Kannst du mich schmeichelnd je belügenDass ich mir selbst gefallen mag,Kannst du mich mit Genuss betrügen:Das sey für mich der letzte Tag.Werd ich zum Augenblicke sagen:Verweile doch! du bist so schön!Dann magst du mich in Fesseln schlagen,Dann will ich gern zu Grunde gehen.Canst thou by falsehood or by flatteryMake me one moment with myself at peace,Cheat me into tranquillity? Come thenAnd welcome, life's last day.Make me but to the moment say,O fly not yet, thou art so fair,Then let me perish, &c.
But this condition is never fulfilled. Faust cannot be content with sensuality, with the charlatanry of ambition, nor with riches. His heart never becomes callous, nor his moral and intellectual perceptions obtuse. He is saved at last.
With the progress of an individual soul is shadowed forth that of the soul of the age; beginning in intellectual scepticism; sinking into license; cheating itself with dreams of perfect bliss, to be at once attained by means no surer than a spurious paper currency; longing itself back from conflict between thespirit and the flesh, induced by Christianity, to the Greek era with its harmonious development of body and mind; striving to reëmbody the loved phantom of classical beauty in the heroism of the middle age; flying from the Byron despair of those who die because they cannot soar without wings, to schemes however narrow, of practical utility,—redeemed at last through mercy alone.
The second part of Faust is full of meaning, resplendent with beauty; but it is rather an appendix to the first part than a fulfilment of its promise. The world, remembering the powerful stamp of individual feeling, universal indeed in its application, but individual in its life, which had conquered all its scruples in the first part, was vexed to find, instead of the man Faust, the spirit of the age,—discontented with the shadowy manifestation of truths it longed to embrace, and, above all, disappointed that the author no longer met us face to face, or riveted the ear by his deep tones of grief and resolve.
When the world shall have got rid of the still overpowering influence of the first part, it will be seen that the fundamental idea is never lost sight of in the second. The change is that Gœthe, though the same thinker, is no longer the same person.
The continuation of Faust in the practical sense of the education of a man is to be found in Wilhelm Meister. Here we see the change by strongest contrast. The mainspring of action is no longer the impassioned and noble seeker, but a disciple of circumstance, whose most marked characteristic is a taste for virtue and knowledge. Wilhelm certainly prefers these conditions of existence to their opposites, but there is nothing so decided in his character as to prevent his turning a clear eye on every part of that variegated world-scene which the writer wished to place before us.
To see all till he knows all sufficiently to put objects into their relations, then to concentrate his powers and use hisknowledge under recognized conditions,—such is the progress of man from Apprentice to Master.
'Tis pity that the volumes of the Wanderjahre have not been translated entire, as well as those of the Lehrjahre, for many, who have read the latter only, fancy that Wilhelm becomes a master in that work. Far from it; he has but just become conscious of the higher powers that have ceaselessly been weaving his fate. Far from being as yet a Master, he but now begins to be a Knower. In the Wanderjahre we find him gradually learning the duties of citizenship, and hardening into manhood, by applying what he has learned for himself to the education of his child. He converses on equal terms with the wise and beneficent; he is no longer duped and played with for his good, but met directly mind to mind.
Wilhelm is a master when he can command his actions, yet keep his mind always open to new means of knowledge; when he has looked at various ways of living, various forms of religion and of character, till he has learned to be tolerant of all, discerning of good in all; when the astronomer imparts to his equal ear his highest thoughts, and the poor cottager seeks his aid as a patron and counsellor.
To be capable of all duties, limited by none, with an open eye, a skilful and ready hand, an assured step, a mind deep, calm, foreseeing without anxiety, hopeful without the aid of illusion,—such is the ripe state of manhood. This attained, the great soul should still seek and labor, but strive and battle never more.
The reason for Gœthe's choosing so negative a character as Wilhelm, and leading him through scenes of vulgarity and low vice, would be obvious enough to a person of any depth of thought, even if he himself had not announced it. He thus obtained room to paint life as it really is, and bring forward those slides in the magic lantern which are always known to exist, though they may not be spoken of to ears polite.
Wilhelm cannot abide in tradition, nor do as his fathers did before him, merely for the sake of money or a standing in society. The stage, here an emblem of the ideal life as it gleams before unpractised eyes, offers, he fancies, opportunity for a life of thought as distinguished from one of routine. Here, no longer the simple citizen, but Man, all Men, he will rightly take upon himself the different aspects of life, till poet-wise, he shall have learned them all.
No doubt the attraction of the stage to young persons of a vulgar character is merely the brilliancy of its trappings; but to Wilhelm, as to Gœthe, it was this poetic freedom and daily suggestion which seemed likely to offer such an agreeable studio in the greenroom.
But the ideal must be rooted in the real, else the poet's life degenerates into buffoonery or vice. Wilhelm finds the characters formed by this would-be ideal existence more despicable than those which grew up on the track, dusty and bustling and dull as it had seemed, of common life. He is prepared by disappointment for a higher ambition.
In the house of the count he finds genuine elegance, genuine sentiment, but not sustained by wisdom, or a devotion to important objects. This love, this life, is also inadequate.
Now, with Teresa he sees the blessings of domestic peace. He sees a mind sufficient for itself, finding employment and education in the perfect economy of a little world. The lesson is pertinent to the state of mind in which his former experiences have left him, as indeed our deepest lore is won from reaction. But a sudden change of scene introduces him to the society of the sage and learned uncle, the sage and beneficent Natalia. Here he finds the same virtues as with Teresa, and enlightened by a larger wisdom.
A friend of mine says that his ideal of a friend is a worthy aunt, one who has the tenderness without the blindness of a mother, and takes the same charge of the child's mind as the mother of its body. I don't know but this may have a foundationin truth, though, if so, auntism, like other grand professions, has sadly degenerated. At any rate, Gœthe seems to be possessed with a similar feeling. The Count de Thorane, a man of powerful character, who made a deep impression on his childhood, was, he says, "reverenced by me as an uncle." And the ideal wise man of this common life epic stands before us as "The Uncle."
After seeing the working of just views in the establishment of the uncle, learning piety from the Confessions of a Beautiful Soul, and religious beneficence from the beautiful life of Natalia, Wilhelm is deemed worthy of admission to the society of the Illuminati, that is, those who have pierced the secret of life, and know what it is to be and to do.
Here he finds the scroll of his life "drawn with large, sharp strokes," that is, these truly wise read his character for him, and "mind and destiny are but two names for one idea."
He now knows enough to enter on the Wanderjahre.
Gœthe always represents the highest principle in the feminine form. Woman is the Minerva, man the Mars. As in the Faust, the purity of Gretchen, resisting the demon always, even after all her faults, is announced to have saved her soul to heaven; and in the second part she appears, not only redeemed herself, but by her innocence and forgiving tenderness hallowed to redeem the being who had injured her.
