but most of the others, hinted at the desire of acquiring my services for the Weimar theatre–a desire that did not coincide with my own inclination.
When on the fourth day of my stay I paid my farewell visit to Goethe, he was friendly, but somewhat reserved. He expressed astonishment at my leaving Weimar so soon, and added that they would all be glad to hear from me occasionally. “They,” then, would be glad, not he. Even in later years he did not do me justice, for I do consider myself the best poet that has appeared after him and Schiller, in spite of the gulf that separates me from them. That all this did not lessen my love and reverence for him, I need scarcely say.
* * * * *
BEETHOVEN AS A LETTER WRITER
BY WALTER R. SPALDING, A.M.
Associate Professor of Music, Harvard University
The first musician to whom a place among the representative masters of German literature may justly be assigned is Beethoven, and this fact is so significant and so closely connected with the subsequent development both of music and literature that the reasons for such a statement should be set forth in detail. Although Haydn kept a note-book, still extant, during his two visits to London, and although Mozart wrote the average number of letters, from no one of the musicians prior to Beethoven have we received, in writings which can be classed as literature, any expression of their personalities. Their intellectual and imaginative activity was manifested almost exclusively in music, and their interest in whatever lay outside the musical horizon was very slight. In the written words of neither Haydn nor Mozart do we find any reference to the poetical and prose works of Germany or of other nations, nor is there any evidence that their imaginations were influenced by suggestions drawn from literature. Famous though they were as musicians by reason of their sincere and masterful handling of the raw material of music, there is so little depth of thought in their compositions that many of them have failed to live. Neither Haydn nor Mozart can be considered as a great character and we miss the note of sublimity in their music, although it often has great vitality and charm. Beethoven, however, was a thinker in tones and often in words.
[Illustration: BEETHOVEN]
His symphonies are human documents, and even had he not written a single note of music we have sufficient evidence in verbal form to convince us that his personality was one of remarkable power and that music was only one way, though, to be sure, the foremost, of expressing the depth of his feeling and the range of his mental activity. In distinction from his predecessors, who were merely musicians, Beethoven was a man first and a musician second, and the lasting vitality in his works is due to their broad human import; they evidently came from a character endowed with a rich and fertile imagination, from one who looked at life from many sides. Several of his most famous compositions were founded on works of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller, and the Heroic Symphony bears witness to his keen interest in the momentous political changes of his time and in the growth of untrammeled human individuality. No mere manipulator of sounds and rhythms could have impressed the fastidious nobility of Vienna to the high degree chronicled by contemporary testimony. Beethoven wished to be known as a _Tondichter_, i.e., a first-hand creator, and his whole work was radically different from the rather cautious and imitative methods which had characterized former composers. It was through the cultivated von Breuning family of Bonn that the young Beethoven became acquainted with English literature, and his growing familiarity with it exerted a strong influence upon his whole life and undoubtedly increased the natural vigor of his imagination, for the literature of England surpassed anything which had so far been produced by Germany. Later, in 1823, when the slavery debates were going on in Parliament, he used to read with keen interest the speeches of Lord Brougham.
In estimating the products of human imagination during the last century, a fact of great significance is the relationship of the arts of literature and of music. Numerous examples might be cited of men who were almost equally gifted in expressing themselves in either words or musical sounds–notably von Weber, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Spohr, Schumann, and Mendelssohn, this dual activity reaching a remarkable climax in Richard Wagner, who was both a great dramatic poet and an equally supreme musician. The same tendency is manifested by leaders of thought in other nations. Thus the French Berlioz and St. Saens are equally noted as composers and men of letters; the Italian Boito is an able dramatist as well as composer; and, among modern instances, Debussy, d’Indy, and Strauss have shown high literary as well as musical ability. To turn to the other side of this duality, allusions to music in works of both prose and poetry have become increasingly frequent during the nineteenth century, and the musical art is no longer considered a mysterious abstraction entirely divorced from the outward world of men and events. It is a long step from Goethe, who was entirely unable to grasp the meaning of Beethoven’s symphonies, to such men as Heine, who has made some very illuminating comments on various composers and their music; Max Mueller, a highly cultivated musical amateur; Schopenhauer, whose esthetic principles so deeply influenced Wagner; and Nietzsche, a musician of considerable technical ability. To these names should be added that of Robert Browning who, together with Shakespeare, has shown a truer insight into the real nature of music than any other English writers have manifested.
With Beethoven, then, music ceases to be an opportunity for the display of mere abstract skill and takes its place on an equality with the arts of poetry and painting as a means of intense personal expression. If the basis of all worth in literature is that the writer shall have something genuine to say, Beethoven’s letters are certainly literature, for they are the direct revelation of a great and many-sided personality and furnish invaluable testimony as to just what manner of man he was–too great indeed for music wholly to contain him. The Letters are not to be read for their felicity of expression, as one might approach the letters of Stevenson or Lamb; for Beethoven, even in his music, always valued substance more than style, or, at any rate, kept style subservient to vitality of utterance. In fact, one modern French musician claims that he had no taste! He was not gifted with the literary charm and subtlety of his great follower, Hector Berlioz, and had no practise as a journalist or a critic. As his deafness increased after the year 1800 and he was therefore forced to live a life of retirement, he committed his thoughts more and more to writing, and undoubtedly left to the world a larger number of letters than if he had been taking a normal part in the activities of his fellowmen.
