Heinrich Heine: “Preface – The Citizen Kingdom of 1832” Pt 3

Now Napoleon is dead and lies well closed in his leaden coffin under the sands of Longwood on the island of Saint Helena. All round him spreads the sea. Therefore, you have nothing to fear. Nor need you fear the last three gods who yet remain in heaven, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; for you are on good terms with their holy following.

Nothing have you to fear, for you are powerful and wise. You have gold and muskets, and all that is for sale you can buy, and what is mortal you can kill. Your wisdom is equally irresistible.

Every one of you is a Solomon, and it is a pity that the Queen of Sheba, the beautiful woman, no longer lives, for you would have unriddled her to her very chemise. And ye have iron pots in which you can enclose those who give you to guess anything of which you would remain ignorant, and you can seal them up and cast them into the sea of oblivion — all like King Solomon.

Like him, too, you understand the language of the birds; you know all that is chirped and piped in the land; and if the song of any bird displeases you, you have a great pair of shears wherewith to clip his bill, and, as I hear, you intend to provide a larger pair for those who sing more than twenty sheets. And you have also all the cleverest birds in your service, all the noble falcons, all the ravens — that is, the black-coats — all the peacocks, all the owls. And the old Simurgh still lives, and he is your grand vizier, and is the wisest, shrewdest bird in the world.

He will renovate the world as it was in the days of the pre-Adamite sultans, and to this end he unweariedly lays eggs by night and day, and they are hatched out in Frankfort. Hut-hut, the accredited hoopoo, runs meanwhile, through the sand of the Prussian marshes, carrying the most significant dispatches in his bill. Ye have naught to fear!

But I bid you beware of one thing — the Moniteur of 1793. That is a Hollenswang — a book of invocation of evil spirits, and there are words of magic therein which you cannot bind — words which are mightier than muskets or gold — words with which the dead can be called from their graves, and the living sent to join the dead — words with which dwarfs may be raised to giants and giants overwhelmed — words which can fell all your power as the guillotine decapitates a king.

I will tell you the truth. There are people who are brave enough to utter those words, and who have never been appalled by the most terrible apparitions; but they know not where to find the right spell in the book of gramarye, nor could they pronounce it for they are no conjurers. And there are others who are indeed familiar with the mysterious divining-rod, who know where to find the magic word, and even to utter it with tongues skilled in sorcery.

These are timid and fear the spectres whom they would evoke; for alas! we do not know the ghostly scene becomes too terrible; we know not how to ban the inspired broomstick back into its wooden repose when the house has once been inundated with blood; we know not how to conjure down the fire when its raging tongues are licking everywhere. We are afraid!

But do not rely on our weakness and fear. The disguised man of the time, who was bold of heart as ready with his tongue, and who knows the great word and has to utter it, is perhaps even now near you. It may be that he is masked in servile livery, or even in a harlequin’s dress, and ye do not forbode that he is who, perhaps, servilely draws off your boots, or who by his jokes tickles your diaphragm, is to be your destroyer.

Do you not often feel a strange shudder when these servile forms fawn round you with an almost ironic humility, and it suddenly occurs to you, “This is perhaps a snare, and this wretch, who behaves so absolutely, so idiotically slavish, is perhaps a secret Brutus?” Have you not sometimes by night dreams which warn you against the smallest winding worms whom you have perchance seen crawling in the daytime?

Be not afraid, I am only jesting, and you are quite safe. Our stupid devils of serviles do not disguise themselves. Even Jarke is not dangerous. And have no fear of the little fools who juggle round you ever and anon with jokes of dubious import. The great fool is a very great fool, giant-great, and his name is — the German people.

Yes, a very great fool, in faith! His motley jacket is made of six-and-thirty patches. Instead of hawks’-bells, mighty church-bells weighing tons hang upon his cap, and he bears in his hand a colossal harlequin’s sword of iron. And his heart is full of pain, but he will not think upon his griefs, for which reason he plays all the more merry pranks, and laughs to keep from weeping. When his sufferings come too bitterly to mind, then he shakes his head as if mad, and deafens himself with the pious Christian chiming of his cap.

But if a good friend comes to him who would speak sympathetically of his pains, or even give him some domestic remedy against them, he becomes a raging lunatic and strikes at the adviser with his iron weapon. He is particularly enraged at any one who means him well. He is the bitterest foe unto his friends and the best of friends to his enemies.

Oh, the great fool will always remain faithful and submissive; he will always amuse your knightlings (Junkerlein) with his giant jests and tricks; he will every day repeat this old feats of dexterity, and balance countless burdens on his nose, and let many hundreds of thousands of soldiers trample over his belly. But have no fear less the load become all at once too heavy, and that he will shake away your shoulders, and, in jest by the way, squeeze your head so with his little finger that your brains will spirt out up to the stars.

Have not the least fear lest he in his merry gossiping, out of mere folly, should utter the terrible all-powerful word of incantation, when the great change will unexpectedly begin, and he himself the fool, all at once disenchanted, will stand before you in his original beautiful blond heroic form with his great blue eyes, the purple mantle instead of the harlequin jacket, and the sword of empire in his hand instead of the dagger of lath.

