rue i^%ic^j^ "Poe^Ms of
OTHER BOOKS BY CHARLES WHARTON STORK
Sea and Bay
'The ^een of Orplede
Selected Poems of Gustaf Froding {Translated)
Anthology of Swedish Lyrics (Translated)
THE LYRICAL POEMS OF HUGO
VON HOFMANNSTHAL
Translated from the Qerman '>ppith an Introduction by Qharles Wharton Stork^
NEW HAVEN • YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON • HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS • MDCCCCXVIII
Copyright, 191 8, by Tale University T'ress
First publishedy <iApril, 191 8
LOAN STACK
fr
To ^My Friend ERIC R. D. MACLAGAN ^ ^1
Who Introduced cJ^<? to the Poetry of 7 *7 "^
Hofmannsthal ^ «d C
'Preface and Acknowledgments
The present volume of translations comprises all the contents of Hofmannsthal's Die Gesammelte Gedichte, Insel Verlag, Leipsic, 1907 (in my edition), with the exception of Der Tod des Tizian, a play. This play, with Tor und Tod, has been translated for The German Classics, vol. XVII, by Mr. John Heard, Jr., who has also done the prologue on the death of Bocklin here in- cluded. Another version of Tor und Tod by Elisabeth Walter has appeared with The Gorham Press. Die Hochzeit der Sobeide, a longer play, has been done for the Classics, vol. XX, by Professor Bayard Quincy Morgan. Hofmannsthal's most famous play, Elektra, translated by Arthur Symons, has been brought out by Brentano.
Of the poems here included, the Ballade of the Out- luard Life has been translated by Margarete Miinsterberg in her Harvest of German Verse, Appleton. In German Lyrists of To-day by Daisy Broicher, Elkin Mathews, London, appear Early Spring, Thy Face and The T<wo. An article by Elisabeth Walter, entitled Hugo von Hof- mannsthal, an Exponent of Modern Lyricism, in The Colonnade magazine for December, 1916, New York, con- tains again the Ballade of the Outivard Life and The Two with the third of the Three Little Songs and a num- ber of fragments.
Of my own translations Of Mutability, Travel Song and Interdependence appeared in The German Classics, vol. XVII, and are here republished by the courtesy of the proprietors, the German Publication Society. The Introduction has been greatly expanded from an article in the New York Nation which contained translations of The Tvno, A Dream of the Higher Magic and the third of the Three Little Songs. They are reproduced here by the courtesy of the proprietors of The Nation. Several
vii
i/
other poems, accepted by Poet Lore, are included by the kind permission of the publishers. The entire volume is brought out by the kind permission of Herr von Hof- mannsthal through his publishers, the Insel Verlag, Leipsic.
^3rhese translations aim at being as true to the spirit, more particularly the mood, of the originals as possible. They are fairly literal, the changes being mainly in the order of words in a phrase. Very occasionally whole lines have been transposed. The metres and rhyme- schemes are, with slight exceptions, as nearly identical as possible. As Hofmannsthal's poetry is so notably com- pressed and full of meaning, it is hoped that these trans- lations, together with the Tntroduction, may enable some of those who already know him in the original to see even more in his work than they have already done.
CHARLES WHARTON STORK.
"Birdwood," Philadelphia.
vm
Co:NjeHJs
Introduction:
Hofmannsthal as a Lyric Poet ... 1
Purely Lyrical Pieces:
Early Spring 23
A Vision 25
Travel Song 27
The Two 28
Life-Song 29
''Thy Face ..." 31
World-Secret 32
Of the Outward Life 33
Of Mutability 34
Death 35
''Such Stuff as Dreams" 36
Interdependence 37
A Dream of the Higher Magic ... 38
Three Little Songs 40
Figures:
The Young Man in the Landscape . . 45
The Ship's Cook, a Captive, Sings: . . 46
An Old Man's Longing for Summer . . 47
Lines to a Little Child 49
The Emperor of China Speaks : ... 50
Grandmother and Grandson .... 52
Society -54
ix
Prologues and J ddresses-of- Mourning:
Prologue to the Book "Anatol" ... 59
For a Similar Book 62
In Memory of the Actor, Mitterwurzer . 64 On the Death of the Actor, Hermann Miiller 67 For a Commemoration on the Death of Ar- nold Bocklin 70
Dramatic Idyll:
Idyll : After an Old Vase Painting : . . 75
i:j^%g'D ucTioy^
J(J^%IC "POST
The name of Hugo von Hofmannsthal is fairly well known to those who attempt to follow the course of modern literature in Europe. Further- more, all opera-goers have come in contact with it from the accident that two of Hofmannsthal's plays, Elektra and Der Rosenkavalier, were set to music by Richard Strauss. His Elektra was also acted in New York by Mrs. Patrick Campbell. It may nevertheless be safely said that the peculiar genius of this author is but little appreciated in America, and that the general impression among those who have heard of him is of a colorful, neo- classical dramatist. It is hoped that the present volume may serve to bring out another and deeper aspect of the poet.