Particular attention is called to the variety of Beethoven’s correspondents and to their influential position in the artistic and social life of that period. In the Will, number 55, a most impassioned expression of feeling, Beethoven lays bare his inmost soul, and with an eloquence seldom surpassed has transformed cold words into living symbols of emotion. The immortal power contained in his music finds its parallel in this document. He who appeals to our deepest emotions commands for all time our reverent allegiance. In addition to the letters there is an extensive diary and also numerous conversation books. All these writings are valuable, not only for themselves, but because they confirm in an unmistakable way certain of the salient characteristics of his musical compositions. With Beethoven we find in instrumental music, practically for the first time, a prevailing note of sublimity. He must have been a religious man in the truest sense of the term, with the capacity to realize the mystery and grandeur of human destiny, and numerous passages from the letters give eloquent expression to an analogous train of serious thought. (See letters 1017 and 1129.) One of his favorite books was Sturm’s _Betrachtungen ueber die Werke Gottes in der Natur_ (“Contemplations upon the Works of God in Nature”), and from his diary of 1816 we have the quotation which was the basis of his creed–“God is immaterial, and for this reason transcends every conception. Since he is invisible He can have no form. But from what we observe in His work we may conclude that He is eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent.”
Although some modern critics have doubted whether music without the association of words can express humor, the introduction of this element into symphonic music is generally considered one of Beethoven’s greatest achievements. While it is true that if any one listening to the scherzos of the Third and Eighth symphonies asserts that they mean nothing humorous to him no one can gainsay him, we know that Beethoven intended these movements to be expressions of his overflowing humorous spirits and the suggestive term “scherzo” is his own invention. In music, as in literature, much hinges upon the definition of humor, and there is the same distinction in each art between wit–light and playful, and humor–broad, serious, and, at times, even grim. A genuine humorist is always a deep thinker, one who sees all sides of human nature–the great traits and the petty ones. The poet Lowell has defined humor as consisting in the contrast of two ideas, and in a Beethoven scherzo the gay and the pathetic are so intermingled that we are in constant suspense between laughter and tears. A humorist, furthermore, is a person of warm heart, who looks with sympathetic affection upon the incongruities of human nature. In fact, both the expression and the perception of humor are social acts, as may be seen from the development of this subject by the philosopher Bergson in his brilliant essay _On Laughter_. That Beethoven the humorist was closely related to Beethoven the humanist, and that the expression of humor in his music–something quite different from the facile wit and cleverness of the Haydn minuet–was inevitable with him, is clearly proved by the presence of the same spirit in so many of the letters. Too much stress has been laid by Beethoven’s biographers upon his buffoonery and fondness for practical jokes. At bottom he was most tender-hearted and sympathetic; his nature, of volcanic impetuosity, a puzzling mixture of contradictory emotions. In but very few of his great works is the element of humor omitted, and its expression ranges all the way from the uproariously comic to the grimly tragic. Some of his scherzos reveal the same fantastic caprice which is found in the medieval gargoyles of Gothic architecture.
Beethoven’s letters, then, are to be considered as the first distinct evidence we have of that change in the musical sense which has brought about such important developments in the trend of modern music. Just as in Beethoven’s works we generally feel that there is something behind the notes, and as he is said always to have composed with some poetical picture in his mind, so the music of our time has become programmistic in the wide sense of the term, no longer a mere embodiment of the laws of its own being but charged with vital and dramatic import, closely related to all artistic expression and to the currents of daily life. Familiarity with the selection of letters here published cannot fail to contribute to a deeper enjoyment of Beethoven’s music, for through them we realize that the universality of the artist was the direct consequence of the emotional breadth of the man. All art is a union of emotion and intellect, and their perfect balance is the paramount characteristic of this master.
* * * * *
BEETHOVEN’S LETTERS[66]
TRANSLATED BY J.S. SHEDLOCK
NO. 8
TO DR. FRANZ WEGELER IN VIENNA
(Between 1794-1796)
My dearest, my best one!
