"Repetitions, wearisome of sense,Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place?"
"Repetitions, wearisome of sense,Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place?"
"Repetitions, wearisome of sense,
Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place?"
ALDA.
You are little better than a heretic in these matters. But I will admit thus much—that the classical and mythological sculpture of our modern artists, is to the ancient marbles, what Racine's tragedies are to those of Sophocles; that we are so far condemned to the "repetition wearisome offorms," from which the ancient spirit hasevaporated; but that is not the fault of the subjects, but of the manner of treating them, for never can the beautiful mythology of ancient Greece, which has woven itself into our earliest dreams of poetry, become a "creed out-worn." Its forms, and its symbols, and its imagery, have mingled with every branch of art, and become a universal language. It is the deification of the material world; and therefore, that art, which in its perfection may be called the apotheosis of form, finds there its proper region and element.
MEDON.
You do not suppose that, with all my Gothic tastes, I am such a Goth as not to feel the truth of what you say? But I am an enemy to the exclusive in every thing; and—pardon me—your worship of the Elgin marbles and the Niobe, is, I think, a little too exclusive. All I ask is, that modern sculpture should be allowed, like painting and poetry, to have its romantic, as well as its classical school.
ALDA.
It has been otherwise decided.
MEDON.
But it has not been otherwise proved. There has been much theoretical eloquence and criticism expended on the subject, but I deny that the experiment has been fairly and practically brought before us. I know very well you are ready with a thousand instances of attempt and failure, but may we not seek the cause in the mistaken application of certain classical, or, I should say, pedantic ideas on the subject? If I ask for Milton's Satan, standing like a tower in his spiritual might, his thunder-scarred brow wreathed with the diadem of hell, why am I to be presented with an Athlete, or an Achilles? Why would Canova give us for the head of Dante's Beatrice that of a muse, or an Aspasia? and for Petrarch's Laura, a meretête de nymphe? I contend that to apply the forms suggested by the modern poetry demands a different spirit from that of classic art. How to apply or modify the example bequeathedto us by the great masters of old, Flaxman has shown us in his Dante. And why should we not have in sculpture a Lear as well as a Laocoon? a Constance as well as a Niobe? a Gismunda as well as a Cleopatra?——
ALDA.
Or a Tam o'Shanter as well as a laughing Faun?
MEDON.
When I am serious and poetical, which is not often, I will not allow you to be perverse and ironical!
ALDA.
See, here is a passage which I have just found among Mrs. Austin's beautiful specimens of translation: "The critic of art ought to keep in view, not only the capabilities, but the proper objects of art. Not all that art can accomplish ought she to attempt. It is from this cause alone, and because we have lost sight of these principles, that artamong us has become more extensive and difficult, and less effective and perfect."23
MEDON.
Very well,—and very true:—but who shall bring a rule and compass to measure the capabilities of art, and define its proper objects? May there not exist in the depths or heights of philosophy and art, truths yet to be revealed, as there are stars in heaven, whose light has not yet reached the naked eye? and why should not criticism have its telescope for truth, as well as its microscope for error? Art may be finite; but who shall fix its limits, and say, "thus far shalt thou go?" There are those who regard the distant as the unattainable, the unknown as the unexisting, the actual as the necessary;—are you one of such, O you of little faith! For my own part, I look forward to a new era in sculpture. I believe that the purely natural and the purely ideal areone, and susceptible of forms and modifications as yet untried. For Nature, the infinite, sits within her tabernacle, not made byhuman hands, and Genius and Love are the cherubim, to whom it is permitted to look into her unveiled eyes, and reflect their light; Art is the priestess of her divine mysteries, and Criticism, the door-keeper of her temple, should be Janus-headed, looking forward as well as backward. Reason estimates what has been done; Imagination alone divines whatmaybe done. But I am losing myself in these reveries. To attempt something new,—perfectly new in style and conception—and spend, like Dannecker, eight years in working out that conception—and then perhaps eight years more waiting for a purchaser, and this in a country where one must eat and pay taxes—truly, it is not easy.
SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER.
MEDON.
You have been frowning and musing in your chair for the last half-hour, with your fore-finger between the leaves of your book—where were your thoughts?
ALDA.
They were far—very far! I am afraid that I appear very stupid?
MEDON.
O not at all! you know there are stars which appear dim and fixed to the eye, while they aretaking flights and making revolutions, which imagination cannot follow nor science compute.
ALDA.
Upon my word, you are very sublimely ironical—my thoughts were not quite so far.
MEDON.
May one beg, or borrow them?—What is your book?
ALDA.
