Goethe: “Das Märchen” 2/2

Excerpt, “Hours with German Classics” by Frederic Henry Hedge. 1886.

The Man with the lamp returns to his cottage, where the Old Woman — his wife — greets him with loud lamentations. “Scarcely were you gone,” she whimpers, “when two impetuous travelers called; they were dressed in flames, and seemed quite respectable. One might have taken them for Will-o’-wisps. But they soon began to flatter me, and made impertinent advances.”

“Pooh! they were only chaffing you. Considering your age, my dear, they could not have meant anything serious.” “My age, indeed! always my age! How old am I, then? But I know one thing. Just look at these walls! See the bare stones! They have licked off all the gold; and when they had done it, they dropped gold pieces about. Our dear pug swallowed some of them; and see there! the poor creature lies dead.”

The Old Woman represents the Church — the accepted traditional religion. There is a beautiful fitness in this symbolism. Science and religion, knowledge and faith, are mutually complemental in human life. The little pug may mean some pet dogma of the Church; Baumgart suggests belief in the supernatural, to which modern enlightenment (the gold of the Will-o’-wisps) proves fatal. The little pug dies; but a doctrine which perishes, which becomes obsolete as popular belief, may become historically precious as myth. This is what is meant when it is said, farther on, that the Old Man with his lamp changes the pug to an onyx.

Moreover, when each myth is embraced by poetry, it acquires a new, transfigured, immortal life. Thus the gods of Greece still live, and live forever, in Homer’s song. In this sense, with this aim, the Man with the lamp sends the onyx pug to the Fair Lily, whose touch causes dead things to live.

The Old Woman had incautiously promised the Will-o’-wisps (in order, we may suppose, to get rid of them) to pay their debt to the River, of three cabbages, three artichokes, and three onions. But why did they visit her cottage at all; and why so intent on the obsolete gold on the walls? The answer is, modern culture knows full well that the Church is the depository of many precious truths which, though no longer current in the form in which they were once clothed, approve and justify themselves when restarted and given to the world in a new form.

So they — the New Lights — say in effect to the Church, “Old Lady, you are somewhat out of date; if you mean to keep your place and vindicate your right to be, you must throw yourself into the life of the time; you must contribute something useful to forward that life. It is through you that the new philosophy must discharge its debt to the River” (that is, to the life of the time).

The Man with the lamp approves and seconds the commission entrusted to his wife by the Will-o’-wisps, and at dawn of day loads her with the cabbages, the artichokes, and the onions destined for the River, to which he adds the onyx as a present to the Fair Lily. The first part of her mission is a failure. On her way to the ferry she encounters the Shadow of the blundering Giant stretching across the plain. The Shadow unceremoniously puts its black fingers into her basket, takes out three vegetables – one of each kind – and thrusts them into the mouth of the Giant, who greedily devours them. (Some freak of popular ignorance intercepts and impairs the practical benefit which the new culture, through the Church, had hoped to confer on the age.)

The Ferryman refuses to accept the imperfect offering as full satisfaction of the Will-o’-wisps’ debt, and only consents at last to receive it provisionally, if the Old Woman will swear to make the number good within twenty-four hours. She is required to dip her hand in the stream and take the oath. She dips and swears. But when she withdraws her hand, behold! It has turned black; and, what is worse, has grown smaller, and seems likely to disappear altogether. (The apparent dignity of the Church is impaired by contact with vulgar life.)

“Oh, woe!” she cries. “My beautiful hand, which I have taken so much pains with and have always kept so nice! What will become of me?” The Ferryman tries to comfort her with the assurance that although the hand might become invisible, she would be able to use it all the same. “But,” says she, “I would rather not be able to use it than not have it seen.” (Here is a stroke of satire on the part of the poet, implying that the Church cares more for the show of authority than for the substance.)

Sad and sullen the Old Woman takes up her basket and bends her steps toward the abode of the Fair Lily. On the way she overtakes a pilgrim more disconsolate than herself — a beautiful youth, with noble features, abundant brown locks, his breast covered with glittering mail, a purple cloak depending from his shoulders. His naked feet paced the hot sand; profound grief appeared to render him insensible to external impressions. The Old Woman endeavors to open a conversation with him, but receives no encouragement.