What a horrid picture you have drawn to me of myself. I recognize it; I do not deserve your friendship. You are so noble, so kindly disposed, and now for the first time I do not dare to compare myself with you; I have fallen far below you. Alas! for weeks I have given pain to my best, my noblest friends. You believe I have ceased to be kind-hearted, but, thank heaven, ’tis not so! It was not intentional, thought-out malice on my part, which caused me to act thus; but my unpardonable thoughtlessness, which prevented me from seeing the matter in the right light. I am thoroughly ashamed for your sake, also for mine. I scarcely venture to beg you to restore your friendship. Ah, Wegeler! _My only consolation is that you knew me almost from my childhood_, and–oh! let me say it myself–I was really always of good disposition, and in my dealings always strove to be upright and honest; how, otherwise, could you have loved me! Could I, then, in so short a time have suddenly changed so terribly, so greatly to my disadvantage? Impossible that these feelings for what is great and good should all of a sudden become extinct! My Wegeler, dear and best one, venture once again to come to the arms of your B. Trust to the good qualities which you formerly found in him. I will vouch for it that the pure temple of holy friendship which you will erect on them will forever stand firm; no chance event, no storm will be able to shake its foundations–firm–eternal–our friendship–forgiveness–forgetting–revival of dying, sinking friendship. Oh, Wegeler! do not cast off this hand of reconciliation; place your hand in mine–O God!–but no more! I myself come to you and throw myself in your arms, and sue for the lost friend, and you will give yourself to me full of contrition, who loves and ever will be mindful of you.
BEETHOVEN.
I have just received your letter on my return home.
NO. 27
TO THE COMPOSER J.N. HUMMEL
(Vienna, circa 1799)
Do not come any more to me. You are a false fellow, and the hangman take all such!
BEETHOVEN.
NO. 28
TO THE SAME
(The next day)
Good Friend Nazerl:
You are an honorable fellow, and I see you were right. So come this afternoon to me. You will also find Schuppanzigh, and both of us will blow you up, thump you, and shake you; so you will have a fine time of it.
Your Beethoven, also named Mehlschoeberl, embraces you.
NO. 35
TO CARL AMENDA AT WIRBEN IN COURLAND
Vienna, June 1, 1800.
My Dear, My Good Amenda, My Heartily Beloved Friend:
With deep emotion, with mixed pain and pleasure, did I receive and read your last letter. To what can I compare your fidelity, your attachment to me. Oh! how pleasant it is that you have always remained so kind to me; yes, I also know that you, of all men, are the most trustworthy. You are no Viennese friend; no, you are one of those such as my native country produces. How often do I wish you were with me, for your Beethoven is most unhappy and at strife with nature and the Creator. The latter I have often cursed for exposing His creatures to the smallest chance, so that frequently the richest buds are thereby crushed and destroyed. Only think that the noblest part of me, my sense of hearing, has become very weak. Already when you were with me I noted traces of it, and I said nothing. Now it has become worse, and it remains to be seen whether it can ever be healed. * * * What a sad life I am now compelled to lead! I must avoid all that is near and dear to me, and then to be among such wretched egotistical beings as —-, etc.! I can say that among all Lichnowski has best stood the test. Since last year he has settled on me 600 florins, which, together with the good sale of my works, enables me to live without anxiety. Everything I write, I can sell immediately five times over, and also be well paid. * * * Oh! how happy should I now be if I had my perfect hearing, for I should then hasten to you. As it is, I must in all things be behindhand; my best years will slip away without bringing forth what, with my talent and my strength, I ought to have accomplished. I must now have recourse to sad resignation. I have, it is true, resolved not to worry about all this, but how is it possible? Yes, Amenda, if, six months hence, my malady is beyond cure, then I lay claim to your help. You must leave everything and come to me. I will travel (my malady interferes least with my playing and composition, most only in conversation), and you must be my companion. I am convinced good fortune will not fail me. With whom need I be afraid of measuring my strength? Since you went away I have written music of all kinds except operas and sacred works.
Yes, do not refuse; help your friend to bear with his troubles, his infirmity. I have also greatly improved my piano-forte playing. I hope this journey may also turn to your advantage; afterwards you will always remain with me. I have duly received all your letters, and although I have answered only a few, you have been always in my mind; and my heart, as always, beats tenderly for you. _Please keep as a great secret what I have told you about my hearing; trust no one, whoever it may be, with it_.
Do write frequently; your letters, however short they may be, console me, do me good. I expect soon to get another one from you, my dear friend. Don’t lend out my _Quartet_ any more, because I have made many changes in it. I have only just learnt how to write quartets properly, as you will see when you receive them.
Now, my dear good friend, farewell! If perchance you believe that I can show you any kindness here, I need not, of course, remind you to address yourself first to
Your faithful, truly loving,
L. v. BEETHOVEN.
NO. 45
TO COUNTESS GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI
On the 6th July, 1801, in the morning
My Angel, My All, My Very Self:
Just a few words today, and indeed in pencil–with thine–only till tomorrow is my room definitely engaged; what an unworthy waste of time in such matters–why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks! Can our love endure otherwise than through sacrifices, through restraint in longing? Canst thou help not being wholly mine, can I, not being wholly thine? Oh! gaze at nature in all its beauty, and calmly accept the inevitable–love demands everything, and rightly so. _Thus is it for me with thee, for thee with me_, only thou so easily forgettest that I must live for myself and for thee–were we wholly united thou wouldst feel this painful fact as little as I should–my journey was terrible. I arrived here only yesterday morning at four o’clock, and as they were short of horses the mail-coach selected another route–but what an awful road! At the last stage but one I was warned against traveling by night; they frightened me with a wood, but that only spurred me on–and I was wrong, the coach must needs break down, the road being dreadful, a swamp, a mere country road; without the postillions I had with me I should have stuck on the way. Esterhazi, by the ordinary road, met with the same fate with eight horses as I with four–yet it gave me some pleasure, as successfully overcoming any difficulty always does. Now for a quick change from without to within–we shall probably soon see each other, besides, today I cannot tell thee what has been passing through my mind during the past few days concerning my life–were our hearts closely united I should not do things of this kind. My heart is full of many things I have to say to thee–ah, there are moments in which I feel that speech is powerless! Cheer up–remain my true, my only treasure, my all!!! as I to thee. The gods must send the rest–what for us must be and ought to be.