But ye need not fear; the great fool will never speak the word. The great fool remains most submissively obedient to you, and if the little fools would injure you, the great one at a wink would strike them dead. (1)

(Written in Paris, Oct. 18, 1832.)

                             HEINRICH HEINE

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(1) The preceding two sentences form the conclusion in the original MS., and do not occur in later editions.

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Heinrich Heine: “Preface – The Citizen Kingdom of 1832”

Excerpt, “The Works of Heinrich Heine: French Affairs.”  Translator: Charles Godfrey Leland.

PREFACE

“Those who can read will of themselves remark that its greatest faults cannot be attributed to me, while those who cannot read will nothing note.” With this simple syllogism, which precedes the Roman Comique of Scarron, I may also well begin these more serious pages.

I give here a series of articles and daily bulletins which I wrote for the Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung (The Universal, or generally public, Gazzette of Augsburg), in stormy circumstance of every kind, with an object which may easily be guessed, under restrictions which may be still more readily conjectured. I am now obliged to publish these anonymous and ephemeral leaves under my own name, lest some other person — as I have been threatened — should do so according to his own fashion or fancy, and change them as he may please, or perhaps mingle with them altogether foreign material which may be erroneously attributed to me.

I avail myself of this opportunity to declare, in the most positive manner, that I have not for two years past published a line in any political journal in Germany, with the exception of the Allgemeine Zeitung. This publication, which so well deserves it world-renowned authority, and which may be well called the Universal Gazette of Europe, appeared to me, on account of its importance and its unparelleled circulation, to be best adapted for information referring to a comprehension of the present time.

When we shall have brought it so far that the great mass of the people really understand the present, they will no longer allow themselves to be goaded by the hireling writers of the aristocracy to hatred and war; the great confederation of races, the Holy Alliance of nations, will be formed; we shall not need, out of mutual mistrust, to feed standing armies of many hundred thousand murderers; we will use their swords and horses for ploughs, and so attain to peace, prosperity, and freedom.

My life has been consecrated to this active duty — it is my office. The hatred of my enemies may serve as pledge that I have fulfilled this duty truly and honourably. I will ever show myself worthy of that hatred. My enemies will never misunderstand me, although my friends, in the delirium of excited passion, may mistake my deliberate calmness for lukewarm feeling. Doubtless the latter will misunderstand me less in these times than they did in those days when they believed they had attained the goal of their desires, and the hope of victory swelled every sail of their thoughts.

I took no part of their folly, but I will ever share their misfortunes. I will never return to my native land so long as one of those noble fugitive exiles, who would not listen to reason because of too great inspiration, lingers in a foreign land in wretchedness. I had rather beg a crust from the poorest Frenchman than take service among those distinguished knaves in the German Fatherland who regard every moderation of power as cowardice or as a prelude of transition to slavery, and who consider our best virtue or belief in the honourable feeling of a foe mere hereditary stupidity.

I should never be ashamed to be deceived by those who inspired our hearts with beautiful and smiling hopes; “how everything should be most peaceably managed; how we should remain delightfully moderate, so that concessions should not be compelled, and thereby prove unfruitful as they themselves well perceived that one could not without danger long deprive us of liberty.” Yes, we have been duped again, and we must confess that falsehood has again scored a great triumph, and harvested fresh laurels.

In fact, we are the conquered, and since the heroic deception has been officially proclaimed, since the promulgation of the deplorable resolutions of the German Diet of the 28th June, our heart has been made sick in our breast with anger and affliction.

Poor unhappy Fatherland! What shame is before thee should’st thou endure this outrage — what agony if thou dost not!

Never yet was a people so cruelly insulted by its rulers. Not only in this, that those ordinances of the Diet presuppose that we agreed to everything — they would persuade us that we have suffered no wrong or injustice! Yet, if you really could reckon with confidence on slavish submission, you had at least no right to regard us as fools. A handful of common nobles, who have learned nothing beyond horse-trading, card-sharping, drinking tricks, and similar stupid rascal accomplishments, with which, at the utmost only peasants at fairs can be duped — such men think they can befool an entire race, and also printing and the “Criticism of Pure Reason.”

This undeserved affront, that you regard us as stupider than yourselves, and fancy that you deceive us — that is the most irritating insult which you have put upon us in the presence of surrounding races, who wait with astonishment to see what we will do. “It is,” they say, “no longer a question of liberty, but of honour.”

I will not accuse the constitutional German princes. I know the difficulties of their situation I know that they pine in the fetters of their petty camarillas, and are really not responsible. And they have been tampered with and tempted and compelled in every manner by Austria and Prussia. Let us not blame, but pity them. Sooner or later they shall reap the bitter fruits of an evil seed.

The fools! They are still jealous one of the other, and while every acute eye can perceive thay they will be in the end mediatised by Austria and Prussia, all their souls and efforts are only directed to getting from some neighbor a piece of trifling territory. They are indeed like thieves who pick one another’s pockets while they are being led to the gallows.

On account of the great deeds of the Diet, we can only unconditionally accuse Austria and Prussia. Nor can I determine to what degree they deserve our recognition or thanks. It seems to me, however, that Austria has been shrewd enough to shift the detested burden of responsibility to the shoulders of its wise colleague.

In fact, we may war with Austria daringly unto death, with sword in hand, but we feel in our inmost heart that we are not justified in reviling this Power in abusive terms. Austria was ever an open and honourable enemy, which never denied, nor did it for a moment suspend its attack on Liberalism.