So in the Meister, these women hover around the narrative, each embodying the spirit of the scene. The frail Philina, graceful though contemptible, represents the degradation incident to an attempt at leading an exclusively poetic life. Mignon, gift divine as ever the Muse bestowed on the passionate heart of man, with her soft, mysterious inspiration, her pining for perpetual youth, represents the high desire that leads to this mistake, as Aurelia, the desire for excitement; Teresa, practical wisdom, gentle tranquillity, which seem most desirable after the Aurelia glare. Of the beautiful soul and Natalia we have already spoken. The former embodieswhat was suggested to Gœthe by the most spiritual person he knew in youth—Mademoiselle von Klettenberg, over whom, as he said, in her invalid loneliness the Holy Ghost brooded like a dove.
Entering on the Wanderjahre, Wilhelm becomes acquainted with another woman, who seems the complement of all the former, and represents the idea which is to guide and mould him in the realization of all the past experience.
This person, long before we see her, is announced in various ways as a ruling power. She is the last hope in cases of difficulty, and, though an invalid, and living in absolute retirement, is consulted by her connections and acquaintance as an unerring judge in all their affairs.
All things tend towards her as a centre; she knows all, governs all, but never goes forth from herself.
Wilhelm at last visits her. He finds her infirm in body, but equal to all she has to do. Charity and counsel to men who need her are her business, astronomy her pleasure.
After a while, Wilhelm ascertains from the Astronomer, her companion, what he had before suspected, that she really belongs to the solar system, and only appears on earth to give men a feeling of the planetary harmony. From her youth up, says the Astronomer, till she knew me, though all recognized in her an unfolding of the highest moral and intellectual qualities, she was supposed to be sick at her times of clear vision. When her thoughts were not in the heavens, she returned and acted in obedience to them on earth; she was then said to be well.
When the Astronomer had observed her long enough, he confirmed her inward consciousness of a separate existence and peculiar union with the heavenly bodies.
Her picture is painted with many delicate traits, and a gradual preparation leads the reader to acknowledge the truth; but, even in the slight indication here given, who does not recognize thee, divine Philosophy, sure as the planetary orbits, andinexhaustible as the fountain of light, crowning the faithful Seeker at last with the privilege to possess his own soul.
In all that is said of Macaria,[4]we recognize that no thought is too religious for the mind of Gœthe. It was indeed so; you can deny him nothing, but only feel that his works are not instinct and glowing with the central fire, and, after catching a glimpse pf the highest truth, are forced again to find him too much afraid of losing sight of the limitations of nature to overflow you or himself with the creative spirit.
While the apparition of the celestial Macaria seems to announce the ultimate destiny of the soul of man, the practical application of all Wilhelm has thus painfully acquired is not of pure Delphian strain. Gœthe draws, as he passes, a dart from the quiver of Phœbus, but ends as Æsculapius or Mercury. Wilhelm, at the school of the Three Reverences, thinks out what can be done for man in his temporal relations. He learns to practise moderation, and even painful renunciation. The book ends, simply indicating what the course of his life will be, by making him perform an act of kindness, with good judgment and at the right moment.
Surely the simple soberness of Gœthe should please at least those who style themselves, preëminently, people of common sense.
The following remarks are by the celebrated Rahel von Ense, whose discernment as to his works was highly prized by Gœthe.
"Don Quixote and Wilhelm Meister!"Embrace one another, Cervantes and Gœthe!"Both, using their own clear eyes, vindicated human nature. They saw the champions through their errors and follies, looking down into the deepest soul, seeing there thetrue form.Respectablepeople call the Don as well as Meister a fool, wandering hither and thither, transacting no business of real life, bringing nothing to pass, scarce even knowing what he ought to think on any subject, very unfit for the hero of a romance. Yet has our sage known how to paint the good and honest mind in perpetual toil and conflict with the world, as it is embodied; never sharing one moment the impure confusion; always striving to find fault with and improve itself, always so innocent as to see others far better than they are, and generally preferring them to itself, learning from all, indulging all except the manifestly base; the more you understand, the more you respect and love this character. Cervantes has painted the knight, Gœthe the culture of the entire man,—both their own time."
"Don Quixote and Wilhelm Meister!
"Embrace one another, Cervantes and Gœthe!
"Both, using their own clear eyes, vindicated human nature. They saw the champions through their errors and follies, looking down into the deepest soul, seeing there thetrue form.Respectablepeople call the Don as well as Meister a fool, wandering hither and thither, transacting no business of real life, bringing nothing to pass, scarce even knowing what he ought to think on any subject, very unfit for the hero of a romance. Yet has our sage known how to paint the good and honest mind in perpetual toil and conflict with the world, as it is embodied; never sharing one moment the impure confusion; always striving to find fault with and improve itself, always so innocent as to see others far better than they are, and generally preferring them to itself, learning from all, indulging all except the manifestly base; the more you understand, the more you respect and love this character. Cervantes has painted the knight, Gœthe the culture of the entire man,—both their own time."
But those who demand from him a life-long continuance of the early ardor of Faust, who wish to see, throughout his works, not only such manifold beauty and subtle wisdom, but the clear assurance of divinity, the pure white light of Macaria, wish that he had not so variously unfolded his nature, and concentred it more. They would see him slaying the serpent with the divine wrath of Apollo, rather than taming it to his service, like Æsculapius. They wish that he had never gone to Weimar, had never become a universal connoisseur and dilettante in science, and courtier as "graceful as a born nobleman," but had endured the burden of life with the suffering crowd, and deepened his nature in loneliness and privation, till Faust had conquered, rather than cheated the devil, and the music of heavenly faith superseded the grave and mild eloquence of human wisdom.
The expansive genius which moved so gracefully in its self imposed fetters, is constantly surprising us by its content with a choice low, in so far as it was not the highest of which the mind was capable. The secret may be found in the second motto of this slight essay.
"He who would do great things must quickly draw together his forces. The master can only show himself such through limitation, and the law alone can give us freedom."
But there is a higher spiritual law always ready to supersede the temporal laws at the call of the human soul. The soul that is too content with usual limitations will never call forth this unusual manifestation.
If there be a tide in the affairs of men, which must be taken at the right moment to lead on to fortune, it is the same with inward as with outward life. He who, in the crisis hour of youth, has stopped short of himself, is not likely to find again what he has missed in one life, for there are a great number of blanks to a prize in each lottery.
But the pang we feel that "those who are so much are not more," seems to promise new spheres, new ages, new crises to enable these beings to complete their circle.
Perhaps Gœthe is even now sensible that he should not have stopped at Weimar as his home, but made it one station on the way to Paradise; not stopped at humanity, but regarded it as symbolical of the divine, and given to others to feel more distinctly the centre of the universe, as well as the harmony in its parts. It is great to be an Artist, a Master, greater still to be a Seeker till the Man has found all himself.
What Gœthe meant by self-collection was a collection of means for work, rather than to divine the deepest truths of being. Thus are these truths always indicated, never declared; and the religious hope awakened by his subtle discernment of the workings of nature never gratified, except through the intellect.
He whose prayer is only work will not leave his treasure in the secret shrine.