Thy faithful
LUDWIG.
Monday Evening, July 6.
Thou sufferest, thou my dearest love! I have just found out that the letters must be posted very early Mondays, Thursdays–the only days when the post goes from here to K. Thou sufferest–ah, where I am, art thou also with me! I will arrange for myself and Thee; I will manage so that I can live with thee; and what a life!!! But as it is–without thee!!! Persecuted here and there by the kindness of men, which I little deserve, and as little care to deserve. Humility of man toward man–it pains me–and when I think of myself in connection with the universe, what am I and what is He who is named the Greatest–and still this again shows the divine in man. I weep when I think that probably thou wilt get the first news from me only on Saturday evening. However much thou lovest me, my love for thee is stronger; but never conceal thy thoughts from me. Good-night! As I am taking the baths I must go to bed [two words scratched through]. O God–so near! so far! Our love–is it not a true heavenly edifice, firm as heaven’s vault!
Good morning, on July 7.
While still in bed, my thoughts press to thee, my Beloved One, at moments with joy, and then again with sorrow, waiting to see whether fate will take pity on us. Either I must live wholly with thee, or not at all. Yes, I have resolved to wander in distant lands, until I can fly to thy arms and feel that with thee I have a real home; with thee encircling me about, I can send my soul into the kingdom of spirits. Yes, unfortunately, it must be so. Calm thyself, and all the more since thou knowest my faithfulness toward thee! Never can another possess my heart, never–never–O God! why must one part from what one so loves–and yet my life in V. at present is a wretched life! Thy love has made me one of the happiest and, at the same time, one of the unhappiest of men; at my age I need a quiet, steady life–but is that possible in our situation? My Angel, I have just heard that the post goes every day, and I must therefore stop, so that you may receive the letter without delay. Be calm–only by calm consideration of our existence can we attain our aim to live together; be calm–love me–today–yesterday–what tearful longing after thee–thee–thee–my life–my all–farewell! Oh, continue to love me–never, never misjudge the faithful heart
Of Thy Beloved
L.
Ever thine, ever thine, ever each other’s.
NO. 55
TO HIS BROTHERS CARL AND —- BEETHOVEN
O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or cynical, how unjust are ye towards me! You do not know the secret cause of my seeming so. From childhood onward, my heart and mind prompted me to be kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great deeds. But only think that, during the last six years, I have been in a wretched condition, rendered worse by unintelligent physicians, deceived from year to year with hopes of improvement, and then finally forced to the prospect of _lasting infirmity_ (which may last for years, or even be totally incurable). Born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptive of the diversions of society, I had soon to retire from the world, to live a solitary life. At times, even, I endeavored to forget all this, but how harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience of my bad hearing! Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf. Alas! how could I declare the weakness of a _sense_ which in me _ought_ to be more acute than in others–a sense which _formerly_ I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed; no, I cannot do it. Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would willingly mix with you. My misfortune pains me doubly in that I am certain to be misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in the society of my fellow creatures, no refined conversations, no interchange of thought. Almost alone, and mixing in society only when absolutely necessary, I am compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed–for so it was during these past six months which I spent in the country. Ordered by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as possible, he almost fell in with my present frame of mind, although many a time I was carried away by my sociable inclinations. But how humiliating was it, when some one standing close to me heard a distant flute, and I heard _nothing_, or a _shepherd singing_, and again I heard nothing. Such incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on the point of putting an end to my life–_art_ alone restrained my hand. Oh! it seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life–wretched, indeed, and with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change can throw me from the best into the worst state. _Patience_, I am told, I must choose as my guide. I have done so–lasting, I hope, will be my resolution to bear up until it pleases the inexorable Parcae to break the thread. Forced already, in my 28th year, to become a philosopher, it is not easy–for an artist more difficult than for any one else. O Divine Being, Thou who lookest down into my inmost soul, Thou understandest; Thou knowest that love for mankind and a desire to do good dwell therein! Oh, my fellow men, when one day you read this, remember that you were unjust to me and let the unfortunate one console himself if he can find one like himself, who, in spite of all obstacles which nature has thrown in his way, has still done everything in his power to be received into the ranks of worthy artists and men. You, my brothers Carl and —-, as soon as I am dead, beg Professor Schmidt, if he be still living, to describe my malady; and annex this written account to that of my illness, so that at least the world, so far as is possible, may become reconciled to me after my death. And now I declare you both heirs to my small fortune (if such it may be called). Divide it honorably and dwell in peace, and help each other. What you have done against me has, as you know, long been forgiven. And you, brother Carl, I especially thank you for the attachment you have shown toward me of late. My prayer is that your life may be better, less troubled by cares, than mine. Recommend to your children _virtue_; it alone can bring happiness, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my not having laid violent hands on myself. Farewell, and love one another. My thanks to all friends, especially _Prince Lichnowski_ and _Professor Schmidt_. I should much like one of you to keep as an heirloom the instruments given to me by Prince L., but let no strife arise between you concerning them; if money should be of more service to you, just sell them. How happy I feel, that, even when lying in my grave, I may be useful to you!