Metternich never ogled with loving eyes the Goddess of Liberty; he never played the demagogue with troubled anxious heart; he never sung the songs of Arndt while drinking white beer; he never played at gymnastic exercises on the Hasenheide; he never played the pietist, nor did he ever weep with the prisoners of the fortresses while he kept them chained.

One always knew exactly where he stood on every subject — knew that he was to be guarded against, and so one governed one’s self accordingly. He was always a sure man, who neither deceived us by gracious looks nor irritated us by private malice. We knew that he was neither inspired by love or petty hatred, but acted magnanimously in the spirit of a system to which Austria had been true for three centuries.

It is the same system which induced Austria to oppose the Reformation, the same for which it battled with the Revolution. For this system not only the men, but also the daughters of the House of Habsburg fought. For this system Marie Antoinette waged war desperately in the Tuileries, and to maintain it Maria Louisa, who, as declared Regent, should have combated for husband and child, in the same Tuileries abandoned the strife and laid down her arms; and for it the Emperor Francis suppressed his deepest feelings and desires, and suffered unspeakable agonies of heart; even to this day he wears mourning for the beloved, blooming grandson whom he sacrificed on its account.

This new grief deeply bowed with grey head which once bore the German Imperial crown; this poor Emperor is still the true representation of unfortunate Germany!

As to Prussia, we may speak of it in a very different tone. Here at least we are restrained by no regard or respect for the sacredness of an Imperial German head. The learned menials on the banks of the Spree may dream ever on of a great Emperor of the realm of Borussia, and proclaim the hegemony and protecting lordliness of Prussia. But thus far the long fingers of the Hohenzollern have not succeeded in grasping the crown of Charlemagne, and to put it in the same sack with so many other stolen Polish and Saxon jewels.

As yet that crown hangs far too high, and I doubt much whether it will ever descend to the witty head of that golden-spurred prince whom his barons already hail and offer homage to as the future restorer of chivalry. I much rather believe that his kingly highness will prove to be, instead of a successor to Charlemagne, only a follower of Charles the Tenth and Charles of Brunswick.

It is true that even recently many friends of the Fatherland have desired the extension of Prussia, and hoped to see in its kings the masters of a united Germany. They have baited and allured patriotism to it; there was a Prussian Liberalism, and the friends of freedom look confidingly towards the lindens in Berlin. As for me, I have never shared this faith or confidence. On the contrary, I watched with anxiety this Prussian eagle, and while others boasted that he looked so boldly at the sun, I was all the more observant of his claws. I did not trust this Prussian, this tall and canting, white-gaitered hero with a big belly, a broad mouth, and corporal’s cane, which he first dipped in holy water ere he laid it on.

I disliked this philosophic Christian military despotism, this conglomerate of white-beer, lies, and sand. Repulsive, deeply repulsive to me was this Prussia, this stiff, hypocritical Prussia, this Tartuffe among states.

At last, when Warsaw fell, there fell also the soft and pious cloak in which Prussia had so well wrapped itself, and then even the dimmest-eyed saw the iron armour of despotism which was hidden under it. It was to the misfortune of Poland that Germany owed this salutary discovery.

Poland! The blood thrills in my veins when I write the word, when I reflect how Prussia behaved to these noblest children of adversity, and how cowardly, how vulgar, how treacherous was her conduct! The wizard of history will, from deepest disgust, want words when he narrates what occurred at Fischau; those shameful deeds were better written by an executioner. I hear the red iron already hissing on the lean back of Prussia.

I read recently in the Allgemeine Zeitung that the Privy Councillor Frederic von Raumer, who not long ago gained for himself the reputation of a royal Prussian revolutionist by revolting, as member of the Commission of censure, against its excessive severity, has now received the order to justify the proceedings of the Prussian Government as to Poland. The defense is finished, and the author has already received for it two hundred Prussian dollars. However, I hear that it has not given satisfaction to the camarilla of Brandenburg, because its style is not sufficiently servile.

Trifling as this incident may seem, it is of importance as indicating the spirit of the ruling minds and of their subordinates. I knew by chance poor Frederic von Raumer, having seen him now and then walking in his blue-green little coat and grey-blue little cap under the lime-trees, and I heard him once in the chair as he depicted the death of Louis XVI, and shed on the occasion several royal Prussian offical tears.

I have also read in a lady’s almanac his History of the Hohenstaufen, and I also know his “Letters from Paris,” in which he communicates to Madame Crelinger and her hsuband his views as to the theatres and public of this place. He is altogether a peacable person, who falls quietly into line with the rest. He is the best among mediocre writers, nor is he entirely devoid of salt, having a certain superficial erudition, resembling therein an old dried herring wrapped up in the wastepaper leaves of a learned book.

I repeat it, he is the most peaceable, patient creature, who always lets himself be loaded by his betters, and trots obediently with his burden to the official mill, only stopping now and then where music is being played. To what a degree of baseness must the spirit of oppression in a Government have descended when even a Frederic von Raumer lost patience with it, and became restive and would trot no further, and even began to speak like a man! Did he perchance see the angel with the sword who stood in the way, and whom the blinded Balaams of Berlin could not behold?