She desists with the apology, “You walk too slow for me, sir. I must hurry on, for I have to cross the River on the Green Serpent, that I may take this present from my husband to the Fair Lily.” “You are going to the Fair Lily?” he cried; “then our roads are the same. But what is this present you are bringing her?” She showed him the onyx pug. “Happy beast!” he exclaimed; “thou wilt be touched by her hands, thou wilt be made alive by her; whereas the living are forced to stand aloof from her lest they experience a mournful doom. Look at me,” he continued, “how sad my condition!”

This mail which I have worn with honor in war, this purple which I have sought to merit by wise conduct, are all that is left me by fate — the one a useless burden, the other an unmeaning decoration. Crown, sceptre, and sword are gone; I am in all other respects as naked and needy as any son of earth. So unblest is the influence of her beautiful blue eyes! they deprive all living beings of their strength, and those who are not killed by the touch of her hand find themselves turned into walking shadows.”

This is finely conceived. The Youth, the Prince who has lost sceptre and sword, represents the Genius of Germany, once so stalwart and capable in action, now (at the time of Goethe’s writing) enervated and become a melancholy dreamer from excessive devotion to the Lily, that is, excessive Idealism; whereby “Enterprises of great pith and moment … their currents turn awry. And lose the name of action.”

Such was Germany in those days. And even later, Freiligrath compared her to Hamlet, in whom “the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”

The travelers cross the bridge which the Serpent makes for them. The Serpent herself straightens out her bow and accompanies them. On the way, the Will-o’-wisps, invisible in broad day, are heard whispering a request to the Serpent that she would introduce them to the Lily in the evening, as soon as they should be any way presentable. The Lily receives her visitors graciously, but with an air of deep dejection. She imparts to the Old Woman her recent affliction. While her pet canary-bird was warbling its morning hymn, a hawk appeared in the air and threatened to pounce upon it.

The frightened creature sought refuge in its mistress’ bosom, and, like all living things, was killed by her touch. (The Hawk represents the newly awakened, impatient spirit of German Patriotism, which scared into silence the lighter lyrics of the time).

The Old Woman presents the onyx pug, and the Lily is delighted with the gift. Her touch gives it life. She plays with it, caresses it. The melancholy youth who stands by and looks on is maddened with jealousy at the sight. “Must a nasty little beast be so fondled, and receive her kiss on its black snout, while I, her adorer, am kept at a distance?” At last he can bear it no longer, and resolves to perish in her arms. He rushes towards her; she, knowing the consequence, instinctively puts out her arms to ward him off, and thereby hastens the catastrophe. The youth falls lifeless at her feet.

Her ends the second act. The Genius of Germany is apparently extinct. Can it be revived? The third and final act foreshows its revival — the political rehabilitation of Germany. I am compelled by want of space to omit, in what follows, many of the accessories — such as the female attendants of the Lily, the mirror, the last desperate freaks of the Giant, etc — and to keep myself to the main thread of the story.

The first object now, on the part of those interested, is to prevent corruption, which would make resuscitation impossible. So the Serpent forms with her body a cordon around the lifeless form of the Youth to protect it. “Who will fetch the Man with the lamp?” she cries, fearing every moment that the sun will set and dissolution penetrate the magic circle, causing the body of the Youth to fall in pieces. At length she espies the Hawk in the air, and hails the auspicious omen (Patriotism still lives.)

Shortly after, the Man with the lamp appears. “Whether I can help,” he says, “I know not.” The individual by himself cannot do much, but only he who at the proper moment combines with many. (All who have their country’s salvation at heart must joint their forces in time of need.)

Night comes on. The Old Man glances at the stars and says, “We are here at the propitious hour; let each do his duty and perform his part.” The Serpent then began to stir; she loosened her enfolding circle, and slid in large volumes toward the River. The Will -o’-wisps followed. The Old Man and his Wife seized the basket, lifted into it the body of the Youth, and laid the Canary-bird upon his breast. The basket rose of itself into the air, and hovered over the Old Woman’s head. She followed the Will-o’-wisps. The Fair Lily with the pug in her arms followed the Woman, and the Man with the lamp closed the procession.

The Serpent bridged the River for them, and then drew her circle again around the basket containing the body of the Youth. The Old Man stoops down to her and asks, “What are you going to do?” “Sacrifice myself,” she answers, “rather than be sacrificed.” The Man bids the Lily touch the Serpent with one hand and the body of the Youth comes alive again, but not to full consciousness. Then the Serpent bursts asunder. Her form breaks into thousands upon thousands of glittering jewels. These the Man with the lamp gathers up and casts into the stream, where they afterward form a solid and permanent bridge.