One is ashamed when finding any fault with one like Gœthe, who is so great. It seems the only criticism should be to do all he omitted to do, and that none who cannot is entitled to say a word. Let that one speak who was all Gœthewas not,—noble, true, virtuous, but neither wise nor subtle in his generation, a divine ministrant, a baffled man, ruled and imposed on by the pygmies whom he spurned, an heroic artist, a democrat to the tune of Burns:
Hear Beethoven speak of Gœthe on an occasion which brought out the two characters in strong contrast.
Extract from a letter of Beethoven to Bettina Brentano Töplitz, 1812.
"Kings and princes can indeed make professors and privy councillors, and hang upon them titles; but great men they cannot make; souls that rise above the mud of the world, these they must let be made by other means than theirs, and should therefore show them respect. When two such as I and Gœthe come together, then must great lords observe what is esteemed great by one of us. Coming home yesterday we met the whole imperial family. We saw them coming, and Gœthe left me and insisted on standing one side; let me say what I would, I could not make him come on one step. I pressed my hat upon my head, buttoned my surtout, and passed on through the thickest crowd. Princes and parasites made way; the Archduke Rudolph took off his hat; the empress greeted me first. Their highnessesKNOW ME. I was well amused to see the crowd pass by Gœthe. At the side stood he, hat in hand, low bowed in reverence till all had gone by. Then I scolded him well; I gave no pardon, but reproached him with all his sins, most of all those towards you, dearest Bettina; we had just been talking of you."
If Beethoven appears, in this scene, somewhat arrogant and bearish, yet how noble his extreme compared with the opposite! Gœthe's friendship with the grand duke we respect, for Karl August was a strong man. But we regret to see atthe command of any and all members of the ducal family, and their connections, who had nothing but rank to recommend them, his time and thoughts, of which he was so chary to private friends. Beethoven could not endure to teach the Archduke Rudolph, who had the soul duly to revere his genius, because he felt it to be "hofdíenst," court service. He received with perfect nonchalance the homage of the sovereigns of Europe. Only the Empress of Russia and the Archduke Karl, whom he esteemed as individuals, had power to gratify him by their attentions. Compare with, Gœthe's obsequious pleasure at being able gracefully to compliment such high personages, Beethoven's conduct with regard to the famous Heroic Symphony. This was composed at the suggestion of Bernadotte, while Napoleon was still in his first glory. He was then the hero of Beethoven's imagination, who hoped from him the liberation of Europe. With delight the great artist expressed in his eternal harmonies the progress of the Hero's soul. The symphony was finished, and even dedicated to Bonaparte, when the news came of his declaring himself Emperor of the French. The first act of the indignant artist was to tear off his dedication and trample it under foot; nor could he endure again even the mention of Napoleon until the time of his fall.
Admit that Gœthe had a natural taste for the trappings of rank and wealth, from which the musician was quite free, yet we cannot doubt that both saw through these externals to man as a nature; there can be no doubt on whose side was the simple greatness, the noble truth. We pardon thee, Gœthe,—but thee, Beethoven, we revere, for thou hast maintained the worship of the Manly, the Permanent, the True!
The clear perception which was in Gœthe's better nature of the beauty of that steadfastness, of that singleness and simple melody of soul, which he too much sacrificed to become "the many-sided One," is shown most distinctly in histwo surpassingly beautiful works, The Elective Affinities and Iphigenia.
Not Werther, not the Nouvelle Héloise, have been assailed with such a storm of indignation as the first-named of these works, on the score of gross immorality.
The reason probably is the subject; any discussion of the validity of the marriage vow making society tremble to its foundation; and, secondly, the cold manner in which it is done. All that is in the book would be bearable to most minds if the writer had had less the air of a spectator, and had larded his work here and there with ejaculations of horror and surprise.
These declarations of sentiment on the part of the author seem to be required by the majority of readers, in order to an interpretation of his purpose, as sixthly, seventhly, and eighthly were, in an old-fashioned sermon, to rouse the audience to a perception of the method made use of by the preacher.
But it has always seemed to me that those who need not such helps to their discriminating faculties, but read a work so thoroughly as to apprehend its whole scope and tendency, rather than hear what the author says it means, will regard the Elective Affinities as a work especially what is called moral in its outward effect, and religious even to piety in its spirit. The mental aberrations of the consorts from their plighted faith, though in the one case never indulged, and though in the other no veil of sophistry is cast over the weakness of passion, but all that is felt expressed with the openness of one who desires to legitimate what he feels, are punished by terrible griefs and a fatal catastrophe. Ottilia, that being of exquisite purity, with intellect and character so harmonized in feminine beauty, as they never before were found in any portrait of woman painted by the hand of man, perishes, on finding she has been breathed on by unhallowed passion, and led to err even by her ignorant wishes againstwhat is held sacred. The only personage whom we do not pity is Edward, for he is the only one who stifles the voice of conscience.
There is indeed a sadness, as of an irresistible fatality, brooding over the whole. It seems as if only a ray of angelic truth could have enabled these men to walk wisely in this twilight, at first so soft and alluring, then deepening into blind horror.
But if no such ray came to prevent their earthly errors, it seems to point heavenward in the saintly sweetness of Ottilia. Her nature, too fair for vice, too finely wrought even for error, comes lonely, intense, and pale, like the evening star on the cold, wintry night. It tells of other worlds, where the meaning of such strange passages as this must be read to those faithful and pure like her, victims perishing in the green garlands of a spotless youth to atone for the unworthiness of others.
An unspeakable pathos is felt from the minutest trait of this character, and deepens with every new study of it. Not even in Shakspeare have I so felt the organizing power of genius. Through dead words I find the least gestures of this person, stamping themselves on my memory, betraying to the heart the secret of her life, which she herself, like all these divine beings, knew not. I feel myself familiarized with all beings of her order. I see not only what she was, but what she might have been, and live with her in yet untrodden realms.
Here is the glorious privilege of a form known only in the world of genius. There is on it no stain of usage or calculation to dull our sense of its immeasurable life. What in our daily walk, mid common faces and common places, fleets across us at moments from glances of the eye, or tones of the voice, is felt from the whole being of one of these children of genius.
This precious gem is set in a ring complete in its enamel. I cannot hope to express my sense of the beauty of this bookas a work of art. I would not attempt it if I had elsewhere met any testimony to the same. The perfect picture, always before the mind, of the chateau, the moss hut, the park, the garden, the lake, with its boat and the landing beneath the platan trees; the gradual manner in which both localities and persons grow upon us, more living than life, inasmuch as we are, unconsciously, kept at our best temperature by the atmosphere of genius, and thereby more delicate in our perceptions than amid our customary fogs; the gentle unfolding of the central thought, as a flower in the morning sun; then the conclusion, rising like a cloud, first soft and white, but darkening as it comes, till with a sudden wind it bursts above our heads; the ease with which we every where find points of view all different, yet all bearing on the same circle, for, though we feel every hour new worlds, still before our eye lie the same objects, new, yet the same, unchangeable, yet always changing their aspects as we proceed, till at last we find we ourselves have traversed the circle, and know all we overlooked at first,—these things are worthy of our highest admiration.