Alas! they gave the poor creature the most deliberate kicks, and goaded it with their golden spurs, and beat it thrice. But the people of Borussia — and by that one may judge its condition — exalted its Frederic von Raumer as an Ajax of freedom.

This royal Prussian revolutionist has now been employed to write an apology for the proceedings against Poland, and to honourably rehabilitate the Cabinet of Berlin in public opinion.

To be continued…

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Heinrich Heine: “The Sea Hath Its Pearls”

 

The Sea Hath Its Pearls

 

The sea it hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars,

But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.

 

Great are the sea and the heaven,

Yet greater is my heart,

And fairer than pearls

Flashes and beams my love.

 

Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart;

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven

Are melting away with love.

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Heinrich Heine: “Twilight”

TWILIGHT

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By the dim sea-shore

Lonely I sat, and thought-afflicted.

The sun sank low, and sinking he shed

Rose and vermilion upon the waters,

And the white foaming waves,

Urged on by the tide,

Foamed and murmured yet nearer and nearer--

A curious jumble of whispering and wailing,

A soft rippling laughter and sobbing and sighing,

And in between all a low lullaby singing.

Methought I heard ancient forgotten legends,

The world-old sweet stories,

Which once, as a boy,

I heard from my playmates,

When, of a summer's evening,

We crouched down to tell stories

On the stones of the doorstep,

With small listening hearts,

And bright curious eyes;

While the big grown-up girls

Were sitting opposite

At flowery and fragrant windows,

Their rosy faces

Smiling and moonshine-illumined.

..

Heinrich Heine: Romancero 2

“The Poems of Heine, Complete. Translated in the Original Meters, With a Sketch of Heine’s Life” by Edgar Alfred Bowring. London: Henry G. Bohn, 1861. From Book Two of “Romancero: Lamentations” – Written 1850 to 1851. (He never left his rooms after 1848.)

In October, 1849

The weather now is calm and mild,

And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,

And Germany, that o’ergrown child,

Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.

Domestic joys we now pursue,

All things beyond are false and hollow,

And to the house’s gable too,

Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.

Forest and stream rest peacefully,

With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;

But hark, a crack!A shot may’t be?

It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.

Perchance with weapons in his hand,

Some madcap they have overtaken;

(All do not flight well understand

Like Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).

Crack, Crack!A fete, may I presume,

Or fireworks in Goethe’s honor?

Or Sontag rising from the tomb

Greeted by rockets showering down upon her?

And Franz Liszt appears again!

He lives, he lies not down dead and gory

On some Hungarian battle-plain,

Russian and Croat have not quenched his glory.

Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,

And Hungary to death is bleeding –

Franz, our knight, escaped alone,

His sword a quiet life at home is leading.

Franz still lives; when old and grey

Of the Hungarian war devoutly

He will tell his grandsons:“Thus I lay,

And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”

Hearing the name of Hungary,

My German waistcoat grows too narrow;

Beneath it foams a raging sea,

The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.

Once more across my memory throng

The hero-legend’s strains enthralling,

The wild and iron martial song,

The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.

‘Tis still the same heroic lot,

‘Tis still the same old noble stories;

The names are changed, the natures not, –

‘Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.

And the same issue ‘tis once more;

However proudly flaunts the banner,

The hero, as in days of yore,

Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.

This time the oxen and the bear

In firm alliance are united;

Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,

Still more have all our German hopes been blighted!

While very decent beasts are they

Who have in fight become thy masters,

We have, alas, become the prey

Of wolves, swine, dogs – so great are our disasters.

They howl, grunt, bark, — the victor’s smell

Is such, I fain would do without it.

But, Poet, hush! – it were as well,

Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.

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Heinrich Heine: Romancero

“The Poems of Heine, Complete. Translated in the Original Meters, With a Sketch of Heine’s Life” by Edgar Alfred Bowring. London: Henry G. Bohn: 1861.

Geoffry Rùdel and Melisanda of Tripoli

In the Chateau Blay still see we

Tapestry the walls adorning,

Work’d by Tripoli’s fair countess’

Own fair hands, no labor scorning.

Her whole soul was woven in it,

And with loving tears and tender

Hallow’d is the silken picture,

Which the following scene doth render:

How the Countess saw Rùdel

Dying on the strand of ocean,

And the ideal in his features

Traced of all her heart’s emotion.

For the first and last time also

Living saw Rùdel and breathing

Her who in his every vision

Intertwining was and wreathing.

Over him the Countess bends her,

Lovingly his form she raises,

And his deadly pale mouth kisses,

That so sweetly sung her praises.

Ah, the kiss of welcome likewise

Was the kiss of separation,

And they drain’d the cup of wildest

Joy, and deepest desolation.

In the Chateau Blay at night-time

Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking;

On the tapestry the figures

Suddenly to life are waking.

Troubadour and lady stretch their

Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,

And from out the wall advancing

Up and down the hall they wander.

Whispers fond and gentle toying,

Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,

Posthumous gallant soft speeches,

Minnesingers’ times recalling:

“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music

Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,

And I feel once more a glimmer

In the long-quench’d embers growing!”

“Melisanda! I awaken

Unto happiness and gladness,

When I see thine eyes; dead only

Is my earthly pain and sadness.”