So let it be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it come before I have had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will come, my hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably wish it later–yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall face thee courageously. Farewell, and when I am dead do not entirely forget me. This I deserve from you, for during my lifetime I often thought of you, and how to make you happy. Be ye so.
LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.
Heiligenstadt, October 6, 1802.
NO. 136
TO THERESE VON MALFATTI
(1807)
You receive herewith, honored Therese, what I promised, and had it not been for serious hindrances you would have received more, in order to show you that I always _offer more to my friends than I actually promise_. I hope and have every reason to believe that you are nicely occupied and as pleasantly entertained–but I hope not too much, so that you may also think of us. It would probably be expecting too much of you, or overrating my own importance, if I ascribed to you: “Men are not only together when they are together; even he who is far away, who has departed, is still in our thoughts.” Who would ascribe anything of the kind to the lively T., who takes life so easily?
Pray do not forget the pianoforte among your occupations, or, indeed, music generally. You have such fine talent for it. Why not devote yourself entirely to it–you who have such feeling for all that is beautiful and good? Why will you not make use of this, in order that you may recognize in so beautiful an art the higher perfection which casts down its rays even on us. I am very solitary and quiet, although lights now and again might awaken me; but since you all went away from here, I feel in me a void which cannot be filled; my art, even otherwise so faithful to me, has not been able to gain any triumph. Your piano is ordered, and you will soon receive it. What a difference you will have found between the treatment of the theme I improvised one evening, and the way in which I recently wrote it down for you! Explain that to yourself, but don’t take too much punch to help you. How lucky you are, to be able to go so soon to the country! I cannot enjoy that happiness until the 8th. I am happy as a child at the thought of wandering among clusters of bushes, in the woods, among trees, herbs, rocks. No man loves the country more than I; for do not forests, trees, rocks reecho that for which mankind longs? Soon you will receive other compositions of mine, in which you will not have to complain much about difficulties. Have you read Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_, the _Schlegel translation of Shakespeare_? One has much leisure in the country, and it will perhaps be agreeable to you if I send you these works. I happen to have an acquaintance in your neighborhood, so perhaps I shall come early some morning and spend half an hour at your house, and be off again; notice that I shall inflict on you the shortest _ennui_.
Commend me to the good wishes of your father, your mother, although I can claim no right for so doing–and the same, likewise, to cousin MM. Farewell, honored T. I wish you all that is good and beautiful in life. Keep me, and willingly, in remembrance–forget my wild behavior. Be convinced that no one more than myself can desire to know that your life is joyous, prosperous, even though you take no interest in
Your most devoted servant and friend,
BEETHOVEN.
N.B.–It would really be very nice on your part to send me a few lines to say in what way I can be of service here.
NO. 151
TO THE BIGOTS
(Probably Summer, 1808)
Dear Marie, Dear Bigot:
Only with the deepest regret am I forced to perceive that the purest, most innocent, feelings can often be misconstrued. As you have received me so kindly, it never occurred to me to explain it otherwise than that you bestow on me your friendship. You must think me very vain or small-minded, if you suppose that the civility itself of such excellent persons as you are could lead me to believe that–I had at once won your affection. Besides, it is one of my first principles never to stand in other than friendly relationship with the wife of another man. Never by such a relationship (as you suggest) would I fill my breast with distrust against her who may one day share my fate with me–and so taint for myself the most beautiful, the purest life.
It is perhaps possible that sometimes I have not joked with Bigot in a sufficiently refined way; I have indeed told both of you that occasionally I am very free in speech. I am perfectly natural with all my friends, and hate all restraint. I now also count Bigot among them, and if anything I do displeases him, friendship demands from him and you to tell me so–and I will certainly take care not to offend him again; but how can good Marie put such bad meaning on my actions!