Judged by bulk, the lyrics of Hofmannsthal's might well be neglected in a survey of his writings as a whole. He has to his credit some seven or eight long plays, a dozen short plays and two vol- umes of prose studies. Against these we can set only a small volume entitled Die Gesammelte Gedichte, including, apparently, all the poems which the author cares to have preserved. It contains but twenty- three lyrics, the rest of the book consisting of a short play, a dramatic idyll and several prologues written for special occasions. But as the short plays excel the longer in concentrated art, so the lyrics
1
excel both. Out of this mere handful the most general German anthologies take some three or four poems. In a collection of 536 poems covering a period of 700 years The Oxford Book of German Verse includes three examples of Hofmannsthal. Die Ernie, a similar anthology, published in Ger- many, gives him four pages out of 466. This is no mean proportion for a living poet born so late as 1874. Besides, the level of thought and technic is so maintained throughout the small body of lyrics that (with one exception) the critic is hard put to it to decide which are the best. An entire school of younger poets is imitating Hofmannsthal, as art students may be seen copying the few authentic Giorgiones, Bellinis or Vermeers.
I
But despite Hofmannsthal's high reputation in his own literature, we may as well admit at once that his poetry is confined to a field of interest far removed from the thoughts of the average American. We can hardly come into a receptive state of mind toward him without picturing to ourselves the environment which shaped his genius.
The outward events of Hofmannsthal's life ap- pear surprisingly normal. He was born in Vienna February 1, 1874, received the usual broad educa- tion of the cultivated Austrian, traveled, married, and settled at Rodaun, a quiet suburb of the capital. Up to the time of the war he was living the life of a secluded literary man with his wife and chil- 2
dren, sometimes gracing a special event in the city and occasionally making an excursion to visit his friends in Paris or Italy.
It is to Hofmannsthal's environment in Vienna that the peculiar trend of his art may be traced. There was perhaps no city twenty-five years ago where a young man of means and birth could live a life so completely detached from that of his modern fellow-men. The repose of antiquity was preserved there more completely even than in Paris; there was little intrusion of the Nineteenth Century business world on the traditions of Maria Theresa's court, little ferment of democratic ideals of any kind. Beautiful gardens, Romanesque churches, palaces contemporary with Versailles, galleries rich in Italian masterpieces — these were the elements that surrounded the minds of young men. Social and political questions were put to one side or cheerfully left to those whose concern they were supposed to be. Certain conditions were admitted to be hope- lessly bad, and, if so, why should one trouble oneself about them? Grace and gaiety were the prevailing characteristics of Viennese life, as of its typical expression, the Viennese waltz.
To the young man who was able to indulge his taste art was the chief end and purpose of being. Goethe had already set the example of artistic aloof- ness by retiring to his study to write the West- Ostliche Divan, while the battles of the^Napoleonlc Wars were being fought around him. Cf he connect-
3
ing link between Goethe and the Vienna of the Nineties was the tradition of Franz Grillparzer, Austria's great neo-classical dramatist, who~3Ted m 1872. As Goethe introduced modern characteriza- tion into the story of Iphigenia, Grillparzer fol- lowed with his plays on Hero and Leander, Sappho, and Medea. Other dramatists, such as Raimund and Wilbrandt, carried on the tendency of cultivat- ing a drama far removed from the existence of those who witnessed it, the subjects being sometimes classical, sometimes fanciful, sometimes from mediae- val historjO The influence of Shakespeare was turned in the same direction: namely, toward one or another phase of romanticism. Beauty of pro- portion, delicate fancy, and nobility of sentiment were the chief requirements of the drama, the most brilliant field of literary activity in Vienna. Italy, the ideal home of romance, was easily accessible. Painters, with a few notable exceptions, turned their faces thitherward. Music and the ballet, always prominent in the Austrian capital, are by their very nature detached from realism. Thus the cultivated man of Vienna was almost by compulsion an aesthete.