“Geoffry! Once we loved each other

In our dreams; now, cut asunder

By the hand of death, still love we, -

“Amor ‘tis that wrought this wonder!”

“Melisanda! What are dreams?

What is death? Mere words to scare one!

Truth in love alone e’er find we,

And I love thee, ever fair one!”

“Geoffry! Oh love sweet our meetings

In this moonlit chamber night,

Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams

I no more shall wander lightly.”

“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!

Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!

Love and joys of May are building,

Spring is blooming, where thou goest!” –

Thus those tender spectres wander

Up and down, and sweet caresses

Interchange, while peeps the moonlight

Through the window’s arch’d recesses.

But at length the rays of morning

Scare away the fond illusion;

To the tapestry retreat they

On the wall, in shy confusion.

 

Heinrich Heine: A German Poet

 

Pictures of Travel, 15.

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When I before thy dwelling,

At morning happen to be,

I rejoice, my little sweet one

When thee at thy window I see.

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With thy dark brown eyes so piercing

My figure thou dost scan:

Who art thou, and what ails thee?

Thou strange and sickly man?

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“I am a German poet.

Well known in the German land;

When the best names in it are reckon’d,

My name amongst them will stand.

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My little one, that which ails me

Ails crowds in the German lands;

When the fiercest sorrows are reckon’d,

My sorrows amongst them will stand.”

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Heine Heine: The Journey to the Harz

 Excerpt, “The Journey to the Harz,” 1824, by Heinrich Heine. Translator: Charles Godfrey Leland.

 “Nothing is permanent but change, nothing constant but death. Every

pulsation of the heart inflicts a wound, and life would be an endless

bleeding were it not for Poetry. She secures to us what Nature would

deny--a golden age without rust, a spring which never fades, cloudless

prosperity and eternal youth."--BÖRNE.

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Black dress coats and silken stockings,

Snowy ruffles frilled with art,

Gentle speeches and embraces--

Oh, if they but held a heart!

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Held a heart within their bosom,

Warmed by love which truly glows;

Ah! I'm wearied with their chanting

Of imagined lovers' woes!

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I will climb upon the mountains,

Where the quiet cabin stands,

Where the wind blows freely o'er us,

Where the heart at ease expands.

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I will climb upon the mountains,

Where the sombre fir-trees grow;

Brooks are rustling, birds are singing,

And the wild clouds headlong go.

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Then farewell, ye polished ladies,

Polished men and polished hall!

I will climb upon the mountains,

Smiling down upon you all.

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The sun rose. The mists flitted away like phantoms at the third crow of

the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared

the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the

Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a "poetical character"

has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning he

let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one.

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But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly

pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley. The morning dew of love

wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted and waved

up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express their joy with gestures

 of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful and mysterious chimes, like the

sound of bells belonging to some hidden forest church. People say that these

sounds are caused by the cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable

clearness and purity.

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It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon

such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow,

told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old,

world-renowned Brocken. For many leagues around there is no house, and I

was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat

down to a déjeûner dînatoire consisting of bread and cheese. The

sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around, 

ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes.

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We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as

he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his

praises right royally:

Kingly is the herd-boy's calling,

On the knoll his throne is set,

O'er his hair the sunlight falling

Gilds a living coronet.

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Red-marked sheep that bleat so loudly

Are his courtiers cross-bedight,

Calves that strut before him proudly

Seem each one a stalwart knight.

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Goats are actors nimbly springing,

And the cows and warblers gay

With their bell and flute-notes ringing

Form the royal orchestra.

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And whene'er the music hushes,

Soft the pine-tree murmurs creep;

Far away a cataract rushes--

Look, our noble king's asleep!

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Meanwhile through the kingdom bounding

Rules the dog as minister,

Till his bark from cliffs rebounding

Echoes to the sleeper's ear.

 .

Yawning syllables he utters--

"Ruling is too hard a task.

Were I but at home," he mutters,

"With my queen 'tis all I'd ask.

 .

"On her arm my head reposes

Free from care, how happily!

And her loving glance discloses

Kingdom wide enough for me."

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Heinrich Heine: The Two Brothers

Translated from the German by Edgar Alfred Bowring, 1861.

Set by Robert Alexander Schumann (1810-1856) , op. 49 no. 2.

“Die feindlichen Brüder.”

 

Up on the mountain summit darkling
Lies the castle, veil’d in night;
Lights are in the valley sparkling.
Clashing swords are gleaming bright.
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Brothers ’tis who in fierce duel
Fight with wrath to fury fann’d,
Tell me why these brothers cruel
Strive thus madly, sword in hand?
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By the eyes of Countess Laura
Were they thus in strife array’d;
Both with glowing love adore her
Her, the noble, beauteous maid.
.
Unto which now of the brothers
Is her heart the most inclined?
No musing can decide it;
Out, then, sword, the truth to find!
.
And they fight on with rage despairing,
Blows exchanged with savage might
Take good heed, you gallants daring
Mischief walks abroad by night.
.
Woe! Oh woe! Ye brothers cruel!
Woe! Oh woe! Thou vale abhorr’d!
Both fall victims in the duel,
Each upon the other’s sword.
.
Races are to dust converted,
Many centuries are flown;
And the castle, now deserted,
Sadly from the mount looks down.
.
But at night-time in the valley,
Wondrous forms appear again;
At the stroke of twelve
To the fight the brothers twain.