Mrs. Austin's "Characteristics of Goethe." I came upon a passage which sent back my thoughts to Weimar. I was again in his house; the faces, the voices of his grandchildren were around me; the room in which he studied, the bed in which he slept, the old chair in which he died,—and, above all,herin whose arms he died—from whose lips I heard the detail of his last moments—
MEDON.
What! all this emotion for Goethe?
ALDA.
For Goethe!—I should as soon think of weeping because the sun set yesterday, which now is pouring its light around me! Our tears are for those who suffer, for those who die, for those who are absent, for those who are cold or lost—not for those who cannot die, who cannot suffer,—who must be, to the end of time, a presence and an existence among us! No.
But I was reading here, among the Characteristics of Goethe, who certainly "knew all qualities, with a learned spirit in human dealings," that he was not only the quick discerner and most cordial hater of all affectation;—but even the unconscious affectation—thenature de convention,—the taught, the artificial, the acquired in manner or character, though it were meritorious in itself, he always detected, and it appeared to impress him disagreeably. Stay, I will read you the passage—here it is.
"Even virtue, laboriously and painfully acquired, was distasteful to him. I might almost affirm, that a faulty but vigorous character, if ithad any real native qualities as its basis, was regarded by him with more indulgence and respect than one which, at no moment of its existence, is genuine; which is incessantly under the most unamiable constraint, and consequently imposes a painful constraint on others. 'Oh,' said he, sighing, on such occasions, 'if they had but the heart to commit some absurdity, that would be something, and they would at least be restored to their own natural soil, free from all hypocrisy and acting: wherever that is the case, one may entertain the cheering hope that something will spring from the germ of good which nature implants in every individual. But on the ground they are now upon, nothing can grow.' 'Pretty dolls,' was his common expression when speaking of them. Another phrase was, 'That's a piece of nature,' (literally,das ist eine Natur, that is a nature,) which from Goethe's lips was considerable praise."24
This last phrase threw me back upon my remembrances. I thought of the daughter-in-law ofthe poet,—the trusted friend, the constant companion, the devoted and careful nurse of his last years. It accounted for the unrivalled influence which apparently she possessed—I will not sayoverhis mind—butinhis mind, in his affections; for in her he found trulyeine Natur—a piece of nature, which could bear evenhismicroscopic examination. All other beings who approached Goethe either were, or had been, or might be, more or less modified by the action of that universal and master spirit. Consciously, or unconsciously, in love or in fear, they bowed down before him, and gave up their individuality, or forgot it, in his presence; they took the bent he chose to impress, or the colour he chose to throw upon them. Their minds, in presence of his, were as opake bodies in the sun, absorbing in different degrees, reflecting in various hues, his vital beams; butHER'Swas, in comparison, like a transparent medium, through which the rays of that luminary passed,—pervading and enlightening, but leaving no other trace. Conceive a woman, a young, accomplished, enthusiastic woman, who had qualities toattach, talents to amuse, and capacity to appreciate,Goethe; who, for fourteen or fifteen years, could exist in daily, hourly communication with that gigantic spirit, yet retain, from first to last, the most perfect simplicity of character, and this less from the strength than from the purity and delicacy of the original texture. Those oft-abused words,naïve,naïveté, were more applicable to her in their fullest sense than to any other woman I ever met with. Her conversation was the most untiring I ever enjoyed, because the stores which fed that flowing eloquence were all native and unborrowed: you were not borne along by it as by a torrent—bongré,malgré,—nor dazzled as by an artificialjet d'eauset to play for your amusement. There was the obvious wish to please—a little naturalcoquetterie—vivacity without effort, sentiment without affectation, exceeding mobility, which yet never looked like caprice; and the most consummate refinement of thought, and feeling, and expression. From that really elegant and highly-toned mind, nothing flippant nor harsh could ever proceed; slander died away in herpresence; what was evil she would not hear of; what was malicious she would not understand; what was ridiculous she would not see. Sometimes there was a wild, artless fervour in her impulses and feelings, which might have become a feather-cinctured Indian on her savannah; then, the next moment, her bearing reminded you of the court-bred lady of the bed-chamber. Quick in perception, yet femininely confiding, uniting a sort of restless vivacity with an indolent gracefulness, she appeared to me by far the most poetical and genuine being of my own sex I ever knew in highly-cultivated life: one to whom no wrong could teach mistrust; no injury, bitterness; one to whom the common-place realities, the vulgar necessary cares of existence, were but too indifferent;—who was, in reality, all that other women try to appear, and betrayed, with a careless independence, what they most wish to conceal. I draw from the life,—now, what would you say to such a woman if you met with her in the world?
MEDON.
I should say—she had no business there.
ALDA.
How?
MEDON.
I repeat that the woman you have just portrayed is hardly fit for the world.