Grillparzer* thought the North Germans had cultivated their understanding at the expense of their feeling, and had thereby impaired their aesthetic sense. But though the typical Austrian is "a man of
* Quoted from the life of Grillparzer by Professor W. G. Howard, German Classics, vol. VI, p. 233.
4
feeling," the human mind everywhere must, it seems, have problems to solve. If the contemporary world be shut out, these problems will naturally be subjective. Also, as many observers have noted, listening to sweet music and looking on at a scene of continued gaiety are apt to induce a pleasurable, but often profound, mood of melancholy. The so- journer in Italy, particularly in Venice, may have been struck with a similar feeling.
II
We may seem to have wandered rather far afield, but as a matter of fact I have tried, in the preceding part of this introduction, to write the biography of Hugo von Hofmannsthal in the only way that came to hand. There is no poem translated in this volume which will not be largely accounted for by the con- siderations that have just been presented. Instead of being a unique and totally unrelated personality in literature, Hofmannsthal was in many respects the normal product of these, to us, abnormal con- ditions.
He had, however, a marked personality in addi- tion. In the first place he may be called an ex- tremist of his kind: an extreme lover of rich and remote beauty, an artist unusually detached from everyday existence, a genius of oppressive melan- choly, a magician of startling power in the revelation of human consciousness, an unequaled exponent of style. Furthermore, all these faculties appeared in
5
him at so early an age as to make him a literary prodigy, in this respect (as in others to be noted later) resembling Rossetti. In his first short plays, Gestern and Tod des Tizian, written at the ages of seventeen and eighteen respectively, his style was already that of a mature master. He has since ex- hibited greater variety, but hardly greater power. As a boy of seventeen Hofmannsthal was acclaimed by many critics as technically the greatest German poet since Goethe.
The bent of Hofmannsthal's genius soon brought him into association with two similarly minded Ger- man poets: Stefan George and Rainer Maria Rilke. These three united in a publication called Blatter fiir die Kunst to combat the unmitigated realism of contemporary German literature, as represented by the plays of Sudermann and the poetry of Lilien- cron. The three young apostles of beauty main- tained that* "the poet, in order to depict life as life really is, must take no part in it." Of George's work Hofmannsthal wrote in words that may equally be applied to himself :t "He so completely conquered life, so absolutely mastered it, that from his poems the rare, indescribable peace and refresh- ing coolness of a still, dark temple are wafted upon our noise-racked senses."
But Hofmannsthal did not, like his associates,
* Quoted by permission from an article on Hofmanns- thal by Elisabeth Walter in the Colonnade, December, 1916, New York.
t Ibid.
leave his fame to rest on lyric poetry. He went on for a time with the one-act poetical soul-dramas of which Gestern was the first. Of these the finest and best known are Tor und Tod, Der Weiss e Fdcher and Die Frau im Fenster, all deeply imagi- native studies of great spiritual moments. The third, which (though almost entirely a monologue) is the most dramatic of the three, has been acted in New York. Then came longer plays on original themes, the best of which is Die Hochzeit der Sobeide.
Hofmannsthal's greatest success, however, has been won with plays which, like Goethe's Iphigenie and Grillparzer's Medea, are modeled around themes of earlier dramatic masterpieces. His method is simply to take the old story, rearrange the scenes freely, and completely re-create the char- acters. In the case of his best-known play Elektra he does but do as Euripides did: namely, render the dignified characters of the earlier Greek trage- dians thoroughly human from the standpoint of a later day. Thus the treatment of Elektra in Hof- mannsthal's play has been called pathological, be- cause that is the only way in which, with our demand for psychology, we can be made to realize the state of the human mind in so terrible a situa- tion. The effect is certainly "unclassic" and to many people too painfully human. But on any score Elektra is an important play. Hofmannsthal has given a similarly free rendering of classic ma-
7
terlal in Odipus und die Sphinx a.nd has also trans- lated Sophocles' play as Konig Odipus.
The influence of the English drama appears in a recasting of Otway's Venice Preserved as Das Gerettete Venedig, in which far greater verisimili- tude is given to the characters than w^as the fashion in Otway's time. Hofmannsthal has also handled very freely the theme of the old morality Everyman, giving a skilful German coloring by infusing ma- terial from an old play of Hans Sachs. In his last plays, Christinas Heimreise and Der Rosen- kavalier, we find the author successful in his first attempts at comedy. Two volumes of Prosaische Schriften consist of subtle studies in literature, in religion, and in character. Among these the essay Shakespeare's Konige und Grosse Herren may be noted.