For myself, I never felt so completely that very thing which genius should always make us feel—that I was in its circle, and could not get out till its spell was done, and its last spirit permitted to depart. I was not carried away, instructed, delighted more than by other works, but I wasthere, living there, whether as the platan tree, or the architect, or any other observing part of the scene. The personages live too intensely to let us live in them; they draw around themselves circles within the circle; we can only see them close, not be themselves.
Others, it would seem, on closing the book, exclaim, "What an immoral book!" I well remember my own thought, "It is a work of art!" At last I understood that world within a world, that ripest fruit of human nature, which is called art. With each perusal of the book my surprise and delight at thiswonderful fulfilment of design grew. I understood why Gœthe was well content to be called Artist, and his works, works of Art, rather than revelations. At this moment, remembering what I then felt, I am inclined to class all my negations just written on this paper as stuff, and to look upon myself, for thinking them, with as much contempt as Mr. Carlyle, or Mrs. Austin, or Mrs. Jameson might do, to say nothing of the German Gœtheans.
Yet that they were not without foundation I feel again when I turn to the Iphigenia—a work beyond the possibility of negation; a work where a religious meaning not only pierces but enfolds the whole; a work as admirable in art, still higher in significance, more single in expression.
There is an English translation (I know not how good) of Gœthe's Iphigenia. But as it may not be generally known, I will give a sketch of the drama. Iphigenia, saved, at the moment of the sacrifice made by Agamemnon in behalf of the Greeks, by the goddess, and transferred to the temple at Tauris, appears alone in the consecrated grove. Many years have passed since she was severed from the home of such a tragic fate, the palace of Mycenæ. Troy had fallen, Agamemnon been murdered, Orestes had grown up to avenge his death. All these events were unknown to the exiled Iphigenia. The priestess of Diana in a barbarous land, she had passed the years in the duties of the sanctuary, and in acts of beneficence. She had acquired great power over the mind of Thoas, king of Tauris, and used it to protect strangers, whom it had previously been the custom of the country to sacrifice to the goddess.
She salutes us with a soliloquy, of which I give a rude translation:—
Beneath your shade, living summitsOf this ancient, holy, thick-leaved grove,As in the silent sanctuary of the Goddess,Still I walk with those same shuddering feelings,As when I trod these walks for the first time.My spirit cannot accustom itself to these places;Many years now has kept me here concealedA higher will, to which I am submissive;Yet ever am I, as at first, the stranger;For ah! the sea divides me from my beloved ones,And on the shore whole days I stand,Seeking with my soul the land of the Greeks,And to my sighs brings the rushing wave onlyIts hollow tones in answer.Woe to him who, far from parents, and brothers, and sisters,Drags on a lonely life. Grief consumesThe nearest happiness away from his lips;His thoughts crowd downwards—Seeking the hall of his fathers, where the SunFirst opened heaven to him, and kindred-bornIn their first plays knit daily firmer and firmerThe bond from heart to heart—I question not the Gods,Only the lot of woman is one of sorrow;In the house and in the war man rules,Knows how to help himself in foreign lands,Possessions gladden and victory crowns him,And an honorable death stands ready to end his days.Within what narrow limits is bounded the luck of woman!To obey a rude husband even is duty and comfort; how sadWhen, instead, a hostile fate drives her out of her sphere!So holds me Thoas, indeed a noble man, fastIn solemn, sacred, but slavish bonds.O, with shame I confess that with secret reluctanceI serve thee, Goddess, thee, my deliverer.My life should freely have been dedicate to thee,But I have always been hoping in thee, O Diana,Who didst take in thy soft arms me, the rejected daughterOf the greatest king! Yes, daughter of Zeus,I thought if thou gavest such anguish to him, the high hero,The godlike Agamemnon;Since he brought his dearest, a victim, to thy altar,That, when he should return, crowned with glory, from Ilium,At the same time thou would'st give to his arms his other treasures,His spouse, Electra, and the princely son;Me also, thou would'st restore to mine own,Saving a second time me, whom from death thou didst save,From this worse death,—the life of exile here.
These are the words and thoughts; but how give an idea of the sweet simplicity of expression in the original, where every word has the grace and softness of a flower petal?
She is interrupted by a messenger from the king, who prepares her for a visit from himself of a sort she has dreaded. Thoas, who has always loved her, now left childless by the calamities of war, can no longer resist his desire to reanimate by her presence his desert house. He begins by urging her to tell him the story of her race, which she does in a way that makes us feel as if that most famous tragedy had never before found a voice, so simple, so fresh in its naïveté is the recital.
Thoas urges his suit undismayed by the fate that hangs over the race of Tantalus.
Thoas.Was it the same Tantalus,Whom Jupiter called to his council and banquets,In whose talk so deeply experienced, full of various learning,The Gods delighted as in the speech of oracles?Iphigenia.It is the same, but the Gods should notConverse with men, as with their equals.The mortal race is much too weakNot to turn giddy on unaccustomed heights.He was not ignoble, neither a traitor,But for a servant too great, and as a companionOf the great Thunderer only a man. So wasHis fault also that of a man, its penaltySevere, and poets sing—PresumptionAnd faithlessness cast him down from the throne of Jove,Into the anguish of ancient Tartarus;Ah, and all his race bore their hate.Thoas.Bore it the blame of the ancestor, or its own?Iphigenia.Truly the vehement breast and powerful life of the TitanWere the assured inheritance of son and grandchild;But the Gods bound their brows with a brazen band,Moderation, counsel, wisdom, and patienceWere hid from their wild, gloomy glance,Each desire grew to fury,And limitless ranged their passionate thoughts.
Iphigenia refuses with gentle firmness to give to gratitude what was not due. Thoas leaves her in anger, and, to make her feel it, orders that the old, barbarous custom be renewed, and two strangers just arrived be immolated at Diana's altar.
Iphigenia, though distressed, is not shaken by this piece of tyranny. She trusts her heavenly protectress will find some way for her to save these unfortunates without violating her truth.
The strangers are Orestes and Pylades, sent thither by the oracle of Apollo, who bade them go to Tauris and bring back "The Sister;" thus shall the heaven-ordained parricide of Orestes be expiated, and the Furies cease to pursue him.
The Sister they interpret to be Dian, Apollo's sister; but Iphigenia, sister to Orestes, is really meant.
The next act contains scenes of most delicate workmanship, first between the light-hearted Pylades, full of worldly resource and ready tenderness, and the suffering Orestes, of far nobler, indeed heroic nature, but less fit for the day and more for the ages. In the first scene the characters of both are brought out with great skill, and the nature of the bond between "the butterfly and the dark flower," distinctly shown in few words.
The next scene is between Iphigenia and Pylades. Pylades, though he truly answers the questions of the priestess about the fate of Troy and the house of Agamemnon, does not hesitate to conceal from her who Orestes really is, and manufactures a tissue of useless falsehoods with the same readiness that the wise Ulysses showed in exercising his ingenuity on similar occasions.