The Old Man now leads the party to the cave. They stand before the Temple barred with golden lock and bolt. The Will-o’-wisps at the bidding of the Old Man melt bolt and lock with their flames, and the company are in the presence of the Four Kings. “Whence come ye?” asks the Gold King. “From the world,” is the reply. “Whither go ye?” asked the Silver King. “Into the world.” “What would ye with us?” asked the Brazen King. “Accompany you,” said the Old Man. “Who will govern the world?” asked the Composite King. “He who stands on his feet,” is the answer. “That am I,” said the King. “We shall see,” said the Old Man, “for the time is come.”

Then the ground beneath them began to tremble; the Temple was in motion. For a few moments a fine shower seemed to drizzle from above. “We are now beneath the River,” said the Old Man. The Temple mounts upward. Suddenly a crash is heard; planks and beams come through the opening of the dome. It descends and covers the Old Man and the Youth. The women, who find themselves excluded, beat against the door of the Hut, which is locked. After a while the door and walls begin to ring with a metallic sound. The flame of the Old Man’s lamp has converted the wood into silver. The very form has changed; the Hut has become a smaller temple, or, if you will, a shrine, within the larger.

Observe the significance of this feature of “The Tale.” The Hut, as was said, represents the existing Government. New Germany is not to be the outcome of a violent revolution forcibly abolishing the old, but a natural growth receiving the old into itself, assimilating and embodying it in a new constitution.

When the Youth came forth from the transformed Hut, it was in company with a man clad in a white robe, bearing a silver oar in his hand. This was the old Ferryman, now to become a functionary in the new State.

As soon as the rising sun illumined the cupola of the Temple, the Old Man, standing between the Youth and the Maiden (the Lily), said with a loud voice, “There are three that reign on earth: Wisdom, Show, Force.” When the first was named, up rose the Gold King; with the second, the Silver. The Brazen King was rising slowly at the sound of the third, when the Composite King (the Holy Roman Empire) suddenly collapsed into a shapeless heap.

The Man with the lamp now led the still half-conscious Youth to the Brazen King, at whose feet lay a sword. The Youth girded himself with it. “The sword on the left,” said the mighty king, “the right hand free.” Then they went to the Silver King, who gave the Youth his sceptre, saying, “Feed the sheep.” They came to the Gold King, who, with a look that conveyed a maternal blessing, crowned the Youth’s head with a garland of oak leaves, and said, “Acknowledge the Highest.”

The Youth now awoke to full consciousness; his eyes shone with an unutterable spirit, and his first word was, “Lily!” He clasped the fair maiden, whose cheeks glowed with an inextinguishable red, and, turning to the Old Man, said, with a glance at the three sacred figures, “Glorious and safe is the kingdom of our fathers; but you forgot the fourth power, that which is earliest, most universal, and surest of all rules in the world: the power of Love.” “Love,” said the Old Man, smiling, “does not rule, but educates; and that is better.”

And so the Temple stands by the River. The Old Woman, having at the bidding of her husband bathed in the waves, comes forth rejuvenated and beautiful. The Old Man himself looks younger. Husband and wife (Science and Religion) renew their nuptial vows, and pledge their troth for indefinite time.

The prophecy is accomplished. What Genius predicted ninety years ago has become fact. The Temple stands by the River, the bridge is firm and wide. The Genius of Germany is no longer a sighing, sickly youth, pining after the unattainable, but, having married his ideal, is now embodied in the mighty Chancellor whose statecraft founded the new Empire, and whose word is a power among the nations.

Goethe: “Das Märchen” 1/2

Excerpt, “Hours with German Classics” by Frederic Henry Hedge. 1886.

 

Das Märchen

In the summer of 1795, Goethe composed for Schiller’s new magazine, “Die Horen,” a prose poem known in German literature as Das Märchen … “The Tale” … as if it were the only one, or the one which more than another deserves that appellation.

It is not to be supposed that the author himself claimed this preeminence for his production. The definite article must be taken in connection with what precedes it in the “Unterhaltungen Deutscher Ausgewanderten;” it was that tale which the Abbe had promised for the evening’s entertainment of the company.

Goethe gave this essay to the public as a riddle which would probably be unintelligible at the time, but which might perhaps find an interpreter after many days, when the hints contained in it should be verified. Since the first appearance commentators have exercised their ingenuity upon it, perceiving it to be allegorical, but until recently without success. They made the mistake of looking too far and too deep for the interpretation. Carlyle, who in 1832 published a translation of it in “Fraser’s Magazine,” and who pronounces it “one of the notablest performances produced for the last thousand years,” says: “So much, however. I will stake my whole money capital and literary character upon, that here is a wonderful EMBLEM OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY set forth,” etc.