Ill
With some knowledge of Hofmannsthal's career and literary proclivities, we may proceed to examine the small but very important body of non-dramatic poetry here to be presented. The principle to be kept in mind throughout is, as Miss Walter has well phrased it:* ''Every one of Hofmannsthal's poems expresses some condition of the soul in terms of beauty, and always the universal behind the beautiful." The well-worn axiom that beauty is truth has seldom been better exemplified since the time of Keats.
* Cf. the article in the Colonnade already cited.
8
The beauty of Hofmannsthal's poetry should need little further comment, even when his work is given only in translation. Miss Walter cites a criticism on his poems:* "They were not written to instruct, but to arouse sensation, to awaken the indescribable." We must not, however, lose touch with the imaginative truth that underlies these poems, thef "ugly facts" represented in "pretty symbols." That the symbols of Hofmannsthal's poetry are far from being a mere play of fancy, the author indicates in his prologue For a Similar Book:
For we have made a play from out the life
We live, and mingled with our comedy
Our truth keeps ever gliding in and out . . . etc.
It is in the interfusion of universal truth with beauty of rhythm, with verbal melody, and with * colorful imagery that the magic of the poet consists. In any given piece he at once creates the mood ap- propriate to his central idea, so that the reader, delighted by the art, soon gives up any attempt at cold analysis. The thought is first melted into a feeling such as might be inspired by music, then -. the feeling is defined by a succession of mental pic-x( tures. A typical example of this is found in the poem A Vision. The blending of the theme. Death, with the glowing picture and the deep cello- like music of the verse should, unless the translation
* Cf. the article in the Colonnade already cited.
t Cf. "Prologue to the Book Anatol."
9
is an utter failure, be easily apparent. But it is perhaps incorrect to speak of blending, where the poem is so entirely an organic unit. Hofmannsthal* jiuJ/^ deprecates the use of the terms "inward" and "out- "^ ward" with reference to art and life, because to him they express no real distinction.
Although Hofmannsthal was a product of his environment and was even part of a literary ten- dency, the forcefulness of his genius was sufficient to raise him far above his possible rivals. Neither the vaguely mystical lyrics of Stefan George nor the wistful reveries of Rilke can compare in ultimate importance with the work of their associate. The intellect of Hofmannsthal dominates the school to which he belongs and has already called forth many followers. He is the one symbolist writing in Ger- man who has an absolutely sure touch, a perfect sense of balance in all that he does. In this respect also his plays seem to me to excel those of Maeter- linck.
The English poets who most resemble Hof- mannsthal are Vaughan, Blake, Rossetti and Francis Thompson. Vaughan's ability to soar into a world of spiritual exaltation is not unlike what we find in A Dream of the Higher Magic. Vaughan, however, takes his moral sense and his human feelings with him, whereas the daemon of Hofmannsthal surveys all things impersonally. The splendor of their lan-
* Cf. Professor Seiberth's Life of Hofmannsthal, Ger- man Classics, vol. XVII, p. 484.
10
guage and imagery is very similar, except that the brilliance of the English poet shows in flashes, that of the Austrian in a deep and constant glow. Blake is like Hofmannsthal in the abstractness of his poetic world, and his doctrine that the imagination is God comes very near that pictured in A Dream of the Higher Magic. But Blake's expression is simple and intuitive; his is altogether a more aerial spirit. In their combination of somewhat heavily decora- tive style with mystic thought, Rossetti and Thomp- son stand much nearer to Hofmannsthal than do the earlier poets. "Fundamental brainwork," to quote Rossetti's famous phrase, is almost equally evident in the three; the underlying plan of their poems is laid with a similar definiteness. Hof- mannsthal differs from Rossetti in that he gives more general pictures, producing effects more purely like those of music; whereas the pre-Raphaelite revels in sharply drawn detail. Both Rossetti and Thompson seem much more passionate; Hofmanns- thal's egiotlon is always subdued and. even in tex- ture. The quaint, rather self-conscious style of the V^ modern English poets contrasts with the smoQth diction of Hofmannsthal, whose mind moves in its omT spiritual world with the seemingly unconscious grace of a golden fish in shadowy depths.