Heinrich Heine: French Affairs Pt. 3

Excerpt, Works of Heinrich Heine, Volume 14. Translator Charles Godfrey Leland.

June 10, 1832

Yesterday Paris was perfectly quiet. The rumors of many military executions which were still believed in, the evening before yesterday, by most credible authority, have been contradicted in the most reassuring manner by those who are nearest to the government. A great number of arrests are, however, admitted. Of this, it is easy enough to convince oneself by personal observation, since yesterday, and much more on the day before, arrested persons were being seen conducted by soldiers of the line or communal guards in every part of the city. It seemed sometimes like a procession, old and young men in wretched garments, and accompanied by lamenting friends, being among the prisoners.

The report was that everyone would be at once brought to a military trial, and shot within four and twenty hours at Vincennes. Groups were to be seen everywhere standing before houses where searches were being made. This was chiefly the case in streets where fighting had taken place, and where many of the combatants, despairing of their cause, concealed themselves until some betrayer traced them out.

The greatest crowding was along the quais where they pressed on, staring and gossiping, especially near the Rue Saint-Martin, which is still full of curious lookers-on, and about the Palais de Justice, to which many prisoners were brought. There was also much thronging to La Morgue to see the dead there laid out; there were the most painful scenes of recognition. The city had indeed a sorrowful aspect, everywhere were seen groups of people with grief plainly marked in their faces, patrolling troops and funerals of National Guards who had fallen.

But in society, since the day before yesterday, no one is the least concerned; they know their people and also that the Juste-milieu feels very uncomfortable in its present plenitude of power. It holds the great sword of justice, but wants the strong hand it requires. It is afraid of wounding itself at the slightest blow. Intoxicated at the victory, which was at first ascribed to Marshal Soult, Government let itself be led astray to military measures, proposed by that old soldier, who is still full of the whims of the Empire. Now this man actually stands at the head of the ministerial council, and his colleagues, and the rest of the Juste-Milieu fear lest the Presidency, which he so ardently desired, may devolve upon him.

Therefore, they would like to turn round again and extricate themselves completely from heroism; and it was for this that milder interpretations of the decree as to the state of siege followed its publication.

One can see how the Juste-Milieu is now alarmed at its own power, and in alarm hold it as if in convulsive terror tightly in its hands, and will not give it up until assured of forgiveness. There may be in the confusion a few unimportant victims. Government may lie itself into a ridiculous rage to frighten its enemies, it may commit frightfully stupid errors, it may —-

But it is impossible to foretell what apprehension may do when it is barricaded in the hearts of those in power, and sees itself surrounded by death and mockery. The deeds of a frightened man, like that of a genius, like out of the sphere of conjecture. Meantime the higher public fully understand that the extra-legal condition in which matters are now misplaced is only a formula.

Where laws live in the conscience of the people, Government cannot annul them by a sudden edict. Everyone is here de facto more secure as to his life and property than anywhere else in Europe, excepting in England or Holland. Though military tribunals are instituted, there prevails here continually more practical freedom of the press, and journalists write here more freely on the matters of government than in many states of the Continent where freedom of the press is sanctioned by paper laws.

As the post leaves by noon on Sunday, I can give no news of today. I can only refer you to the newspapers. Their tone is more significant than what they say. Au reste, they are certainly again abundant in lies.

There has been incessant drumming since morning. Today, there is a grand review. My servant says that on the Boulevards the whole extent from the Barriere du Trone to the Barriere de l’Etoile is covered with troops of the line and National Guards. Louis Philippe, the father of his native land, the conqueror of Catiline on June 5, the Cicero on horseback, the preserver of life and of shops, the Citizen-King, will in a few hours show himself to his people. He will be greeted by loud applause; he will press many men’s hands, and the police will see that there are especial precautions taken to ensure safety and an extra enthusiasm.

Paris, June 11, 1832

The review of yesterday was favored by very fine weather. There were on the Boulevards from the Barriere de l’Etoile perhaps fifty thousand National Guards and troops of the line, and a countless multiple of spectators on their feet or at windows , eagerly waiting to see the King, and note how he would be received after such remarkable occurrences. About one o’clock His Majesty with his general staff passed by the Porte Saint-Denis, where I stood on a reversed bath-tub in order to observe him more closely.

The King did not ride in the centre, but at the right side, where the National Guards were ranged, and all along the whole route he was continually bending over sideways from his horse to shake hands with these soldiers. When he returned two hours later, by the same road, he was on the left side, where he continued the same maneuver, so that I should not wonder if in consequence of this oblique position he had today the greatest pain in his heart, if not a dislocated rib.

This extraordinary patience of the King was really incomprehensible. And he was obliged to maintain a constant smile, but I think that under the impervious friendliness of that face there lay hidden much trouble and sorrow. His appearance inspired in me much compassion.

He has changed greatly since I saw him last winter at a ball at the Tuileries. His features, then so plump and rosy, were yesterday yellow and flabby, his black side whiskers were quite grey, so that it seemed as if his very face had meantime grown anxious over present or future blows of fate; it certainly was a sign of grief that he had never thought of dyeing his beard. The three-cornered hat, of which the whole front flap was thrown deeply over his forehead, gave him, moreover, an unfortunate appearance. He seemed to look about as if seeking with his eyes for sympathy and forgiveness. In truth, he had not the appearance of one who had declared us all to be in a state of siege.