But Goethe was not the man to concern himself with such wide generalities. He preferred to deal with what is present and palpable, and the inferences to be deduced therefrom.

Dr. Hermann Baumgart in 1875, under the title “Goethe’s Märchen, ein politisch-nationales Glaubensbekenntiss des Dichter’s,” wrote a commentary on “The Tale,” which gives what is probably the true explanation. If it does not solve every difficulty, it solves more difficulties and throws more light on the poem than any previous interpretation had done. I follow his lead in the exposition which I now offer.

“The Tale” is a prophetic vision of the destinies of Germany – an allegorical foreshowing at the close of the eighteenth century of what Germany was yet to become, and has in great part already become. A position is predicted for her like that which she occupied from the time of Charles the Great to the time of Charles V — a period during which the Holy Roman Empire of Germany was the leading secular power in Western Europe.

That time had gone by. Since the middle of the sixteenth century, Germany had declined, and at the date of this writing (1795) had nearly reached her darkest day. Disintegrated, torn by conflicting interests, pecked by petty rival princes, despairing of her own future, it seemed impossible that she should ever again become a power among the nations.

Goethe felt this; he felt it as profoundly as any German of his day. He has been accused of want of patriotism, and incurred much censure for that alleged defect. He certainly did not manifest his patriotism by loud declamation. During the War of Liberation he made no sign. Under the reign of the Holy Alliance, he did not side with the hotheads — compeers of Sand — who placed themselves in open opposition to the Government. He could not echo their cry. They were revolutionists; he was an evolutionist. And they hated him, they maligned him, they invented all manner of scandal against him. They accused him of abusing the affections of women for literary purposes; they even affected to depreciate his genius.

Borne pronounced him a model of all that is bad. Menzel wrote: “Mark my words: in twenty, or at the longest thirty, years he will not have an admirer left; no one will read him.” There was nothing too bad to be said of Goethe; he was publicly held up for reprobation and scorn. It was as much as one’s reputation was worth to speak well of him.

Goethe, I say, was charged with want of patriotism. He was no screamer; but he felt profoundly his country’s woes, and he characteristically went into himself and studied the situation. The result was this wonderful composition: “Das Märchen.”

He perceived that Germany must die to be born again. She did die, and is born again. He had the sagacity to foresee the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire – an event which took place eleven years later, in 1806. The Empire is figured by the composite statue of the fourth King in the subterranean Temple, which crumbles to pieces when that Temple, representing Germany’s past, emerges and stands above ground by the River. The resurrection of the Temple and its stand by the River is the denouement of the Tale. And that signifies, allegorically, the rehabilitation of Germany.

The agents that are to bring about this consummation are the spread of liberal ideas, signified by the gold of the Will-o’-wisps; Literature, signified by the Serpent; Science, signified by the Old Man with the lamp; and the Church, or Religion, signified by his wife. The Genius of Germany is figured by the beautiful Youth, the disconsolate Prince, who dies of devotion to the Fair Lily. The Lily herself represents the Ideal.

Having premised thus much, I now proceed to unfold the Tale, with accompanying comments, omitting however some of the details, and presenting only the organic moments of the fable.

THE TALE

In the middle of a dark night (the dark period of German history), the ferryman asleep in his hut by the side of a swollen river is awakened by the cry of parties demanding to be ferried across the stream.

Here let us pause a moment. The Hut, according to Baumgart, is the provisional State (Nothstaat), – the government for the time being. The Ferryman then is the State functionary, who regulates and controls civil intercourse. The River represents that intercourse — the flow of current events — swollen by the French Revolution. Now, a river is separation and communication in one. The Rhine, which separates Germany from France, is also a medium of communication between the two.

What is it then that the River in the “Märchen” separates and mediates? This is a difficult question. No interpretation tallies exactly with all the particulars of the allegory. The most satisfactory is that of a separation and a means of communication between State and people; between official, established tradition and popular life.

To return to the story. The Ferryman, roused from his slumbers, opens the door of the hut, and sees two Will-o’-wisps, who are impatient to be put across. These are the bearers of the new ideas, which proved so stimulating to the German mind — giving rise to what is known in German literature as the Aufklärung (“enlightenment”). Why called Will-o’-wisps? They come from France, and the poet means by their flashes and vivacity, as contrasted with German gravity, to indicate their French origin. They cause the Ferryman much trouble by their activity.