ALDA.
Say rather, the world is not fitted for her. As the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath, so the world was made for man, not man for the world—still less woman.
MEDON.
Do you know what you mean?
ALDA.
I think I do, though I am afraid I can but ill-explain myself. By the world, I mean that system of social life in all its complicate bearings by which we are surrounded; which was, I suppose, devised at first with a reference to the wants, the happiness, and the benefit of men, but for which nomanwas specifically created; his being hasa high and individual purpose beyond the world. Now, it seems to me one reason of the low average of what we callcharacter, that we judge a human soul, not as it is abstractedly, but simply in relation to others, and to the circumstances around it. If it be in harmony with the world, and worldly, we praise it—it is a very respectable soul; if so constituted, that it is in discord with a world, (which, observe, all our philosophers, our pastors, and our masters, unite to assure us, is a sad wicked place, and must be reformed or renounced forthwith,) then—I pray your attention to this point—thenthe fault, the bitter penalty, lies not upon this said wicked world,—O no!—but on that unlucky "piece of nature," which in its power, its goodness, its purity, its truth, its faith, and its tenderness, stands aloof from it. Is it not so?
MEDON.
Do you apply this personally?
ALDA.
No, generally; but I return to her whosuggested the thought, and whom I ought not, perhaps, to have made the subject of such a conversation as this: it is against all my principles, contrary to my custom; and, in truth, I speak of one in whom there is so much to love, that we cannot praise without being accused of partiality; and so much to admire, that we could not censure without being suspected of envy. I might as well be silent therefore. Yet shall such a woman bear such a name, and hold such a position as the mother of Goethe's posterity;25—shall she be rendered by both a mark for observation, from one end of Europe to the other;—shall she be "condemned to celebrity," and shall it be allowed to ignorance, or ill-nature, or vanity, to prate of her;—and shall it be forbidden to friendship even to speak?—that were hardly just. Of those effusions of her creative and poetical talents, which charm her friends, I say nothing, because in all probability neither you nor the public will ever benefitby them. I met with several other women in Germany who possessed striking poetical genius, and whose compositions were equally destined to remain unknown, except to the circle of their immediate friends and relatives.
MEDON.
Mr. Hayward, in his notes to his translation of Faust, remarks on the strong prejudice against female authorship, which still exists in Germany; but he has hopes that it will not endure, and that something may be done "to unlock the stores of fancy and feeling which the Ottilies and the Adèles have hived up." Tell me—did you find this prejudice entertained by the women themselves, or existing chiefly on the part of the men?
ALDA.
It was expressed most strongly by the women, but it must have originated with the men. All your prejudices you instil into us; and then we are not satisfied with adopting them, we exaggeratethem—we mix them up with our fancies and affections, and transmit them to your children. You are "the mirrors in which we dress ourselves."
MEDON.
For which you dress yourselves!
ALDA.
Psha!—I mean that your minds and opinions are the mirrors in which we form our own. You legislate for us, mould us, form us as you will. If you prefer slaves and playthings to companions and helpmates, is that our fault? In Germany I met with some men who, perhaps out of compliment, descanted with enthusiasm on female talent, and in behalf of female authorship; but the women almost uniformly spoke of the latter with dread, as something formidable, or with contempt, as of something beneath them: what is an unworthy prejudice in your sex, becomes, when transplanted into ours, afeeling;—a mistaken, but a genuine, and even a generous feeling. Many women, who have sufficient sense and simplicityof mind to rise above the mereprejudice, would not contend with thefeeling: they would not scruple to encounter the public judgment in a cause approved by their own hearts, but they have not courage to brave or to oppose the opinions of friends and kindred—
MEDON.
Or risk the loss of a lover. You remember the axiom of that clever Frenchman,26who certainly spoke the existing opinions of his country only a few years ago, when he said—"Imprimer, pour une femme de moins de cinquante ans c'est mettre son bonheur à la plus terrible des lotteries; si elle a un amant elle commencera par le perdre."
ALDA.
I really believe that in Germany the latter catastrophe would be in most cases inevitable; and where is the woman who knowingly would risk it?
MEDON.
All, however, have not lovers to lose, or husbands to displease, or friends to affront; and if the women, in compliance with our self-revolving egotism, affect to prostrate themselves, and undervalue one another—do the men allow it to this extent? Do not the Germans most justly boast, that in their land arose the first feeling of veneration for women, the result of the Christian dispensation, grafted on the old German manners? Do they not point to their literature and their institutions, as more favourable to your sex than any other? Does not even Madame de Staël exalt the fine earnestness of the German feeling towards you, infinitely above the system of French gallantry?—that flimsy veil of conventional good-breeding, under which we seek to disguise the demoralization of one sex, and the virtual slavery of the other? Have I not heard you say, that it is the present fashion among the poets, artists, and writers of Germany, to defer in all things to the middle ages? Are not the maxims and sentiments of chivalry ready on their lips, theforms and symbols of the old chivalrous times to be traced in every department of literature and art among them?