IV
Because the quality of Hofmannsthal's mood is so all-pervasive, we have spoken much of the effects
11
which his poetry produces, without giving more than a hint of its actual content. This content might be defined as impersonally subjective, if the phrase does not seem to be an oxymoron. What is meant is that Hofmannsthal writes of his own consciousness, or that of others with whom he for the moment identi- fies himself, in a manner which shows great power of divination but only the most remote shade of sympathy. He does not wish human emotion to disturb him in his attempt to contemplate reality. For instance, in The Two he symbolizes admirably the mysterious relation of sex to sex, but we who read, instead of being stirred to a poignant feeling of pity, are only impelled to murmur: "How strange is truth!" Similarly in the poem Of Mutability, when he says it is
A thing too dreadful for the trivial tear: That all things glide away from out our clasp,
we are in no real danger of a tear or even of a shudder. This impassive attitude toward the facts of life gives a tone of fatalism to nearly every poem in the volume. The interest shown in nature and humanity is exclusively artistic and speculative.
The earlier poems of this volume are purely philosophical or symbolic of the poet's own sensa- tions. The Three Little Songs are somewhat more personal than the pieces which precede them; but even the third, a most delicate bit of lyricism, has not the ring of ordinary human feeling. In the 12
remarkable group of Figures the poet Identifies his soul with those of such various persons as the Emperor of China, a child, a captive ship's cook, and the collective personality of several interacting characters at a social entertainment. Into each of these minds in turn we are made to enter by the same exquisite art which, in the earlier lyrics, enables us to examine the intimacies of the poet's own consciousness. The Idyll at the end is a neo- classic study of the same kind, except that, instead of being static, it has dramatic motion, thus pointing the reader on to Hofmannsthal's plays.
We have still to mention the Prologues and Ad- dresses-of-Mourning. These, though in a somewhat different vein, are wonderfully fascinating poems. The prologue to Anatol is a delicious piece of atmos- phere. With the following prologue it constitutes, as we have indicated, a good exposition of the author's artistic purpose: namely, to present the truth, but only under the mask of beauty. In this point Hofmannsthal differs from Arthur Schnitzler, author of the short realistic plays grouped under the title Anatol. Schnitzler, though he is what we might call a selective realist, lets us at times see the ugliness of life pretty clearly.
Tributes to the two actors, Mitterwurzer and Miiller, show how intensely Hofmannsthal feels the identity of soul and body. He is, to be sure, thinking only of the soul of the given actor, but this soul has the gift of so informing and transforming
13
the body it inhabits that the two cannot be thought of as separate, but only as mingled in varying pro- portions. The poem on Bocklin is of course the finest of the five, showing as it does how the spirit of a true artist can "adorn the image of the world" for us and can thus live in the added charm which it flings over the visible forms of nature.
Professor Seiberth writes:* "As a thinker Hof- mannsthal is not in any definite sense a didactic or philosophical poet. The true poet is temperamen- tally incapable and impatient of close systematic thinking." Without stopping further to confute the absurdity of the second statement than by men- tioning the names of Dante, Milton, Shelley and Goethe, we may well examine the validity of the first. A notedf Professor of Philosophy, who is unusually well acquainted with modern literature, says that Hofmannsthal is the greatest living philo- sophic poet in Europe. This raises a question we can not afford to pass over.
Of course it is possible for many readers not interested in pure philosophy to enjoy Hofmanns- thal's poetry simply as poetry, but a little examina- tion will convince most of them that the poet has a remarkably well-defined conception of the universe. In the first place, he "thinks unity" very strongly,
* German Classics, vol. XVII, p. 484.
t Prof. Edgar Singer of the University of Pennsylvania.
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he feels the deep connection between all times, all_ places and all things, whether spiritual or material. This is superbly imaged in the lines of Interde- pendence:
From the weariness of forgotten peoples Vainly would I liberate mine eyelids, Or would keep my startled soul at distance From the silent fall of far-off planets.
But a more unusual doctrine, exemplified in A Dream of the Higher Magic, has been taken from the philosophy of Giordano Bruno. Bruno's* hy- pothesis pictures the soul of man as standing midway between the divine intelligence and the world of what we call external phenomena. It is immortal because it partakes of the divine existence. Its highest function is to contemplate the divine unity which is discoverable in the manifold appearances of material objects. Take now^ the concluding lines of the poem:
Our soul's a Cherub, and of lordly birth — Dwells not in us, but in some upper star Fixes his throne and leaves us oft in dearth.