With regard to my invitation to take a drive with you and Caroline, it was natural that, as Bigot, the day before, was opposed to your going out alone with me, I was forced to conclude that you both probably found it unbecoming or objectionable–and when I wrote to you, I only wished to make you understand that I saw no harm in it. And so, when I further declared that I attached great value to your not declining, this was only that I might induce you to enjoy the splendid, beautiful day; I was thinking more of your and Caroline’s pleasure than of mine, and I thought, _if I declared that mistrust on your part or a refusal would be a real offense to me_, by this means almost to compel you to yield to my wish. The matter really deserves careful reflection on your part as to how you can make amends for having spoilt this day so bright for me, owing as much to my frame of mind as to the cheerful weather. When I said that you misunderstand me, your present judgment of me shows that I was quite right–not to speak of what you thought to yourself about it. When I said that something bad would come of it if I came to you, this was more as a joke. The object was to show you how much everything connected with you attracts me, so that I have no greater wish than to be able always to live with you; and that is the truth. Even supposing there was a hidden meaning in it, the most holy friendship can often have secrets, but on that account to misinterpret the secret of a friend because one cannot at once fathom it–that you ought not to do. Dear Bigot, dear Marie, never, never will you find me ignoble. From childhood onwards I learnt to love virtue–and all that is beautiful and good. You have deeply pained me; but it shall only serve to render our friendship ever firmer. Today I am really not well, and it would be difficult for me to see you. Since yesterday, after the quartet, my sensitiveness and my imagination pictured to me the thought that I had caused you suffering. I went at night to the ball for distraction, but in vain. Everywhere the picture of you all pursued me; it kept saying to me–they are so good and perhaps through you they are suffering; thoroughly depressed, I hastened away. Write to me a few lines.
Your true friend BEETHOVEN embraces you all.
NO. 198
TO BREITKOPF AND HAERTEL
Vienna, August 8, 1809.
I have handed over to Kind and Co. a _sextet_ for 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, and 2 German lieder or songs, so that they may reach you as soon as possible–they are presents to you in return for all those things which I asked you for _as presents_; the _Musik Zeitung_ which I had also forgotten–I remind you in a friendly way about it. Perhaps you could let me have editions of Goethe’s and Schiller’s complete works–from their literary abundance something _comes in to you_, and I then send to you many things, i.e., _something which goes out into all the world_. Those two poets are my favorite poets, also Ossian, Homer, the latter whom I can, unfortunately, read only in translation. So these (Goethe and Schiller) you have only to shoot out from your literary store-house, and if you send them to me soon you will make me perfectly happy, and all the more so, seeing that I hope to pass the remainder of the summer in some cozy country corner. The sextet is one of my early things, and, moreover, was written in one night; the best one can say of it is that it was composed by an author who, at any rate, has produced better works–and yet, for many, such works are the best.
Farewell, and send very soon news to your most devoted
BEETHOVEN.
Of the ‘cello Sonata I should like to have a few copies; I would indeed beg you always to send me half a dozen copies; I never sell any–there are, however, here and there poor _Musici_, to whom one cannot refuse a thing of that sort.
NO. 220
TO BETTINA BRENTANO
Vienna, August 11, 1810.
Dearest Bettina (Friend!):
No finer Spring than the present one–I say that and also feel it, because I have made your acquaintance. You yourself have probably seen that in society I am like a frog (fish) on the sand, which turns round and round, and cannot get away until a well-wishing Galatea puts him again into the mighty sea. Yes, I was quite out of my element, dearest Bettina; I was surprised by you at a moment when ill-humor was quite master of me, but it actually disappeared at sight of you. I at once perceived that you belonged to a different world from this absurd one, to which, with the best will, one cannot open one’s ears. I myself am a wretched man and yet complain of others!–You will surely forgive me, with your good heart, which is seen in your eyes, and with your intelligence, which lies in your ears–at least our ears know how to flatter when they listen. My ears, unfortunately, are a barrier-wall through which I cannot easily hold friendly communication with men, else–perhaps!–I should have had more confidence in you. So I could only understand the great, intelligent look of your eyes, which so impressed me that I can never forget it. Dear Bettina (friend), beloved Maiden!–Art!–Who understands it, with whom can one speak concerning this great goddess! How dear to me were the few days when we gossiped or rather corresponded together! I have kept all the little notes on which stand your clever, dear, very dear, answers; so I have, at any rate, to thank my bad hearing that the best part of these fleeting conversations has been noted down. Since you went away I have had vexatious hours, hours of darkness, in which one can do nothing; after your departure I roamed about for full three hours in the Schoenbrunner Alley, also on the ramparts; but no angel met me who could take such hold on me as you, angel!–Forgive, dearest Bettina (friend), this digression from the key; I must have such intervals in order to give vent to my feelings. Then you have written, have you not, to Goethe about me? I would willingly hide my head in a sack, so as to hear and see nothing of what is going on in the world, because you, dearest angel, will not meet me. But I shall surely receive a letter from you? Hope nourishes me–it nourishes, indeed, half the world; I have had it as my neighbor all my life–what otherwise would have become of me? I here send, written with my own hand, “Kennst du das Land”–in remembrance of the hour in which I made your acquaintance. I also send the other which I have composed since I parted from you dear, dearest heart!–
Heart, my heart, what bodes the crisis, What oppresseth thee so sore?