Accordingly, there was not the slightest manifestation of ill will towards him, and I must bear witness that great applause greeted him everywhere; those especially with whom he shook hands raised a roaring hurrah, and there rang from a thousand women’s throats a piercing “Vive le Roi!” I saw an old woman who punched her husband in the ribs because he did not cry loud enough. A bitter feeling seized me when I reflected that this mob which now exulted round the poor hand-shaking Louis Philippe are the same Frenchmen who often saw Napoleon ride by with his marble face of Caesar, and his immovable eyes and his “unapproachable” ruler’s hands.

After Louis Philippe had held the review, or, rather, felt the army to make sure that it really existed, the noise of the military continued for several hours. The different corps continually shouted compliments to one another as they marched by. “Viva la ligne!” cried the guards, and “Viva la garde nationale!” replied the line. They fraternised. Some of them would be seen in symbolic embraces; others as symbolically exchanged with their allies their sausage, bread and wine. There was not the slightest disturbance.

I must mention that the cry, “Viva la liberte!” was the one most frequently heard; and when these words were thundered forth in joy from the full hearts of so many thousands of armed men, one must needs feel cheerful despite a condition of military occupation and the court martials. But there we have it; Louis Philippe will never, of free accord, oppose public opinion; he will always find out by crafty means what are its most urgent desires and act accordingly.

That is the important meaning of yesterday’s review. Louis Philippe felt the necessity of assembling the people en masse to convince himself that his cannon shots and proclamations had not been ill-received; that he is not regarded as a harsh tyrant, and that there is no other misunderstanding. The people also wished to see its Louis Philippe, to convince itself that he is always the subject-courtier to its sovereign will, and ever obedient and devoted.

One could therefore say that the people permitted the King his review; there was a king-show held, and they expressed their sublime satisfaction at his maneuvers.

End of this excerpt, but Herr Heine’s narrative continues to intrigue; all twenty volumes of his work truly worthy to be read. 

 Louis Philippe de Bourbon

 

Heinrich Heine: French Affairs Pt. 2

Excerpt, Works of Heinrich Heine, Volume 14. Translator Charles Godfrey Leland.

The June Rebellion

Paris, June 7, 1832

When I went yesterday to the Bourse to throw my letter in the post-box, there stood there the whole race of speculators between the columns and before the broad stairs. And as the news had just been received that the defeat of the patriots was certain, the sweetest content was seen in every face — one might say that the whole Bourse smiled. Amid the roar of cannon, the funds shot up ten percent. That is to say, they fired at five o’clock, and at six the Revolution had been quelled.

Then the newspapers could communicate as much information as they pleased. The Constitutionnel and the Debats seem to a certain degree to have correctly understood or hit what happened, but the colour and measurements are incorrect. I have just come from the theatre of the strife of yesterday, when I convinced myself how difficult it would be to get at the truth. This theatre (Schauplatz) is one of the greatest and densely inhabited streets of Paris, i.e. the Rue Saint-Martin, which, beginning at the gate of that name on the Boulevards, ends on the Seine at the Bridge Notre Dame. At both ends of the street I heard the number of the patriots, or, as they are called today, the rebels, who fought there, esteemed at from five hundred to a thousand; but, in the middle of the street the sum became less, and in the very centre it was reduced to fifty. “What is truth?” said Pontius Pilate.

The number of troops of the line is easier to give. Yesterday even the Journal de Debats declares there was forty thousand men ready for action in Paris. Add to these at least twenty thousand National Guards, and we find that a mere handful of insurgents fought with sixty thousand men! The heroism of these insanely brave men is unanimously praised; they indeed achieved miracles of bravery. They cried continually, “Viva la Republique!” but it found no echo in the breasts of the people. Had they instead cried, “Viva Napoleon!” then (as is generally declared today in all groups of the people) the line would hardly have fired on them, and the great masses of the workers would have joined them. But they scorned a lie, for they were the purest, if not the craftiest, friends of freedom.

And yet people are stupid enough to declare today that they were acting in intelligence with the Carlists! Verily, he who fights unto death for the holy delusion of his heart and for the beautiful error of an ideal future, will never ally himself to that cowardly filth which the past has left us under the name of “Carlists.” I am, by God! no republican. I know that if the Republicans conquer, they will cut my throat — and that because I will not admire what they admire; but, still, the tears rose in my eyes today when I trod the place which was still wet with their blood. It would have pleased me more had I, and all my fellow moderates, have died in place of those Republicans.

The National Guards rejoice greatly over their victory. In the intoxication of victory, they came yesterday evening very near sending an unsanitary bullet through my body, although I belong to their party – for they shot heroically at anyone who came near their post. It was a rainy, starless, repulsive evening, with little light in the streets, since almost all of the shops were closed as they had been all day. Today, however, all is in gay movement, and one would hardly believe that anything had taken place. Even in the Rue Saint-Martin, all the shops are open.