ALDA.
All this is true; and I will believe that all this is something more than mere theory, when I see the Germans less slovenly in their interior, and less egotistical in their domestic relations. The theme is unwelcome, unpleasant, ungraceful,—in fact, I can scarcely persuade myself to say one word against those high-minded, benevolent, admirable, and "most-thinking people;" so I will not dwell upon it: but I must confess that the personal negligence of the men, and the forbearance of the women on this point, astonished me. I longed to remind these worshippers of the age of chivalry of that advice of St. Louis to his son—"Il faut être toujours propre et bien proprement habillé, afin d'êtremieux aimé de sa femme;" the really good-natured and well-bred Germans will, I am sure, forgive this passing remark, and allow its truth: theydidat once agreewith me, that the tavern-life of the men, more particularly the clever professional men in the south of Germany, (another remnant, I presume, either of the age of chivalry, or the Bürschen-sitten—I know not which,) was calculated to retard the social improvement and refinement of both sexes. And, apropos to chivalry, the fact is, that the institutions of a generous but barbarous period, invented to shield our helplessness, when women were exposed to every hardship, every outrage, have been much abused, and must be considerably modified to suit a very different state of society. That affectation of poetical homage, which your strength paid to our weakness, when the laws were not sufficient to defend us, we would now gladly exchange for more real honour, more real protection, more equal rights. I speak thus, knowing that, however open to perversion these expressions may be,youwill not misapprehend me; you know that I am no vulgar, vehement arguer about the "rights of women;" and, from my habitual tone of feeling and thought, the last to covet any of your masculine privileges.
MEDON.
I do perfectly understand you; but, pray what are our strictly masculine privileges, that you should covet them? Fighting! getting drunk! and keeping a mistress!—I beg your pardon if I shock your delicacy; but certainly, upon the score of masculine privileges, the less that is said the better: there are nations in which it is a masculine privilege to sit and smoke, while women draw the plough. It was some time ago,—and now, in some countries, it is still a masculine privilege to cultivate the mind at all; and in Germany, apparently, it is still a masculine privilege to publish a book without losingcastein society; whereas here, in England, we have fallen into the opposite extreme; female authorship is in danger of becoming a fashion,—which Heaven avert! I should be sorry to see you women taking the pen you have hitherto so honoured, in the same spirit in which you used to make filigree, cobble shoes, and paint velvet.
ALDA.
It is too true that mere vanity and fashion havelately made some women authoresses;—more write for money, and by this employment of their talents earn their own independence, add to the comforts of a parent, or supply the extravagance of a husband. Some, who are unhappy in their domestic relations, yet endowed with all that feminine craving after sympathy, which was intended to be the charm of our sex, the blessing of yours, and somehow or other has been turned to the bane of both, look abroad for what they find not at home; fling into the wide world the irrepressible activity of an overflowing mind and heart, which can find no other unforbidden issue,—and to such "fame is love disguised." Some write from the mere energy of intellect and will; some few from the pure wish to do good, and to add to the stock of happiness and the progress of thought; and many from all these motives combined in different degrees.
MEDON.
And have none of these motives produced authoresses in Germany?
ALDA.
Yes; but fashion and vanity, and the love of excitement, have not as yet tempted the German women to print their effusions; their most distinguished authoresses have become so, either from real enthusiasm or from necessity; and in the lighter departments of literature they boast at present some brilliant names. I will run over a few.
There is Helmina von Chezy—but before I speak ofher, I should tell you of her famous grandmother, Anna Louisa Karshin, thoughshebelonged to the last century. The Karshin was the daughter of a poor innkeeper and brewer, in a little village of Silesia. She spent her early years in herding cows. She learned to read by stealth, by stealth she became a poetess; was first married to a boorish sulky weaver, secondly to a drunken tailor, and suffered for years every extremity of poverty and misery; at one time she travelled about the neighbouring country, the first example of an itinerant poetess, declaiming her own verses, and always ready with an ode or a sonnet to celebrate a wedding, or haila birthday. In this strange profession she excited much astonishment—went through some singular, but not disreputable adventures—and earned considerable sums of money, which her husband spent in drink and profligacy. Gifted with as much energy as genius, she struggled through all, and gradually became known to several of the critics and poets of the last century, particularly Count Stolberg and Gleim, and obtained the title of the German Sappho. She found means to reach Berlin, where she worked her way up to distinction, and supported herself, two children, and an orphan brother, by her talents. She was recommended to Frederick the Great as worthy of a pension, and—would you believe it?—thatmunificentpatron of his country's genius, sent her a gratuity of two dollars, in a piece of paper. This extraordinary and spirited woman, who had probably subsisted for half her life on charity, instantly returned them to the niggardly despot, after writing in the envelope four lines impromptu, which are yet repeated in Germany. I am not quite sure that I rememberthem accurately, and it is no matter, for they have not much either of poetry or point.