What a strange, untoward life this! I can fathom thee no more.
Yes, dearest Bettina (friend), send me an answer, write to me what will happen to me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,
BEETHOVEN.
NO. 295
TO EMILIE M. AT H.
Teplitz, July 17, 1812.
My Dear Good Emilie, My Dear Friend!
I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business and constant illness must be my excuse. That I am here for the restoration of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not snatch the laurel wreaths from Handel, Haydn, Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.
Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of the esteem of many men, which I do not deserve.
Continue, do not only practise art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the Godhead. If, my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, for he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and, though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people than to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come to H., I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies in man than those which cause him to rank among better men; where I find this, there is my home.
If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here where I shall remain for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family.
LUDWIG V. BEETHOVEN.
NO. 300
TO BETTINA VON ARNIM
Teplitz, August 15, 1812.
Dearest, good Bettina!
Kings and princes can certainly create professors, privy councilors, and titles, and hang on ribbons of various orders, but they cannot create great men, master-minds which tower above the rabble; this is beyond them. Such men must therefore be held in respect. When two such as I and Goethe meet, these grand gentlemen are forced to note what greatness, in such as we are, means. Yesterday on the way home we met the whole Imperial family. We saw them from afar approaching, and Goethe slipped away from me and stood to one side. Say what I would, I could not induce him to advance another step, so I pushed my hat on my head, buttoned up my overcoat, and went, arms folded, into the thickest of the crowd. Princes and sycophants drew up in a line; Duke Rudolph took off my hat, after the Empress had first greeted me. Persons of rank _know_ me. To my great amusement I saw the procession defile past Goethe. Hat in hand, he stood at the side, deeply bowing. Then I mercilessly reprimanded him, cast his sins in his teeth, especially those of which he was guilty toward you, dearest Bettina, of whom we had just been speaking. Good heavens! Had I been in your company, as he has, I should have produced works of greater, far greater, importance. A musician is also a poet, and the magic of a pair of eyes can suddenly cause him to feel transported into a more beautiful world, where great spirits make sport of him and set him mighty tasks. I cannot tell what ideas came into my head when I made your acquaintance. In the little observatory during the splendid May rain–that was a fertile moment for me; the most beautiful themes then glided from your eyes into my heart, which one day will enchant the world when Beethoven has ceased to conduct. If God grant me yet a few years, then I must see you again, dear, dear Bettina; so calls the voice within me which never errs. Even minds can love each other. I shall always court yours; your approval is dearer to me than anything in the whole world. I gave my opinion to Goethe, that approval affects such men as ourselves and that we wish to be listened to with the intellect by those who are our equals. Emotion is only for women (excuse this); the flame of music must burst forth from the mind of a man. Ah! my dearest child, we have now for a long time been in perfect agreement about everything! The only good thing is a beautiful, good soul, which is recognized in everything, and in presence of which there need be no concealment. _One must be somebody if one wishes to appear so_. The world is bound to recognize one; it is not always unjust. To me, however, that is a matter of no importance, for I have a higher aim. I hope when I get back to Vienna to receive a letter from you. Write soon, soon, and a very long one; in 8 days from now I shall be there; the court goes tomorrow; there will be no more performance today. The Empress rehearsed her part with him. His duke and he both wished to play some of my music, but to both I made refusal. They are mad on Chinese porcelain, hence there is need for indulgence; for the intellect has lost the whip-hand. I will not play to these silly folk, who never get over that mania, nor will I write at public cost any stupid stuff for princes. Adieu, adieu, dearest; your last letter lay on my heart for a whole night, and comforted me. _Everything_ is allowed to musicians. Great heavens, how I love you!
Your sincerest friend and deaf brother,
BEETHOVEN.
NO. 615
TO HERR VON GOETHE
Vienna, April 12, 1811.
Your Excellency:
The pressing business of a friend of mine, one of your great admirers (as I also am), who is leaving here in a great hurry, gives me only a moment to offer my thanks for the long time I have known you (for I know you from the days of my childhood)–that is very little for so much. Bettina Brentano has assured me that you would receive me in a kindly–yes, indeed friendly, spirit. But how could I think of such a reception, seeing that I am only in a position to approach you with the deepest reverence, with an inexpressibly deep feeling for your noble creations? You will shortly receive from Leipzig, through Breitkopf and Haertel, the music to _Egmont_, this glorious _Egmont_, with which I, with the same warmth with which I read it, was again through you impressed by it and set it to music. I should much like to know your opinion of it; even blame will be profitable for me and for my art, and will be as willingly received as the greatest praise.
Your Excellency’s great admirer,
LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.
NO. 1017
TO B. SCHOTT & SON, MAINZ
(Summer, 1824).
Dear Sirs:
I only tell you that next week the works will certainly be sent off. You will easily understand, if you only imagine to yourself, that with uncertain copying I have to look through each part separately–for this branch has already decreased here in proportion as tuning has been taken up. Everywhere poverty of spirit–and of purse! Your _Cecilia_ I have not yet received.