Yet deep in us his fiery motions are: — So in my dream I seemed to understand — And he holds converse with yon fires afar, And lives in me as I do in my hand.
* Cf. Encyclopedia Britannica, Ninth Edition, sub Bruno.
15
We may here take it that the Adept is none other than man's soul (or, as Blake would have said, imagination), the supposedly eternal power that comes into the human mind and performs all manner of marvels, overleaping the material boundaries of time and space. This "Greatest Magician," or (as he is later called) "Cherub," is the medium of com- munication between Divinity and Mortality. He may be analyzed after the Hegelian fashion into the antithetical concepts of spirit and matter, with the understanding that these two are in reality indi- visibly united. Hofmannsthal has also undertaken in this poem to solve the problems of time and space, and of appearance and reality by assuming all of these to be conditions of our thinking, which therefore the mind, when stimulated by special inspiration, can transcend. From this poem it would seem (Professor Seiberth to the contrary notwith- standing) that Hofmannsthal was in a very definite sense a philosophical poet.
Similar ideas to those just spoken of may be found throughout the poems in this volume. Of course they can not always be so clearly perceived. I can hardly hazard a guess at what is meant by Life- Song, World-Secret is evidently not meant to convey more than an elusive suggestion. Such Stuff as Dreams would seem to express an idea similar to that of A D?-eam of the Higher Magic. Perhaps the child is the link which binds the dream and the moon, as the cherub is the link which binds 16
"yon fires afar" with mortal life. The other poems can, I think, be enjoyed at least as well without the intrusion of any further analysis.
VI
In the spring of 1908 I had the honor of calling on Herr von Hofmannsthal at his house in Rodaun. His way of life appeared extremely simple, there being a notable absence of the paraphernalia of luxury in the rooms I saw. There were none of the pictures or other works of art which a connois- seur of beauty might be supposed to revel in. It has since occurred to me that probably the poet does not care to have his eyes and mind distracted by numerous objects.
Herr von Hofmannsthal is a well-built man of middle height with a high, square forehead, rather sensuous nose and lips, and very dark hair, mus- taches and eyes. Without seeming secretive, he managed to reveal almost nothing of himself in our talk, asking me questions most of the time about the old English drama. The only remark he made on himself was when, in answer to some tribute of admiration on his work, he said: *'I realize that I write for only about five hundred people in Europe."
Though some of Hofmannsthal's plays have been very successful on the stage and have run to from ten to thirty editions, the fact remains that his best work is for the few. He does not picture life as
17
the ordinary man sees it or can see it. He general- izes what he sees in nature and eliminates the detail, like the designer of a stained-glass window. His interest in a given idea, scene or personality is only for the purpose of arriving at some philosophical conclusion. The result in his art is arresting, both intellectually and aesthetically, but cannot be dis- sociated in the reader's mind from a feeling of monotony and oppression, as if one were shut up in the darkly beautiful temple to which Hofmannsthal compares the poetry of Stefan George. There is a lack of free air and natural light. His thought has, far more than Matthew Arnold's, the melan- choly of the pantheist.
But what a master of imagery! How wonder- fully this young poet succeeds in conveying the deep dreams of his imagination! His figures of speech show a particular fondness for children, whose eyes seem to him to behold more of mystery than the power of language can express. He loves the stage, because there the soul can best show its power to transform itself. His outdoor nature is never specified in any particular country, except that the Travel Song must refer to Italy, the favorite setting of his early plays. But though certain preferences are apparent in the figures of speech, the memorable power and originality of the Hofmannsthal simile (which is also a symbol) can be explained only by genius.
Imagery can always, in some sort, be translated; 18
verbal felicity must of course be largely lost, or at best but partly re-created, in a new medium of ex- pression. Though Hofmannsthal is so often thought of as a stylist, he has no obtrusive mannerism of form. He obtains large effects by comparatively simple and direct means. Style with, him is not a trick, but a gift; the mood clothes itself with the fitting expression, that is all one can say. As the mood is so often somber, the sound of the words is ,^ correspondingly sonorous and full of gloomy dignity. In the Lines to a Little Child, however, the tone is naive and gay, in Society it is confused and ani- mated. The variety of verse-form is likewise con- siderable, marked preference being given to the Italian terza rima, which is peculiarly suited to the complex, closely woven quality of the thought.