It is said, I know not how truly, that the modern Greeks are Ulyssean in this respect, never telling straightforward truth, when deceit will answer the purpose; and if they tell any truth, practising the economy of the King of Ithaca, in always reserving a part for their own use. The character which this denotes is admirably hit off with few strokes in Pylades, the fair side of whom Iphigenia thus paints in a later scene.
Bless, ye Gods, our Pylades,And whatever he may undertake;He is the arm of the youth in battle,The light-giving eye of the aged man in the council.For his soul is still; it preservesThe holy possession of Repose unexhausted,And from its depths still reachesHelp and advice to those tossed to and fro.
Iphigenia leaves him in sudden agitation, when informed of the death of Agamemnon. Returning, she finds in his placeOrestes, whom she had not before seen, and draws from him by her artless questions the sequel to this terrible drama wrought by his hand. After he has concluded his narrative, in the deep tones of cold anguish, she cries,—
Immortals, you who through your bright daysLive in bliss, throned on clouds ever renewed,Only for this have you all these yearsKept me separate from men, and so near yourselves,Given me the child-like employment to cherish the fires on your altars,That my soul might, in like pious clearness,Be ever aspiring towards your abodes,That only later and deeper I might feelThe anguish and horror that have darkened my house.O Stranger,Speak to me of the unhappy one, tell me of Orestes.Orestes.O, might I speak of his death!Vehement flew up from the reeking bloodHis Mother's Soul!And called to the ancient daughters of Night,Let not the parricide escape;Pursue that man of crime; he is yours!They obey, their hollow eyesDarting about with vulture eagerness;They stir themselves in their black dens,From corners their companionsDoubt and Remorse steal out to join them.Before them roll the mists of Acheron;In its cloudy volumes rollsThe eternal contemplation of the irrevocablePermitted now in their love of ruin they treadThe beautiful fields of a God-planted earth,From which they had long been banished by an early curse,Their swift feet follow the fugitive,They pause never except to gather more power to dismay.Iphigenia.Unhappy man, thou art in like manner tortured,And feelest truly what he, the poor fugitive, suffers!Orestes.What sayest thou? what meanest by "like manner"?Iphigenia.Thee, too, the weight of a fratricide crushes to earth; the taleI had from thy younger brother.Orestes.I cannot suffer that thou, great soul,Shouldst be deceived by a false tale;A web of lies let stranger weave for strangerSubtle with many thoughts, accustomed to craft,Guarding his feet against a trap.But between usBe Truth;—I am Orestes,—and this guilty headBent downward to the grave seeks death;In any shape were he welcome.Whoever thou art, I wish thou mightst be saved,Thou and my friend; for myself I wish it not.Thou seem'st against thy will here to remain;Invent a way to fly and leave me here.
Like all pure productions of genius, this may be injured by the slightest change, and I dare not flatter myself that the English words give an idea of the heroic dignity expressed in the cadence of the original, by the words
where the Greek seems to fold his robe around him in the full strength of classic manhood, prepared for worst and best, not like a cold Stoic, but a hero, who can feel all, know all, and endure all. The name of two syllables in the German is much more forcible for the pause, than the three-syllable Orestes.
is fine to my ear, on which our word Truth also pauses with a large dignity.
The scenes go on more and more full of breathing beauty. The lovely joy of Iphigenia, the meditative softness with which the religiously educated mind perpetually draws the inference from the most agitating events, impress us more and more. At last the hour of trial comes. She is to keep off Thoas by a cunningly devised tale, while her brother and Pylades contrive their escape. Orestes has received to his heart the sister long lost, divinely restored, and in the embrace the curse falls from him, he is well, and Pylades more than happy. The ship waits to carry her to the palace home she is to free from a century's weight of pollution; and already the blue heavens of her adored Greece gleam before her fancy.
But, O, the step before all this can be obtained;—to deceive Thoas, a savage and a tyrant indeed, but long her protector,—in his barbarous fashion, her benefactor! How can she buy life, happiness, or even the safety of those dear ones at such a price?
Then follows the sublime song of the Parcæ, well known through translations.
But Iphigenia is not a victim of fate, for she listens steadfastly to the god in her breast. Her lips are incapable of subterfuge. She obeys her own heart, tells all to the king,calls up his better nature, wins, hallows, and purifies all around her, till the heaven-prepared way is cleared by the obedient child of heaven, and the great trespass of Tantalus cancelled by a woman's reliance on the voice of her innocent soul.
If it be not possible to enhance the beauty with which such ideal figures as the Iphigenia and the Antigone appeared to the Greek mind, yet Gœthe has unfolded a part of the life of this being, unknown elsewhere in the records of literature. The character of the priestess, the full beauty of virgin womanhood, solitary, but tender, wise and innocent, sensitive and self-collected, sweet as spring, dignified as becomes the chosen servant of God, each gesture and word of deep and delicate significance,—where else is such a picture to be found?
It was not the courtier, nor the man of the world, nor the connoisseur, nor the friend of Mephistopheles, nor Wilhelm the Master, nor Egmont the generous, free liver, that saw Iphigenia in the world of spirits, but Gœthe, in his first-born glory; G[o]ethe, the poet; Gœthe, designed to be the brightest star in a new constellation. Let us not, in surveying his works and life, abide with him too much in the suburbs and outskirts of himself. Let us enter into his higher tendency, thank him for such angels as Iphigenia, whose simple truth mocks at all his wise "Beschrankungen," and hope the hour when, girt about with many such, he will confess, contrary to his opinion, given in his latest days, that it is well worth while to live seventy years, if only to find that they are nothing in the sight of God.
NOWalmost the last light has gone out of the galaxy that made the first thirty years of this age so bright. And the dynasty that now reigns over the world of wit and poetry is poor and pale, indeed, in comparison.
We are anxious to pour due libations to the departed; we need not economize our wine; it will not be so often needed now.
Hood has closed the most fatiguing career in the world—that of a professed wit; and we may say with deeper feeling than of others who shuffle off the load of care, May he rest in peace! The fatigues of a conqueror, a missionary preacher, even of an active philanthropist, like Howard, are nothing to those of a professed wit. Bad enough is it when he is only a man of society, by whom every one expects to be enlivened and relieved; who can never talk gravely in a corner, without those around observing that he must have heard some bad news to be so out of spirits; who can never make a simple remark, while eating a peaceful dinner, without the table being set in a roar of laughter, as when Sheridan, on such an occasion, opened his lips for the first time to say that "he liked currant jelly." For these unhappy men there are no intervals of social repose, no long silences fed by the mere feeling of sympathy or gently entertained by observation, no warm quietude in the mild liveries of green or brown, for the world has made up its mind that motley is their only wear, and teases them to jingle their bells forever.