They shake gold into his boat (that is, talk philosophy, — the philosophy of the French Encyclopedia); he fears that some of it might fall into the stream, and then there would be mischief, — the stream would rise in terrible waves and engulf him. (The new ideas were very radical; and if allowed to circulate freely in social converse might cause a revolution). He bids them take back their gold. “We cannot take back what we have once given forth.” (The word once spoken cannot be unspoken.)

When they reach the opposite shore the Ferryman demands his fare. They reply, that he who will not take gold for pay must go unpaid. He demands fruits of the earth (that is, practical service), which they despise. They attempt to depart, but find it impossible to move. (Philosophy without practical ability can make no headway in real life.) He finally releases them on their promise to bring to the River three cabbages, three artichokes and three onions.

I am not aware that there is any particular significance in the several kinds of vegetables here specified. The general meaning is, that whoever would work effectually in his time must satisfy the necessities of the time — must pay his toll to the State with contributions of practical utility.

The Ferryman then rows down the stream, gathers up the gold that has fallen into the boat, goes ashore and buries it in an out-of-the-way place in the cleft of a rock, then rows back in his hut. Now, in the rock-cleft, into which the gold had been cast, dwelt the Green Serpent. The Serpent is supposed to represent German Literature, which until then had kept itself aloof from the world had wandered as it were in a wilderness; but the time was now come when it was to receive new light and be quickened with new impulse. She hears the chink of the falling gold-pieces, darts upon them, and eagerly devours them.

They melt in her interior, and she becomes self-luminous — a thing that she had always been hoping for, but had never until then attained. Proud of her new lustre, she sallies forth to discover if possible whence the gold which came to her had been derived. She encounters the Will-o’-wisps, and claims relationship with them.

“Well, yes,” they allow, “you are a kind of cousin; but you are in the horizontal line — we are vertical. See here.” They shoot up to their utmost height. “Pardon us, good lady, but what other family can boast of anything like that? No Will-o’-Wisp ever sits or lies down.”

The Serpent is somewhat abashed by the comparison. She knows very well that although when at rest she can lift her head pretty high, she must bend to earth again to make any progress. She inquires if they can tell her where the gold came from which dropped in the cave where she resides. They are amused at the question and immediately shake from themselves a shower of old pieces, which she greedily devours. “Much good may it do you, madam.”

In return for this service they desire to be shown the way to the abode of the Fair Lily, to whom they would pay their respect. (The Fair Lily represents Ideal Beauty.) The Serpent is sorry to inform them that the Lily dwells on the other side of the river.

“On the other side!” they exclaim, “and we let ourselves be ferried across to this side last night in the storm! But perhaps the Ferryman may be still within call, and be willing to take us back.” “No,” she says; “he can bring passengers from the other side to this, but is not permitted to take any one back.”

The interpretation here is doubtful. It may mean that while a jealous Government is willing to assist in the deportation of questionable characters, it will have nothing to do with them on its own ground.

But besides the government ferry, there are other means of getting across. The Serpent herself, by making a bridge of her body, can take them across at high noon. (Literature, in its supreme achievements, — its meridian power — becomes a vehicle of ideas which defies political embargo.)

But Will-o’-wisps do not travel at noonday. Another passage is possible at morning and evening twilight, by means of the shadow of the great Giant. The Giant’s body is powerless, but its shadow is mighty, and when the sun is low stretches across the River.

Here all commentators seem to agree in one interpretation. Says Carlyle, “Can any mortal head, not a wigblock, doubt that the Giant of this poem is Superstition/” This is loosely expressed. Unquestionably superstition, in the way of fable or foreboding, stretches far into the unknown. But it is a shadow, according to “The Tale,” which possesses this power. Now, to make a show two things are needed: Light, and a body which intercepts the light. The body in this case is popular ignorance; that is the real Giant. Superstition is that Giant’s shadow – strongest and longest, of course, when the sun is low.

Thus instructed, the Will-o’-wisps take their leave, and the Serpent returns to her cave.

Now follows the scene in the subterranean Temple, the Temple of the Four Kings, by which we are to understand historic Germany — the Germany of old time. The Serpent has discovered this Temple, and having become luminous is able to see what it contains. There are the statues of the four kings. The first king, who wears a plain mantle and no ornament but a garland of oak leaves, represents the rule of Wisdom and acknowledged worth.