"Zwey Thaler sind zu wenig;Zwey Thaler macht kein Glück;Zwey Thaler gebt kein König;Fritz, hier send ich sie zurück."
"Zwey Thaler sind zu wenig;Zwey Thaler macht kein Glück;Zwey Thaler gebt kein König;Fritz, hier send ich sie zurück."
"Zwey Thaler sind zu wenig;
Zwey Thaler macht kein Glück;
Zwey Thaler gebt kein König;
Fritz, hier send ich sie zurück."
She died in 1791, and a selection of her poems was published in the following year.
The granddaughter of the Karshin, the more celebrated Helmina von Chezy, is likewise a poetess; her principal work is a tale of chivalry, in verse,Die drei Weissen Rosen, (The three White Roses) which was published in 18—, and she wrote the opera of Euryanthe, for Weber to set to music. Her songs and lighter poems are, I am told, exceedingly beautiful.
Caroline Pichler, of Vienna, I need only mention. I believe her historical romances have been translated into half-a-dozen languages. The Siege of Vienna is reckoned her best.
Madame Schoppenhauer, the daughter of a senator of Dantzic, is celebrated for her novels, travels, and works on art. She resided for many yearsat Weimar, where she drew round her a brilliant literary circle, which the talents of her daughter farther adorned. Since Goethe's death she has fixed her residence at Bonn, where it is probable the remainder of her life will be spent. One of the best of her novels, "Die Tante," has been translated by Madame de Montolieu, under the title of "La Tante et la Nièce." Another very pretty little book of hers, "Ausflucht an dem Rhein," I should like to see translated. Beside being an excellent writer on art, Madame Schoppenhauer is herself no mean artist. Moreover, she is a kind-hearted, excellent old lady, with a few old lady-like prejudices about England and the English, which I forgave her,—the more easily as I had to thank her in my own person for many and kind attentions.
Madame von Helvig, of Weimar, (born Amalia von Imhoff,) was the friend of Schiller, under whose auspices her first poems were published. Her rare knowledge of languages, her learning and critical taste in works of arts, have distinguished her almost as much as her genius for poetry.
The second wife of the Baron de la Motte-Fouquet, was a very accomplished woman, and the author of several poems and romances.
Frederica Brun, (born Münter,) the daughter of a learned ecclesiastic of Gotha, is celebrated for her prose writings, and particularly her travels in Italy, where she resided at different periods. Madame Brun was a friend of Madame de Staël, who mentions her in her de l'Allemagne, and describes the extraordinary talents for classical pantomime possessed by her daughter Ida Brun.
Louisa Brachmann is, I believe, more renowned for her melancholy death than her poetical talents; both together have procured her the name of the "German Sappho." The wretched woman threw herself into the river at Halle, and perished, as it was said, for the sake of some faithless Phaon. This was in 1822, when she must have been between forty and fifty; and pray observe, I do not notice this fact of her age in ridicule. A woman's heart may overflowinwardlyfor long, long years, till at last the accumulated sorrow bursts the bounds of reason, and then all at oncewe see the result of causes to which none gave heed, and of secret agonies to which none gave comfort—in folly, madness, destruction. Whatever might have been the cause,—thus she died. Her works in prose and verse may be found in every bookseller's shop in Germany. There is also a life of this unhappy and gifted woman by professor Schutz.
Fanny Tarnow is one of the most remarkable and most fertile of all the modern German authoresses. Her genius was developed by misfortune and suffering: while yet an infant, she fell from a window two stories high, and was taken up, to the amazement of the assistants, without any apparent injury, except a few bruises; but all the vital functions suffered, and during ten or twelve years she was extended on a couch,
neither joining in any of the amusements of childhood, nor subjected to the usual routine of female education. She educated herself. She read incessantly, and, as it was her only pleasure, books of every description, good and bad, were furnished her without restraint. She was about eleven yearsold when she made her firstknownpoetical attempt, inspired by her own feelings and situation. It was a dialogue between herself and the angel of death. In her seventeenth year she was sufficiently recovered to take charge of her father's family, after he had lost, by some sudden misfortune, his whole property. He held subsequently, a small office under government, the duties of which were principally performed by his admirable daughter. Her first writings were anonymous, and for a long time her name was unknown. Her most celebrated novel, the "Thekla," was published in 1815; and from this time she has enjoyed a high and public reputation. Fanny Tarnow resides, or did reside, in Dresden.