But far worse is it when the professed wit is also by profession a writer, and finds himself obliged to coin for bread thosejokes which, in the frolic exuberance of youth, he so easily coined for fun. We can conceive of no existence more cruel, so tormenting, and at the same time so dull. We hear that Hood was forever behindhand with his promises to publishers; no wonder! But when we hear that he, in consequence, lost a great part of the gains of his hard life, and was, as a result, harassed by other cares, we cannot mourn to lose him, if,
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;"
or if, as our deeper knowledge leads us to hope, he is now engaged in a better life, where his fancies shall take their natural place, and flicker like light on the surface of a profound and full stream flowing betwixt rich and peaceful shores, such as, no less than the drawbacks upon his earthly existence, are indicated in the following
SONNET.The curse of Adam, the old curse of all,Though I inherit in this feverish lifeOf worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife,And fruitless thought in care's eternal thrall,Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gallI taste through thee, my Eva, my sweet wife.Then what was Man's lost Paradise? how rifeOf bliss, since love is with him in his fall!Such as our own pure passion still might frameOf this fair earth and its delightful bowers,If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, cameTo trail its venom o'er the sweetest flowers;But, O! as many and such tears are oursAs only should be shed for guilt and shame.
In Hood, as in all true wits, the smile lightens on the verge of a tear. True wit and humor show that exquisitesensibility to the relations of life, that fine perception as to slight tokens of its fearful, hopeless mysteries, which imply pathos to a still higher degree than mirth.
Hood knew and welcomed the dower which nature gave him at his birth, when he wrote thus:—
All things are touched with melancholyBorn of the secret soul's mistrust,To feel her fair ethereal wingsWeighed down with vile, degraded dust.Even the bright extremes of joyBring on conclusions of disgust,Like the sweet blossoms of the May,Whose fragrance ends in must.O, give her, then, her tribute just,Her sighs and tears and musings holy;There is no music in the lifeThat sounds with idiot laughter solely;There's not a string attuned to mirth,But has its chord in melancholy.
Hood was true to this vow of acceptance. He vowed to accept willingly the pains as well as joys of life for what they could teach. Therefore, years expanded and enlarged his sympathies, and gave to his lightest jokes an obvious harmony with a great moral design, not obtrusively obvious, but enough so to give a sweetness and permanent complacency to our laughter. Indeed, what is written in his gayer mood has affected us more, as spontaneous productions always do, than what he has written of late with grave design, and which has been so much lauded by men too obtuse to discern a latent meaning, or to believe in a good purpose unless they are formally told that it exists.
The later serious poems of Hood are well known; so are his jest books and novel. We have now in view to speakrather of a little volume of poems published by him, some years since, republished here, but never widely circulated.
When a book or a person comes to us in the best possible circumstances, we judge—not too favorably, for all that the book or person can suggest is a part of its fate, and what is not seen under the most favorable circumstances is never quite truly seen either as to promise or performance—but we form a judgment above what can be the average sense of the world in general as to its merits, which may be esteemed, after time enough has elapsed, a tolerably fair estimate of performance, though not of promise or suggestion.
We became acquainted with these poems in one of those country towns which would be called, abroad, the most provincial of the province. The inhabitants had lost the simplicity of farmers' habits, without gaining in its place the refinement, the variety, the enlargement of civic life. Their industry had received little impulse from thought; their amusement was gossip. All men find amusement from gossip—literary, artistic, or social; but the degrees in it are almost infinite. They were at the bottom of the scale; they scrutinized their neighbors' characters and affairs incessantly, impertinently, and with minds unpurified by higher knowledge; consequently the bitter fruits of envy and calumny abounded.
In this atmosphere I was detained two months, and among people very uncongenial both to my tastes and notions of right. But I had a retreat of great beauty. The town lay on the bank of a noble river; behind it towered a high and rocky hill. Thither every afternoon went the lonely stranger, to await the fall of the sunset light on the opposite bank of the full and rapid stream. It fell like a smile of heavenly joy; the white sails on the stream glided along like angel thoughts; the town itself looked like a fair nest, whence virtue and happiness might soar with sweetest song. So looked the scenefrom above; and that hill was the scene of many an aspiration and many an effort to attain as high a point of view forthe mental prospect, in the hope that little discrepancies, or what seemed so when on a level with them, might also, from above, be softened into beauty and found subservient to a noble design on the whole.
This town boasted few books, and the accident which threw Hood's poems in the way of the watcher from the hill, was a very fortunate one. They afforded a true companionship to hours which knew no other, and, perhaps, have since been overrated from association with what they answered to or suggested.
Yet there are surely passages in them which ought to be generally known and highly prized. And if their highest value be for a few individuals with whom they are especially in concord, unlike the really great poems which bring something to all, yet those whom they please will be very much pleased.
Hood never became corrupted into a hack writer. This shows great strength under his circumstances. Dickens has fallen, and Sue is falling; for few men can sell themselves by inches without losing a cubit from their stature. But Hood resisted the danger. He never wrote when he had nothing to say, he stopped when he had done, and never hashed for a second meal old thoughts which had been drained of their choicest juices. His heart is truly human, tender, and brave. From the absurdities of human nature he argues the possibility of its perfection. His black is admirably contrasted with his white, but his love has no converse of hate. His descriptions of nature, if not accurately or profoundly evidencing insight, are unstudied, fond, and reverential. They are fine reveries about nature.
He has tried his powers on themes where he had great rivals—in the "Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," and "Hero and Leander." The latter is one of the finest subjects in the world, and one, too, which can never wear out as long as each mind shall have its separate ideal of what a meeting would bebetween two perfect lovers, in the full bloom of beauty and youth, under circumstances the most exalting to passion, because the most trying, and with the most romantic accompaniments of scenery. There is room here for the finest expression of love and grief, for the wildest remonstrance against fate. Why are they made so lovely and so beloved? Why was a flower brought to such perfection, and then culled for no use? One of the older English writers has written an exquisite poem on this subject, painting a youthful pair, fitted to be not only a heaven but a world to one another. Hood had not power to paint or conceive such fulness of character; but, in a lesser style, he has written a fine poem. The best part of it, however, is the innocent cruelty and grief of the Sea Siren.
"Lycus the Centaur" is also a poem once read never to be forgotten. The hasty trot of the versification, unfit for any other theme, on this betokens well the frightened horse. Its mazy and bewildered imagery, with its countless glancings and glimpses, expressed powerfully the working of the Circean spell, while the note of human sadness, a yearning and condemned human love, thrills through the whole and gives it unity.
The Sonnets, "It is not death," &c., and that on Silence, are equally admirable. Whoever reads these poems will regard Hood as something more than a great wit,—as a great poet also.
To express this is our present aim, and therefore we shall leave to others, or another time, the retrospect of his comic writings. But having, on the late promptings of love for the departed, looked over these, we have been especially amused with the "Schoolmistress Abroad," which was new to us. Miss Crane, a "she Mentor, stiff as starch, formal as a Dutch ledge, sensitive as a daguerreotype, and so tall, thin, and upright, that supposing the Tree of Knowledge to have been a poplar, she was the very Dryad to have fitted it," was left, with a sisterlittle better endowed with the pliancy and power of adaptation which the exigencies of this varied world-scene demand, in attendance upon a sick father, in a foreign inn, where she cannot make herself understood, because her French is not "French French, but English French," and no two things in nature or art can be more unlike. Now look at the position of the sisters.