The second, who sits, and is highly decorated — robe, crown, sceptre, adorned with precious stones — represents the rule of Appearance (Schein) — majesty supported by prestige and tradition. The third, also sitting, represents Government by Force. The fourth, the composite figure in a standing posture, represents the Holy Roman Empire of Germany. The Serpent has been discoursing with the Gold King, when the wall opens, and enters an old man of middle stature, in peasant’s dress, carrying a lamp, with a still flame pleasing to look upon, which illumines the whole Temple without casting any shadow.

This lamp possesses a strange property of changing stone, wood into silver, dead animals into precious stone, and annihilating metals. But to exercise this power it must shine alone; if another light appears beside it, it only diffuses a clear radiance, by which all living things are refreshed.

The bearer of this lamp is supposed, by Baumgart, to represent Science (Wissenschaft); but is seems to me that his function includes practical wisdom as well. What it signified by the marvelous properties of the lamp must be left to each reader to conjecture.

“Why do you come?” asks the Gold King of the Man with the lamp, “seeing we already have light?”

“You know that I cannot enlighten what is wholly dark,” is the reply. (Wisdom does not concern itself with what is unsearchable — with matters transcending human ken.)

“Will my kingdom end?” asks the Silver King.

“Late or never.”

The Brown King asks, “When shall I arise?”

The answer is, “Soon.”

“With whom shall I combine?”

“With your elder brothers.”

“What will the youngest do?” inquired the King.

“He will sit down,” replied the Man with the lamp.

“I am not tired,” growled the fourth king. (The Empire, even at that date, was still tenacious of its sway.)

Again, the Gold King asks of the Man with the lamp, “How many secrets knowest thou?”

“Three,” replied the Man.

“Which is the most important?” asks the Silver King.

“The open secret,” the Man replies.

It sometimes happens that a truth or conviction is, as we say, “in the air,” before the word which formulates it has been spoken; it is an open secret. Thus, in the closing months of 1860, “Seccession” was in the air; it was our open secret. (An American remembrance from Harvard Professor F.H. Hedge.)

“Wilt that open it to us also?” asks the Brazen King.

“When I know the fourth,” replied the Man.

“I know the fourth,” said the Serpent, and whispered something in the ear of the Man with the lamp.

He cried with a loud voice, “The time is at hand!” The Temple resounded, the statues rang with the cry; and immediately the Man with the lamp vanished to the west, the Serpent to the east.

Here ends the first act of this prophetic drama.

To be continued …

Goethe: “The Spinner”

.

.

As I calmly sat and spun,

Toiling with all zeal,

Lo! a young and handsome man

Pass’d my spinning-wheel.

.

And he praised,–what harm was there?–

Sweet the things he said–

Praised my flax-resembling hair,

And the even thread.

.

He with this was not content,

But must needs do more;

And in twain the thread was rent,

Though ’twas safe before.

.

And the flax’s stone-like weight

Needed to be told;

But no longer was its state

Valued as of old.

.

When I took it to the weaver,

Something felt I start,

And more quickly, as with fever,

Throbb’d my trembling heart.

.

Then I bear the thread at length

Through the heat, to bleach;

But, alas, I scarce have strength

To the pool to reach.

.

What I in my little room

Spun so fine and slight,–

As was likely. I presume–

Came at last to light.

.

Goethe: “The Son of the Muses”

.

.

“The Son of the Muses”

.

Through wood and vale I wander,’

And on my sonnets ponder,

At morn and eventime.

Oh, what internal pleasure,

My thoughts to write, in measure,

And all reduce to rhyme!

.

I wait no opening flower,

That decks field – garden – bower,

No buds that hidden lie.

Spring – flowerets haste to greet me:

When Winter’s tempests meet me,

I sing of joys, flown by.

,

I sing of frozen fountain,

Of Alps – of polar mountain,

Of avalanche – of snow!

When winter’s charms are over,

New themes I still discover,

From wood – hill – valley, flow.

.

Youth’s votaries of pleasure,

At my enlivening measure,

Flock to the linden-tree.

The shepherd is excited,

The shepherdess delighted;

They dance with heart-felt glee.

.

Thy Favourite doth revere thee,

Thy heavenly wing doth steer me

O’er mountain, vale, and plain.

Muse! – when shall I behold thee,

And, to my bosom fold thee,

Never to part again?

.

.

I am the well-known singer,

the widely-travelled rat-catcher,

of whom this old, famous city

certainly has an especial need.