Though it is difficult to walk there on account of the turned up pavement and the remains of the barricades, still a great multitude whirls on through the street, which is very long and narrow, with the homes being built extremely high. Nearly all of the windows there were broken from the sound of the cannon, and we everywhere behold the marks of the balls; for cannon were discharged into the street from both sides, so that the Republicans were driven right into the middle. It is said that yesterday they were at last shut in on every side in the Church Saint-Mery, but this I heard denied upon the spot. A somewhat prominent house called the Cafe Leclerque, which is situated on the Alley Saint-Mery, seems to have been the headquarters of the Republicans. Here they held out the longest, here they made their final stand. They asked for no mercy, and were mostly slain by the bayonet. Here fell the pupils of Ecole d’Alfort, and here the warmest blood in France ran.

It is, however, a mistake to assume that the Republicans existed entirely of young madcaps or fire-eaters. Many old men fought among them. A young woman with whom I conversed near the Church Saint-Mery bewailed the death of her grandfather. He had always lived very peaceably, but when he saw the red flag and heard “Viva la Republique!” he ran with an old pike to the young people, and died with them. Poor old man heard the ranches des vaches of “The Mountain” and the memory of his first love of freedom awoke, and he would fain dream once more the dream of his youth. Sleep well!

The consequences of this wrecked revolution may be seen in advance. More than a thousand men have been arrested, among them, as is reported, a deputy, Garnier Pages. The Liberal journals are suppressed. The shopkeeper world rejoices, egoism flourishes, and many of the best men must needs go into mourning. The system of terror will require many more victims. The National Guard is already frightened at its own force; these heroes are terrified when they see themselves in a mirror. The King, the great strong Louis Philippe, will bestow many crosses of honour. The hired wit will ridicule the friends of freedom though in their graves; even the latter are now called enemies of public peace and assassins.

A tailor who dared this morning in the Place Vendome to allude to the good intentions of the Republicans was beaten by a powerful woman, who was probably his wife. This is the counter-revolution.

Paris, June 8, 1832

It appears that it was not an entirely red, but a red-black golden banner which Lafayette crowned with immortelles at the funeral of Lamarque. This fabulous flag, which was unknown to everybody, was supposed by many to be a Republican standard. I knew it well, and thought at once: “Great heaven! Why, these are our old Burschenschaft colours; today will be either a disaster or something stupid!” Unfortunately, both came to pass. When the dragoons in the beginning of the hostilities also attacked the Germans who followed that flag, they barricaded themselves behind the great beams of a carpenter’s shop. After a while, they retreated to the Jardin des Plantes, and the flag was rescued, though in a very tattered condition.

To the Frenchman who have asked of me the meaning of this black-red-gold banner, I have conscientiously replied that the Emperor Barbarossa, who has lived for many centuries in Kyffhaeuser, sent us that flag as a sign that the ancient land of dreams still exists, and that he himself is to come with sword and septre. As for me, I do not believe that it will so soon come to pass; there are as yet too many black ravens flying round the mountain.

Here in Paris, affairs look less dream-like. There are bayonets and watchful military faces in every street. I regarded it at first as a mere unmeaning sign of alarm that people declared that Paris was in a state of siege. It was supposed that this declaration would be promptly recalled; but as I yesterday afternoon saw more and more cannon passing along the Rue Richelieu, I observed that the overthrow of the Republicans would be turned to profit against other enemies of the Government or the journalists.

It is now the question as to whether the “good-will” is coupled with the requisite strength. They are now turning to profit the amazement of their victory of the National Guards, who, as regards the Republicans, have taken part in most vigorous measures, and whose hands Louis Philippe is now shaking as intimately as ever. Since people hate the Carlists and distrust the Republicans, they support the King as the maintainer of order, and he is as popular as a delightful necessity. Yes I have heard, “Viva le Roi!” cried as the King rode along the Boulevards, but I also saw a tall man near the Faubourg Montmartre who advanced to the king and boldly cried, “A bas Louis Philippe!” Several riders in the King’s suite at once descended from their horses and carried the intruder away.

I have never known Paris to be so sultry as it was yesterday evening. Despite the bad weather, the public places were crowded. The groups of politicians assembled in the Palais Royal and conversed in subdued tones – in fact, very much subdued – for one may now be brought before a military tribunal and shot within twenty-four hours. I began to long again for the slow and lazy course of law in my Germany. The lawless condition in which we find ourselves here is repulsive.

That is a greater evil than the cholera. As people were tormented when the disease raged by the successive numbers of deaths, so they are now terrified by the fearful amount of arrests, or when they hear the secret fussilades, and while a thousand dark rumors spread in obscurity, as was the case yesterday. Today by sunlight, there is more confidence and calm. The world admits that it was alarmed yesterday, and now we are more vexed than frightened. There prevails at present a Juste-milieu terror.

The journals are more moderate in their protests, yet are far from being subdued. The National and the Temps speak out fearlessly, as becomes free men. I cannot communicate more as regards recent events than is to be found in the newspapers. People are quiet, and let matters come quietly. The Government is perhaps alarmed at the tremendous power which it finds that it really possesses. It has raised itself above the law — a serious position; for it is justly said, “Qui est au-dessus de la loi est hors de la loi.” The only argument with which many true friends of freedom defend the present powerful measures is the necessity which the royaute demoncratique feels of strengthening itself at home in order to take hold more powerfully abroad.

To be continued …