In conclusion, we must concede that Hofmanns- thal's lyric poetry is a highly special literary phe- nomenon. Professor Grummann objects that* "it is pervaded by an artistic atmosphere acquired by idling in art museums rather than in immediate contact with life." To this we may answer that there are two opposite definitions of what is meant by life. It is one thing to describe in the manner of an observant traveler the scenes and persons which meet the outward eye ; it is another to reveal the soul to itself. To most persons the second sort of artist will mean very little, but to a few he will give a delight that is almost overpowering. Under the
* German Classics, vol. XVIII, pp. 289-290.
19
spell of Hofmannsthal one feels as when listening to the Andante of a mighty symphony written in a minor key. The poet, like a leader in his orchestral eminence, dominates his audience in soul, mind and body. From such moments we return to the uses of ordinary life in surprise at how deeply we were rapt by the potency of the master's art.
20
TU%§j[j^ C^'KIC^Ji "Pi^C^s
EARLY SPRING. Early
The spring wind is gliding
Mid boughs that are bare, In his heart hiding
Strange things and rare.
His cradle hath swung
In sob-shaken air, And oft hath he clung
In passion-loosed hair.
Acacia blossoms
Beneath him snowed, His breath cooled the bosoms
That throbbing glowed.
Lips in their laughter
First he would claim, Soft fields thereafter
Woke when he came.
The flute he passed through in
A sobbing cry, The sunset's red ruin
He swiftly flew by.
In silence proceeding
Through whispering rooms. And quenched with his speeding
The lamps' yellow blooms.
23
Early The spring wind is gliding Spring Mid boughs that are bare, In his heart hiding
Strange things and rare.
Through the reviving Alleys and meadow^s
His breath is driving Wraith-like shadows.
A scent without name He bears in his flight
From whence he came Since yester-night.
24
A VISION [Erlebnis], A Vision
The valley with a silver-gra5ash mist
Of twilight was o'erbrimmed, as when the moon
Filters through clouds. And yet it was not night.
In the silver-grayish mist of yon dark valley
My twilight-shimmering thoughts were wholly
blended ; Softly I sank into the shifting depths Of that transparent sea — and left this life. What wondrous flowers bloomed about me there With darkly glowing chalices! — dim thickets Transfused with streams of reddish-yellow light, Warm as a glowing topaz. And the vale Was filled with deep vibrating harmony Of melancholy music. Then I knew — Though how, I comprehend not — yet I knew That this was Death; Death was transformed to
music. Mightily yearning, sweet, and darkly glowing. Akin to deepest melancholy.
Yet- How strange ! a sort of homesickness for life Wept silently within my soul, it wept As one may weep when on a towering ship. That drives toward evening with gigantic sails Across the dark-blue waves, he passes by A town, his native town. He sees before him The streets, he hears the fountains gush, he breathes The scent of lilac-bushes; on the bank
25
A Vision He sees himself a child with childish eyes Anxious and almost weeping, sees a light Through the wide window burning in his room. But the huge vessel bears him ever on, Silently speeding o'er the dark-blue waves With giant sails of yellow, strangely shaped.
26
TRAVEL SONG. Travel
Water plunges to devour us, Rocks would crush with rolling leap, Strong-winged birds to overpower us Haunt our path with threatening sweep.
But beneath us lies a land Where, in ageless lakes reflected, Ripened fruits forever glow. Marble fount and statue stand Deep in groves of bloom protected. And the gentle breezes blow.
27
The Two THE TWO.
Her hand bore well the cup to him — — Her cheek and mouth were like its rim — So lightly, surely, too, she stepped That not a drop the rim o'erlept.
As light and firm too was his hand ; His fiery mount but fresh from pasture At one impulsive, easy gesture Stood quivering where he bade it stand.
Yet it befell that when his hand Would take from hers the drink unwasted, The feat for both was overmuch; For both so trembled at the touch. That fingers failed, and on the sand The precious wine rolled down untasted.
28
LIFE-SONG. Life-Song
On peacock, lamb and eagle His youthful lordship brave May waste the ointment regal An old dead woman gave. The dead, whose flight upstreameth And o'er the tree-tops gleameth, — Naught more are these, he deemeth, Than dancers' robes that wave.
He goes as if no justling Behind e'er threateneth. He smiles whene'er the rustling Of Life's robe whispers: Death! For every place delights him And every door invites him, Each passion-wave incites him As lone he wandereth.
When wild-bee swarms are winging,
His soul pursues in play;
The dolphins with their singing
Upbear him on his way.
All countries are his dwelling,
But soon with hand compelling
A dark stream, ever swelling.