I have yet another name here, and not the least interesting, that of Johanna von Weissenthurn, one of the most popular dramatic writers in Germany. She was educated for the stage, even from infancy, her parents and relations being, I believe, strolling players. She lived, for many years, a various life of toil, and adventure, and excitement; such, perhaps, as Goethe describes inthe Wilhelm Meister; a life which does sometimes blunt the nicer feelings, but is sure to develop talent where it exists. Johanna at length rose through all the grades of her profession, and became the first actress at the principal theatre at Vienna. She played in the "Phœdra," before Napoleon, when he occupied the Austrian capital in 1806, and the conqueror sent to her, after the performance, a complimentary message, and a gratuity of three thousand francs; but her lasting reputation is founded on her dramatic works, which are played in every theatre in Germany. The plots, which, I am told, are remarkable for fancy and invention, have been borrowed, without acknowledgment, both by French and English playwrights. I was quite charmed with one of her pieces which I saw at Munich, (Die Erben—the Heirs,) and with another which was represented at Frankfort. Johanna von Weissenthurn has also written poems and tales.
I have come to the end of my memoranda on this subject, and regret it much. I might easily give you more names, and quote second-hand theopinions I heard of the merits and characteristics of these authoresses; but I speak of nothing but what Iknow, and not being able to form any judgment myself, I will give none. Only it appears to me that the Germans themselves assign to no female writer the same rank which here we proudly give to Joanna Baillie and Mrs. Hemans. I could hear of none who had ever exercised any thing like the moral influence possessed by Maria Edgeworth and Harriet Martineau, in their respective departments; nor could learn that any German woman had yet givenpublicproof that the most feminine qualities were reconcilable with the highest scientific attainments—like Mrs. Marcet and Mrs. Somerville.
MEDON.
You said the other night, that you had not formed any opinion as to the moral and social position of the women in Germany; but you must have brought away some general impressions of manner and character;—frankly, were they favourable or unfavourable?
ALDA.
Frankly, they were most favourable. Remember that I am not prepared with any general sweeping conclusions: I cannot assure you from my own knowledge, that among my own sex the proportion of virtue and happiness is greater in Germany than in England. On the contrary—
——In every landI saw, wherever light illumineth,Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand,The downward slope to death.In every land I thought that, more or less,The stronger, sterner nature overboreThe softer, uncontroll'd by gentleness,And selfish evermore!27
——In every landI saw, wherever light illumineth,Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand,The downward slope to death.
——In every land
I saw, wherever light illumineth,
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand,
The downward slope to death.
In every land I thought that, more or less,The stronger, sterner nature overboreThe softer, uncontroll'd by gentleness,And selfish evermore!27
In every land I thought that, more or less,
The stronger, sterner nature overbore
The softer, uncontroll'd by gentleness,
And selfish evermore!27
—Why do you smile?
MEDON.
You amuse me with the perseverance with which you ring the changes on your favourite text, in prose and in verse; and yet, to adoptVoltaire's witty metaphor,weare the hammers andyouthe anvils all the world over. But is that all? You need not have gone to Germany to verify that!
ALDA.
No, sir; it is notall. In the first place, you know I have a sufficient contempt for our English intolerance, with regard to manners—
MEDON.
Why, yes; with reason. The influence of meremanneramong our fashionable people, and the stress laid upon it as a distinction, have become so vulgarized and abused, that I should be relieved even by a reaction which should throw us out of the insipidity of conventional manner into primeval rudeness.
ALDA.
No, no, no!—no extremes: but though so sensible to the ridicule of referring the social habits, opinions, customs, of other nations, to thearbitrary standard of our own, still I could not help falling into comparisons; certain distinctions between the German and the English women struck me involuntarily. In the highest circles a stranger finds society much alike every where. A court-ball—thesoiréeof an ambassadress—a minister's dinner—present nearly the same physiognomy. It is in the second class of society, which is also every where, and in every sense, the best, that we behold the stamp of national character. I was not condemned to see my German friends alwaysen grande toilette; I had better opportunities of judging and appreciating their domestic habits and manners, than most travellers enjoy.