"The younger, Miss Ruth, was somewhat less disconcerted. She had by her position the greater share in the active duties of Lebanon House, and under ordinary circumstances would not have been utterly at a loss what to do for the comfort or relief of her parent. But in every direction in which her instinct and habits would have prompted her to look, thematerialsshe sought were deficient. There was no easy chair—no fire to wheel it to—no cushion to shake up—no cupboard to go to—no female friend to consult—no Miss Parfitt—no cook—no John to send for the doctor—no English—no French—nothing but that dreadful 'Gefullig,' or 'Ja Wohl,' and the equally incomprehensible 'Gnadige Frau!'
"'Der herr,' said the German coachman, 'ist sehr krank,' (the gentleman is very sick.)
"The last word had occurred so frequently on the organ of the Schoolmistress, that it had acquired in her mind some important significance.
"'Ruth, what is krank?'
"'How should I know?' retorted Ruth, with an asperity apt to accompany intense excitement and perplexity. 'In English, it's a thing that helps to pull the bell. But look at papa—do help to support him—you're good for nothing.'
"'I am, indeed,' murmured poor Miss Priscilla, with a gentle shake of her head, and a low, slow sigh of acquiescence. Alas! as she ran over the catalogue of her accomplishments, the more she remembered what shecoulddo for her sick parent, the more helpless and useless she appeared. Forinstance, she could have embroidered him a night-cap—or knitted him a silk purse—or plaited him a guard-chain—or cut him out a watch-paper—or ornamented his braces with bead-work—or embroidered his waistcoat—or worked him a pair of slippers—or openworked his pocket handkerchief. She could even, if such an operation would have been comforting or salutary, have roughcasted him with shell-work—or coated him with red or black seals—or encrusted him with blue alum—or stuck him all over with colored wafers—or festooned him.
"But alas! what would it have availed her poor dear papa in the spasmodics, if she had even festooned him, from top to toe, with little rice-paper roses?"
The comments of the female chorus, as the author reads aloud the sorrows of Miss Crane, are droll as Hood's drollest. Who can say more?
So farewell, gentle, generous, inventive, genial, and most amusing friend. We thank thee for both tears and laughter; tears which were not heart-breaking, laughter which was never frivolous or unkind. In thy satire was no gall, in the sting of thy winged wit no venom, in the pathos of thy sorrow no enfeebling touch! Thou hadst faults as a writer, we know not whether as a man; but who cares to name or even to note them? Surely there is enough on the sunny side of the peach to feed us and make us bless the tree from which it fell.
THISis a very pleasing book, and if the "Essays of Summer Hours" resemble it, we are not surprised at the favor with which they have been received, not only in this country, but in England.
The writer is, we believe, very young, and as these Essays have awakened in us a friendly expectation which he has time and talent to fulfil, we will, at this early hour, proffer our counsel on two points.
First. Avoid details, so directly personal, of emotion. A young and generous mind, seeing the deceit and cold reserve which so often palsy men who write, no less than those who act, may run into the opposite extreme. But frankness must be tempered by delicacy, or elevated into the region of poetry. You may tell the world at large what you please, if you make it of universal importance by transporting it into the field of general human interest. But your private griefs, merelyasyours, belong to yourself, your nearest friends, to Heaven and to nature. There is a limit set by good taste, or the sense of beauty, on such subjects, which each, who seeks, may find for himself.
Second. Be more sparing of your praise: above all, of its highest terms. We should have a sense of mental as well as moral honor, which, while it makes us feel the baseness of uttering merely hasty and ignorant censure, will also forbid that hasty and extravagant praise which strict truth will not justify. A man of honor wishes to utter no word to which he cannot adhere. The offices of Poet—of Hero-worship—are sacred,and he who has a heart to appreciate the excellent should call nothing excellent which falls short of being so. Leave yourself some incense worthy of thebest; do not lavish it on the merelygood. It is better to be too cool than extravagant in praise; and though mediocrity may be elated if it can draw to itself undue honors, true greatness shrinks from the least exaggeration of its claims. The truly great are too well aware how difficult is the attainment of excellence, what labors and sacrifices it requires, even from genius, either to flatter themselves as to their works, or to be otherwise than grieved at idolatry from others; and so, with best wishes, and a hope to meet again, we bid farewell to the "Landscape Painter."
THISbook bears on its outside the title, "Life of Beethoven, by Moscheles." It is really only a translation of Schindler, and it seems quite unfair to bring Moscheles so much into the foreground, merely because his name is celebrated in England. He has only contributed a few notes and a short introduction, giving a most pleasing account of his own devotion to the Master. Schindler was the trusty friend of Beethoven, and one whom he himself elected to write his biography. Inadequate as it is, there is that fidelity in the collection of materials which makes it serviceable to our knowledge of Beethoven, and we wish it might be reprinted in America. Though there is little knowledge of music here, yet so far as any exists in company with a free development of mind, the music of Beethoven isthemusic which delights, which awakens, which inspires, an infinite hope.
This influence of these most profound, bold, original and singular compositions, even upon the uninitiated, above those of a simpler construction and more obvious charms, we have observed with great pleasure. For we think its cause lies deep, far beneath fancy, taste, fashion, or any accidental cause.
It is because there is a real and steady unfolding of certain thoughts which pervade the civilized world. They strike their roots through to us beneath the broad Atlantic; and these roots shoot stems upward to the light wherever the soil allows them free course.
Our era, which permits of freer inquiry, of bolder experiment, than ever before, and a firmer, broader, basis, may also, we sincerely trust, be depended on for nobler discovery and a grander scope of thought.
Although we sympathize with the sadness of those who lament the decay of forms and methods round which so many associations have wound their tendrils, and understand the sufferings which gentle, tender natures undergo from the forlorn homelessness of a period of doubt, speculation, reconstruction in every way, yet we cannot disjoin ourselves, by one moment's fear or regret, from the advance corps. That body, leagued by an invisible tie, has received too deep an assurance that the spirit is not dead nor sleeping, to look back to the past, even if they must advance uniformly through scenes of decay and the rubbish of falling edifices.
But how far it is from being so! How many developments, in various ways, of truth! How manifold the aspirations of love! In the church the attempt is now to reconstruct on the basis proposed by its founder—"Love one another;" in the philosophy of mind, if completeness of system is, as yet, far from being attained, yet mistakes and vain dogmas are set aside, and examinations conducted with intelligence and an enlarged discernment of what is due both to God and man. Science advances, in some route with colossal strides; new glimpses are daily gained into the arcana of natural history, and the mysteries attendant on the modes of growth, are laid open to our observation; while in chemistry, electricity, magnetism, we seem to be getting nearer to the law of life which governs them, and in astronomy "fathoming the heavens," to use the sublime expression of Herschel, daily to greater depths, we find ourselves admitted to a perception of the universal laws and causes, where harmony, permanence and perfection leave us no excuse for a moment of despondency, while under the guidance of a Power who has ordered all so well.