And even if the rats are very numerous,

and even if there are weasels in the picture,

of each and every one I'll clear this place;

they must all go away.

Then also, this well-disposed singer

is from time to time a child-catcher,

who can capture even the wildest

when he sings golden fairy tales.

And even if the boys are defiant,

and even if the girls are startled,

I pluck my strings

and each and every one must follow.

Then also, this many-skilled singer

occasionally is a maiden-catcher;

in no town does he stay

where he does not bewitch many.

And even if the maidens are shy,

and even if the women are prim,

each and every one becomes lovestruck

from his magical strings and songs.

Goethe: “Solace in Tears”

 

SOLACE IN TEARS

Come, tell me why this sadness now,

When all so glad appears?

One sees it in thine eyes, my friend:

Thou’st surely been in tears.

 

“And if I go alone and weep,

‘T is grief I can’t impart;

And ‘t is so sweet, when tears will flow,

And ease the heavy heart.”

 

Thy gladsome friends, they call to thee:

O, come unto our breast!

And whatso’er thy heavy loss,

Confide it to the rest.

 

“Ye talk and stir, and do not dream

What ‘t is that ails poor me:

Ah, no! ‘t is nothing I have lost,

Though somewhat wanting be.”

 

Then gather up thy spirits once;

Thy blood is youthsome yet:

To youth like thine there wanteth not

The strength to seek and get.

 

“Ah, no!  to get it, that were vain:

It stands off all too far;

It dwells so high, it shines so fair,

As fair as yonder star.”

 

The stars we do not seek to have;

We but enjoy their light,

As we look up in ecstasy,

On every pleasant night.

 

“And I look up in ecstasy,

Full many a lovely day;

So leave me to my mood at night,

To weep while weep I may.”

 

 

Translator:  John S. Dwight, 1839

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Goethe: “Reunion”

REUNION

 

Can it be, O star transcendent,

That I fold thee to my breast?

Now I know, what depths of anguish

May in parting be expressed.

Yes, ’tis thou, of all my blisses

Lovely, loving partner–thou!

Mindful of my bygone sorrows,

E’en the present awes me now.

 

When the world in first conception

Lay in God’s eternal mind,

In creative power delighting

He the primal hour designed.

When he gave command for being,

Then was heard a mighty sigh

Full of pain, as all creation

Broke into reality.

 

Up then sprang the light; and darkness

Doubtful stood apart to gaze;

All the elements, dividing

Swiftly, took their several ways.

In confused, disordered dreaming

Strove they all for freedom’s range–

Each for self, no fellow-feeling;

Single each, and cold and strange.

 

Lo, a marvel–God was lonely!

All was still and cold and dumb.

So he framed dawn’s rosy blushes

Whence should consolation come–

To refresh the troubled spirit

Harmonies of color sweet:

What had erst been forced asunder

Now at last could love and meet.

 

Then, ah then, of life unbounded

Sight and feeling passed the gates;

Then, ah then, with eager striving

Kindred atoms sought their mates.

Gently, roughly they may seize them,

So they catch and hold them fast:

“We,” they cry, “are now creators–

Allah now may rest at last!”

 

So with rosy wings of morning

Towards thy lips my being moves;

Sets the starry night a thousand

Glowing seals upon our loves.

We are as we should be–parted

Ne’er on earth in joy or pain;

And no second word creative

E’er can sunder us again!

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Goethe: “The Dance of Death”

 

 

 

View Musical Video

 

Der Totentanz

 

 

THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
On the tombs that lie scatter’d below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
And women and men stepping forth are descried,
In cerements snow-white and trailing.

 

In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,
And whirl round in dances so gay;
The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,
But the cerements stand in their way;
And as modesty cannot avail them aught here,
They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear
Scatter’d over the tombs in confusion.

 

Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,
As the troop with strange gestures advance,
And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,
As of one beating time to the dance.
The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer,
When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:
“Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!”

 

Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled
Behind the church-door with all speed;
The moon still continues her clear light to shed
On the dance that they fearfully lead.
But the dancers at length disappear one by one,
And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don.
And under the turf all is quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goethe: “Song of the Captive Count”

My Favorite Flower

Song of the Captive Count

Count

I know a Flower, of beauty rare,

I pant to call the prize mine own;

I fain would pluck that Floweret fair,

But, ah! – I’m here a captive lone;

When I enjoyed sweet liberty,

That Flower was ever near to me.

My destiny – how bitter!