I thought the German women, of a certain rank, morenaturalthan we are. The moral education of an English girl is, for the most part,negative; the whole system of duty is thus presented to the mind. It is not "this you must do;" but always "you must not do this—you must not say that—you must not think so;" and if by some hardy, expanding nature, the questionbe ventured, "Why?"—the mamma or the governess are ready with the answer—"It is not the custom—it is not lady-like—it is ridiculous!" But is it wrong?—why is it wrong?—and then comes answer, pat—"My dear, you must not argue—young ladies never argue." "But, mamma, I was thinking——" "My dear, you must not think—go write your Italian exercise," and so on! The idea that certain passions, powers, tempers, feelings, interwoven with our being by our almighty and all-wise Creator, are to be put down by the fiat of a governess, or the edict of fashion, is monstrous. Those who educate us imagine that they have done every thing, if they have silenced controversy, if they have suppressed all external demonstration of an excess of temper or feeling; not knowing, or not reflecting, that unless our nature be self-governed and self-directed by an appeal to those higher faculties, which link us immediately with what is divine, their labour is lost.
Now, in Germany the women are less educated to suit some particular fashion; the cultivationof the intellect, and the forming of the manners, do not so generally supersede the training of the moral sentiments—the affections—the impulses; the latter are not so habitually crushed or disguised; consequently the women appeared to me more natural, and to have more individual character.
MEDON.
But the English women pique themselves on being natural, at least they have the word continually in their mouths. Do you know that I once overheard a well-meaning mother instructing her daughter how to be natural? You laugh, but I assure you it is a simple fact. Now, I really do not object to natural insipidity, but I do object to conventional insipidity: I object to a rule of elegance which makes the negative the test of the natural. It seems hard that those who have hearts and souls must needs put them into a strait-waistcoat, in order to oblige those who choose to have none; and be guilty of the grossest affectation, to escape the imputation of being affected!
ALDA.
I think there is less of this among the Germans; more of the individual character is brought into the daily intercourse of society—more of the poetry of existence is brought to bear on the common realities of life. I saw a freshness of feeling—a genuine (not a taught) simplicity, which charmed me. Sometimes I have seen affectation, but it amused me; it consisted in the exaggeration of what is in itself good, not in the mean renunciation of our individuality—the immolation of our soul's truth to a mere fashion of behaviour. As Rochefoucauld called hypocrisy, (that last extreme of wickedness,) "the homage which vice pays to virtue;" so thenature de convention, that last and worst excess of affectation, is the homage which the artificial pays to the natural.
The German women are much more engrossed by the cares of housekeeping than women of a similar rank of life in England. They carry this too far in many instances, as we do the opposite extreme. In England, with our false, conventional refinement, we attach an idea of vulgarityto certain cares and duties, in which there is nothing vulgar. To see the young and beautiful daughter of a lady of rank running about, busied in household matters, with the keys of the wine-cellar and the store-room suspended to her sash, would certainly surprise a young Englishwoman, who, meantime, is netting a purse, painting a rose, or warbling some "Dolce mio Bene," or "Soavi Palpiti," with the air of a nun at penance. The description of Werther's Charlotte, cutting bread and butter, has been an eternal subject of laughter among the English, among whom fine sentiment must be garnished out with something finer than itself; and no princess can be suffered to go mad, or even be in love, except in white satin. To any one who has lived in Germany, the union of sentiment and bread and butter, or of poetry with household cares, excites no laughter. The wife of a state minister once excused herself from going with me to a picture gallery, because on that day she was obliged to reckon up the household linen; she was one of the most charming, truly elegant, and accomplished womenI ever met with. At another time, I remember that a very accomplished woman, who had herself figured in a court, could not do something or other—I forget what—because it was the "grösse Wäsche," (the great wash,) an event by the way which I often found very mal-a-propos, and which never failed to turn a German household upside down. You must remember that I am not speaking of tradesmen and mechanics, but of people of my own, or even a superior rank of life. It is true that I met with cases in which the women had, without necessity, sunk into mere domestic drudges—women whose souls were in their kitchen and their household stuff—whose talk was of dishes and of condiments; but then the same species of women in England would have been, instead of busy with the idea of being useful, frivolous and silly, without any idea at all.
MEDON.
And whether a woman put her soul into an apple tart, or a new bonnet, signifies little, if there be no capacity there for any thing better.I hate mere fine ladies; but equally avoid those who seem born to "suckle fools and chronicle small beer." The accomplishments which embellish social life—the cultivation which raises you to a companionship with men—I cannot spare these to make mere nurses and housewifes, as I conceive the generality of the German women aim to be, and which I have been told the opinions of the men approve.
ALDA.