The _Overture_ which you had from my brother was performed here a few days ago, and I received high praise for it, etc.–but what is all that in comparison with the great Tone-Master above–above–above–and with right the greatest of all, while here below everything is a mockery–_we the little dwarfs are the highest_!!!?? You will receive the quartet at the same time as the other works. You are so open and frank–qualities which I have never yet noticed in publishers–and this pleases me. Let us shake hands over it; who knows whether I shall not do that in person and soon! I should be glad if you would now at once forward the honorarium for the quartet to Friess, for I just now want a great deal of money; everything must come to me from abroad, and here and there a delay arises–through my own fault. My brother adds what is necessary about the works offered to, and accepted by, you. I greet you heartily. Junker, as I see from your newspaper, is still living; he was one of the first who _noticed_ me, an innocent and nothing more. Greet him.
In greatest haste, and yet not of shortest standing,
Yours,
BEETHOVEN.
NO. 1117
TO HIS NEPHEW CARL
Baden, October 5, 1825.
For God’s sake, do come home again today! Who knows what danger might be threatening you! Hasten, hasten! My Dear Son!
Only nothing further–only come to my arms; you shall hear no harsh word. For Heaven’s sake, do not rush to destruction! You will be received as ever with affection. As to considering what is to be done in future, we will talk this over in a friendly way–no reproaches, on my word of honor, for it would be of no use. You need expect from me only the most loving help and care.
Only come–come to the faithful heart of your father,
BEETHOVEN.
Come at once on receipt of this.
Si vous ne viendrez pas vous me tuerez surement.
VOLTI SUB.
NO. 1129
TO THE COPYIST RAMPEL
(1825)
Best Rampel, come tomorrow morning, but go to hell with your calling me gracious. _God alone can be called gracious_. The servant I have already engaged–only impress on her to be honest and attached to me, as well as orderly and punctual in her small services.
Your devoted BEETHOVEN.
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FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 2: Translator: Sir Theodore Mart Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 3: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 4: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 5: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 6: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 7: Translator: Richard Garnett. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 8: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 9: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 10: Translator: Franklin Johnson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 11: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 12: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 13: Translator: Charles G. Leland. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 14: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 16: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 17: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 18: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 20: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 21: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 22: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 23: Translator: Edgar Alfred Bowring. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 24: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 25: Translator: W.H. Furness. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 26: Translator: John Todhunter. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 27: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 28: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 29: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 30: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 31: Translator: Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 32: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 33: Translator: “Stratheir.” Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 34: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons.]
[Footnote 35: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 36: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 37: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 38: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 39: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 40: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 41: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 42: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 43: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]
[Footnote 44: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 45: Translator: Lord Houghton. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]
[Footnote 46: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 47: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 48: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 49: Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 50: Names of Student’s Corps.]
[Footnote 51: Name of the University of Goettingen.]
[Footnote 52: Name of an Austrian periodical.]
[Footnote 53: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]
[Footnote 54: According to that dignified and erudite work, the _Burschikoses Woerterbuch_, or Student-Slang Dictionary, “to bind a bear” signifies to contract a debt. The definition of a “sable,” as given in the dictionary above cited is, “A young lady anxious to please.”]
[Footnote 55: From _Ideen: Das Buch Le Grand_ (Chaps. VI-IX). Permission E.P. Dutton & Co., New York, and William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 56: From _Pictures of Travel_, permission W. Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 57: From _French. Affairs_; permission of William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 58: Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 59: Permission William Heinemann, London.]
[Footnote 60: This prototype of “The House that Jack Built” is presumed to be a hymn in Seder Hagadah, fol. 23. The historical interpretation, says Mrs. Valentine, who has reproduced it in her Nursery Rhymes, was first given by P.N. Leberecht at Leipzig in 1731, and is printed in the Christian Reformer, vol. xvii, p. 28. The original is in Chaldee. It is throughout an allegory. The kid, one of the pure animals, denotes Israel. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah; the two pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron. The cat means the Assyrians, the dog the Babylonians, the staff the Persians, the fire the Grecian Empire under Alexander the Great. The water betokens the Roman or the fourth of the great monarchies to whose dominion the Jews were subjected. The ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine; the butcher that killed the ox denotes the crusaders by whom the Holy Land was taken from the Saracens; the Angel of Death the Turkish power to which Palestine is still subject. The tenth stanza is designed to show that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, and restore the Jews to their own land.]
[Footnote 61: There is a concluding verse which Heine has omitted. “Then came the Holy One of Israel–blessed be he–and slew the Angel of Death, who,” etc.–TRAN.]
[Footnote 62: A suburb of Vienna.]
[Footnote 63: In Lower Austria, on the railroad from Vienna to Eger.]
[Footnote 64: From Grillparzer’s _Autobiography_ (1855).]
[Footnote 65: A decoration.]
[Footnote 66: A Critical Edition by Dr. A.C. Kalischer. Permission J.M. Dent & Co., London, and E.P. Dutton & Co., New York.]
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