Mine eye, from this drear, lofty tower,

Oft roves to seek that Floweret bright;

Alas! How vainly I explore,

The Flower greets not my piercing sight;

He who that Floweret brings to me,

If chevalier, or page, he be,

Shall feel my deathless friendship –

Rose

Beneath thy prison-bars am I,

On thee, can I bestow delight?

For me, the Rose, dost thou not sigh,

Oh, captive, yet illustrious Knight?

Thou sensitive, unhappy one!

Who doubts, the Queen of Flowers, alone,

O’er thy lone heart reigns sovereign?

Count

Sweet, blushing Flower, in vesture green,

The palm of beauty is thine own!

Maidens adore the Flowers’ bright Queen,

As diamond, gold, or precious stone.

Thy tint adorns the fairest cheek,

Yet, lovely Queen! The flower I seek,

Is not the Rose, so peerless.

Lily

Proud and ambitious is the Rose,

And o’er aspiring after fame;

Whoe’er with gentle feeling glows,

The Lily’s sympathy will claim.

Lovers those whose hearts beat faithfully,

They who are pure of soul, as I,

Will estimate my value.

Count

Deeds ignominious I disown,

From all dishonour am I free,

Yet, here, am I a prisoner lone,

And pining in captivity!

Although thou’rt a similitude

Of countless maidens, fair and good,

I know a Flower, more lovely.

Pink

Perchance that I may prove that Flower,

And, in thy jailor’s garden grow,

Or, why, at morn, and evening hour,

On me, such care should he bestow?

Exhaling perfumes rich, behold,

Luxuriantly, my leaves unfold,

In countless brilliant colours!

Count

The fragrant Pink bestows delight,

The Pink the gardener’s love has won,

Now, Foliage veils her from the sight,

And now he plants her ‘neath the sun;

Yet, ah, that flower which, to my heart,

Doth calm felicity impart,

Is modest and retiring.

Violet

Although mine accents rarely sound,

And, in seclusion, though I live,

My silence, lengthened and profound,

I’ll break, if solace thee it give.

Brave Knight!- am I thy favourite Flower?

I grieve that, towards thy prison-tower,

My fragrance ne’er is wafted!

Count

Bright, modest Flower!I honour thee,

What grateful sweets thy charms impart!

Yet, gentle Violet, sympathy

Heals not the Captive’s tortured heart.

Far from this rock-built prison drear,

Blooms that fair Flower which I revere,

By memory – dearly cherished.

By yonder streamlet, silently,

Wanders my youthful Wife, alone,

There, daily will she weep, and sigh

Till sacred liberty I’ve won.

When, a blue Flower, from that lone spot,

She holds, and says:“Forget me not!”

Her accents vibrate hither.

At distance, Love’s magnetic power,

O’er faithful hearts, holds mystic sway.

This dreary cell, at midnight-hour,

Is cheered by Love’s celestial ray.

When writhes my soul o’er Fate’s stern lot,

Are these thrilling words:“Forget me not!”

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Goethe’s Prometheus

 

Heinrich Fueger, 1817

“Prometheus Brings Fire to Mankind” 

 PROMETHEUS

(1774)

Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus,

With clouds of mist,

And, like the boy who lops

The thistles' heads,

Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks;

Yet thou must leave

My earth still standing;

My cottage too, which was not raised by thee,

Leave me my hearth,

Whose kindly glow

By thee is envied.

I know nought poorer

Under the sun, than ye gods!

Ye nourish painfully,

With sacrifices

And votive prayers,

Your majesty;

Ye would e'en starve,

If children and beggars

Were not trusting fools.

While yet a child,

And ignorant of life,

I turned my wandering gaze

Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him

There were an ear to hear my wailing,

A heart, like mine

To feel compassion for distress.

Who help'd me

Against the Titans' insolence?

Who rescued me from certain death,

From slavery?

Didst thou not do all this thyself,

My sacred glowing heart?

And glowedst, young and good,

Deceived with grateful thanks

To yonder slumbering one?

I honor thee! and why?

Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows

Of the heavy laden?

Hast thou e'er dried up the tears

Of the anguish-stricken?

Was I not fashion'd to be a man

By omnipotent Time,

And by eternal Fate,

Masters of me and thee?

Didst thou e'er fancy

That life I should learn to hate,

And fly to deserts,

Because not all

My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming mortals

After my image;

A race resembling me,

To suffer, to weep,

To enjoy, to be glad,

And thee to scorn,

As I!

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