As to what we term accomplishments, there was certainly much less exhibition and parade of them in society; they formed less an established and necessary part of education than with us; but, of really accomplished, well-informed women, believe me I found no deficiency—far otherwise: if the inclination or the talent existed, means and opportunity were not wanting for mental culture of a very high species. I met with fewer women who drew badly, sang tolerably, or rather intolerably, scratched the harp, and quoted Metastasio; but I met with quite as many women who,without pretension, were finished musicians, painted like artists, possessed an extensive acquaintance with their own literature, and an uncommon knowledge of languages; and were, besides, very good housewives after the German fashion. More or less acquaintance with the French language was a matter of course, but English was preferred: every where I met with women who had cultivated with success, not our language merely, but our literature. Shakspeare, whether studied in English, or in some of their excellent translations, I found a species of household god, whose very name was breathed with reverence, as if it were that of a supernatural being. Lord Byron, and Sir Walter Scott, and Campbell, are familiar names. Wordsworth and Shelley are beginning to be known, but they are pronounced more difficult of comprehension than Shakspeare himself; yet I met with a German lady who could repeat Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner" by heart. Of our great modern poets, Crabbe appeared the least understood and appreciated in Germany, for the obvious reason, thathis subjects and portraits are almost exclusively national. There are, however, several German editions of his works. The men read him as a study. The only German lady I met with who had read his works through, pronounced them "not poetry." Bulwer is exceedingly popular among the women; so is Moore. Some of those who most admired the latter, gave as one reason that "his English style was so easy."
MEDON.
Of all our poets, Moore should seem the least allied to a German taste. Shall I confess to you? He reminds me perpetually of Prince Potemkin's larder, in which you could always havepetits-patésand champagne,ad libitum, but never a morsel of bread or a drop of water!
ALDA.
The simile is e'en too wickedly just; but I except his Irish ballads: by the way, I was pleased to find some of our beautiful Irish melodies almost naturalized in Germany, and sung eitherwith Moore's words, or German versions of them. I remember that at Stift-Neuberg I heard the air of Ally Croker sung to an excellent translation of Moore's words,28and with as much of the national spirit and feeling as if we had been on the banks of the Shannon instead of the banks of the Neckar. The singer, an amateur, and a most extraordinary musical genius, who had joined our circle from Heidelberg, did not understand, or at least did not speak, English; yet there was no Irish, or Scotch, or English air which he had not at the ends of his fingers; and when he struck up, "Of noble race was Shenkin," it was as if all the souls of all the Welsh harpers since High-born Hoel had inspired him. This gifted person was, however, of your sex, and our discourse, at present, is of mine.
I heard an English lady, who had resided for some time in Germany, remark, that the "German mothersspoiledtheir children terribly;" in other words, the children lived more habitually with the mothers, were under little restraint, and behaved in the drawing-room much as if they werein the nursery, and were treated, as they grew up, on more equal terms.
That high exterior polish, those brilliant conversational talents, which I have seen in many English and French women, must be rare among the Germans: they are too simple, and too much in earnest. The trifling of a polished French woman is often most graceful; the trifling of an Englishwoman gracious and graceful; but the trifling of a German woman is, in comparison, heavy work; to use a common expression, it is notin them. I met withonesatirical woman. You know I once ventured to assert that no woman isnaturallysatirical, and to touch upon the causes which foster this artificial vice—and here was a case in point. It was that of a mind which had originally been a piece of nature's noblest handiwork, first bruised, then gradually festered by the action of all evil influences.
MEDON.
And, "lilies that fester are far worse than weeds," so singeth the poet; but do you make thecause also the excuse? How many minds have endured the most withering influences of misery and mischief, if not untouched, at least uninjured—unembittered!
ALDA.
I grant you: but before we assume the power of judging, of computing the degree of virtue in the latter case, of vice in the former, we should look to the original conformation of the human being—the material exposed to these influences. Fire hardens the clay and dissolves the metal. This plate of tempered steel, on which I am going to etch, shall corrode, effervesce, be absolutely decomposed by the action of a few drops of nitrous acid, which has no effect whatever on this lump of wax. Now, carry this analogy into the consideration of the human character—it will spare us a long argument.
As to the chapter of coquettes—
MEDON.
Ah!glissez, mortel, n'appuyez pas!
ALDA.
And why not?—Don't you know that I meditate, with the assistance of certainprofessorins, a complete Natural History of Coquettes, (in quarto,) which shall rival the famous Dutch treatise on Butterflies, in heaven knows how many folio volumes? In the first part of this stupendous work we intend to treat systematically of every known species, from thecoquetterie instinctive, which may be termed the wild genus, indigenous in all females, up to thecoquetterie calculée et philosophique, the most refined specimen reared in the hot-bed of artificial life. In the second part, we shall treat the whole history ofCoquetterie, from that first pretty experiment of dear Mamma Eve, when she turned away from Adam,