Then, if the other arts suffer a temporary paralysis, and notwithstanding the many proofs of talent and genius, we consider that is the case with architecture, painting, and sculpture, music is not only thoroughly vital, but in a state of rapid development. The last hundred years have witnessed a succession of triumphs in this art, the removal of obstructions, the transcending of limits, and the opening new realms of thought, to an extent that makes the infinity of promise and hope very present with us. And take notice that the prominent means of excellence now are not in those ways which give form to thought already existent, but which open new realms to thought. Those who live most with the life of their age, feel that it is one not only beautiful, positive, full of suggestion, but vast, flowing, of infinite promise. It is dynamics that interest us now, and from electricity and music we borrow the best illustrations of what we know.
Let no one doubt that these grand efforts at synthesis are capable of as strict analysis. Indeed, it is wonderful with what celerity and precision the one process follows up the other.
Of this great life which has risen from the stalk and the leaf into bud, and will in the course of this age be in full flower, Beethoven is the last and greatest exponent. His music is felt, by every soul whom it affects, to be the explanation of the past and the prophecy of the future. It contains the thoughts of the time. A dynasty of great men preceded him, each of whom made conquests and accumulated treasures which prepared the way for his successor. Bach, Handel, Hadyn, Mozart, were corner-stones of the glorious temple. Who shall succeed Beethoven? A host of musicians, full of talent, even of genius, live now he is dead; but the greatest among them is confessed by all men to be but of Lilliputian size compared with this demigod. Indeed, it should be so! As copious draughts of soul have been given to the earth, as she can quaff for a century or more. Disciplesand critics must follow, to gather up the gleanings of the golden grain.
It is observable as an earnest of the great Future which opens for this country, that such a genius is so easily and so much appreciated here, by those who have not gone through the steps that prepared the way for him in Europe. He is felt, because he expresses, in full tones, the thoughts that lie at the heart of our own existence, though we have not found means to stammer them as yet. To those who have obtained some clew to all this,—and their number is daily on the increase,—this biography of Beethoven will be very interesting. They will here find a picture of the great man, as he looked and moved in actual life, though imperfectly painted,—as by one who saw the figure from too low a stand-point.
It will require the united labors of a constellation of minds to paint the portrait of Beethoven. That of his face, as seen in life, prefixed to these volumes, is better than any we have seen. It bears tokens of the force, the grandeur, the grotesqueness of his genius, and at the same time shows the melancholy that came to him from the great misfortune of his life—his deafness; and the affectionateness of his deep heart.
Moscheles thus gives a very pleasing account of his first cognizance of Beethoven:—
"I had been placed under the guidance and tuition of Dionysius Weber, the founder and present director of the Prague Musical Conservatory; and he, fearing that in my eagerness to read new music, I might injure the systematic development of my piano-forte playing, prohibited the library, a circulating musical library, and in a plan for my musical education which he laid before my parents, made it an express condition that for three years I should study no other authors but Mozart, Clemente, and S. Bach. I must confess, however, that in spite of such prohibition, I visited the library, gaining access to it through my pocket money. It was aboutthis time that I learned from some schoolfellows that a young composer had appeared in Vienna, who wrote the oddest stuff possible, such as no one could either play or understand—crazy music, in opposition to all rule; and that this composer's name was Beethoven. On repairing to the library to satisfy my curiosity as to this so-called eccentric genius, I found there Beethoven's 'Sonate Pathetique.' This was in the year 1804. My pocket money would not suffice for the purchase of it, so I secretly copied it. The novelty of its style was so attractive to me, and I became so enthusiastic in my admiration of it, that I forgot myself so far as to mention my new acquisition to my master, who reminded me of his injunction, and warned me not to play or study any eccentric productions until I had based my style upon more solid models. Without, however, minding his injunction, I seized upon the piano-forte works of Beethoven as they successively appeared, and in them found a solace and delight such as no other composer afforded me.
"In the year 1809, my studies with my master, Weber, closed; and being then also fatherless, I chose Vienna for my residence, to work out my future musical career. Above all, I longed to see and become acquainted with that man who had exercised so powerful an influence over my whole being; whom, though I scarcely understood, I blindly worshipped. I learned that Beethoven was most difficult of access, and would admit no pupil but Ries; and for a long time my anxiety to see him remained ungratified. In the year 1810, however, the longed-for opportunity presented itself. I happened to be one morning in the music shop of Domenico Artaria, who had just been publishing some of my early attempts at composition, when a man entered with short and hasty steps, and gliding through the circle of ladies and professors assembled on business, or talking over musical matters, without looking up, as though he wished to pass unnoticed, made his way direct for Artaria's private office at the bottom of theshop. Presently Artaria called me in, and said, 'This is Beethoven,'—and to the composer, 'This is the youth of whom I have been speaking to you.' Beethoven gave me a friendly nod, and said he had just been hearing a favorable account of me. To some modest and humble expressions which I stammered forth he made no reply, and seemed to wish to break off the conversation. I stole away with a greater longing for that which I had sought, than before this meeting, thinking to myself, 'Am I then, indeed, such a nobody that he could not put one musical question to me? nor express one wish to know who had been my master, or whether I had any acquaintance with his works?' My only satisfactory mode of explaining the matter, and comforting myself for the omission, was in Beethoven's tendency to deafness; for I had seen Artaria speaking close to his ear. But I made up my mind that the more I was excluded from the private intercourse which I so earnestly coveted, the closer I would follow Beethoven in all the productions of his mind."
If Moscheles had never seen more of Beethoven, how rejoiced he would have been on reading his pathetic expressions recorded in those volumes, as to the misconstructions he knew his fellow-men must put on conduct caused by his calamity, at having detected the true cause of coldness in his own instance, and that no mean suggestions of offended vanity made him false to the genius, because repelled by the man!
Moscheles did see him further, and learned a great deal from this intercourse, though it never became intimate. He closes with these excellent remarks:—
"My feelings with respect to Beethoven's music have undergone no variation, save to become warmer. In my first half score of years of acquaintance with his works, he was repulsive to me, as well as attractive. In each of them, while I felt my mind fascinated by the prominent idea, and my enthusiasmkindled by the flashes of his genius, his unlooked-for episodes, shrill dissonances, and bold modulations gave me an unpleasant sensation. But how soon did I become reconciled to them! all that had appeared hard I soon found indispensable. The gnome-like pleasantries, which at first appeared too distorted, the stormy masses of sound which I found too chaotic, I have in after times learned to love. But while retracting my early critical exceptions, I must still maintain as my creed that eccentricities like those of Beethoven are reconcilable with his works alone, and are dangerous models to other composers, many of whom have been wrecked in their attempts at imitation."
No doubt the peculiarities of Beethoven are inimitable, though as great would be as welcome in a mind of equal greatness. The natural office of such a genius is to rouse others to a use and knowledge of their own faculties; never to induce imitation of its own individuality.
As an instance of the justice and undoubting clearness of such a mind, as to its own methods, take the following anecdote from Beethoven's "Pupil Ries":—