Will bound his shepherd's-day.
On peacock, lamb and eagle My lord with laughter brave
29
Life-Song May waste the ointment regal An old dead woman gave, On friends a smile bestowing, Through Life's fair garden going Toward dim gulfs, all unknowing, From which no skill can save.
30
"THY FACE. ..." <<Thy Face''
Thy face was laden all with reverie. Silent and trembling then I looked on thee. Ah how the thought came back! that even so Upon a former night I yielded me
Unto the moon and that beloved vale Where on the naked hill-side rose a frail And broken screen of pines, around whose stems Low-flying cloudlets oftentimes would sail,
While freshly, strangely through the stillness clave The dashing of the pallid silvery wave From the deep river, — How it all came back! — How it came back ! For to those things I gave
My very soul in mighty yearning there. Yea, to that scene, so fruitless and so fair; As now I yield me to thine eyes that glow, And to the magic of thy loosened hair.
31
World'Secret WORLD-SECRET.
The deep well knows it certainly ; Once all things else were deep and still, And all then knew their fill.
Like master-words a child lisps o'er, From mouth to mouth the tale doth flit And no one comprehendeth it.
The deep well knows it certainly; And leaning there a man would know, But rising up, would lose it so.
Would wildly talk, and make a song. — O'er this dark mirror, as it chanced, A child leant down and was entranced.
And grew, and knew itself no more. And was a woman; then love came And — who the gifts of love can name.
And all the knowledge love bestows? —
In kisses was she deeply ware
Of dim-divined memories rare. . . .
Within our words it lieth hid.
As beggars' feet o'er sand might pace
Above a jewel's resting-place.
The deep well knows it certainly ; Once in this lore were all men wise, Now but a vague dream, circling, flies.
32
OF THE OUTWARD LIFE {Ballade des Outward Ausseren Lebens]. Life
And children, that with deep unknowing gaze Look out upon the world, grow up and die, And all men travel on their several ways.
And sweet fruits after bitter follow nigh,
Till like dead birds by night they fall to ground
And in few days wax rotten where they lie.
And still the wind blows, and we hear the sound Of words and utter them with idle breath. And joy we feel and weariness profound.
And roads there are where one encountereth Cities, with trees and lights in glittering range ; Some threatening, some withered as in death. . . .
Why are these built, each to the other strange In form and fashion, though no few they be? And why do tears and laughter interchange ?
What are these childish toys to us, since we Are full-grown men, who live apart each one And roam without a goal unceasingly?
What boots it much to have seen the while we
roam ? — And yet he sayeth much, who "Evening" saith. A word whence deep and solemn meanings run
Like heavy honey from the hollow comb.
33
Mutability OF MUTABILITY [Terzinen /].
Still, still upon my cheek I feel their breath : How can it be that days which seem so near Are gone, forever gone, and lost in death?
This is a thing that none may rightly grasp, A thing too dreadful for the trivial tear: That all things glide away from out our clasp ;
And that this I, unchecked by years, has come
Across into me from a little child.
Like an uncanny creature, strangely dumb; —
That I existed centuries past — somewhere, That ancestors on whom the earth is piled Are yet as close to me as my very hair.
As much a part of me as my very hair.
34
DEATH [Terzinen II], Death
What hours are those! when, shinlngly outspread, The ocean lures us, and we lightly learn The solemn lore of death, and feel no dread :
As little girls, whose great eyes seem to yearn, Girls that have pallid cheeks and limbs a-cold, Some evening look far out and do not turn
Their feebly-smiling gaze, for, loosing hold Upon their slumber-drunken limbs, the flood Of life glides over into grass and wold; —
Or as a saint pours out her martyr blood.
35
''Such Stuff "SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS" [Terzinen III],
as Drea7ns** c r n- ^ • - , ,
buch stuiT as dreaming is we mortals be,
And every dream doth open wide its eyes
Like a small child beneath a cherry tree,
Above whose top across the deepening skies The pale full-moon emerges for its flight. — Not otherwise than so our dreams arise.
They live as a child that laughs, and to the sight Appear no smaller on their curving way Than the full-moon awakening on the night.
Our inmost self is open to their sway. As spirit hands in sealed chambers gleam They dwell in us and have their life alway.
And three are one : the man, the thing, the dream.
36
INTERDEPENDENCE [Manche Freilich . . .]. Inter-
Many men no doubt must die below-decks Where the heavy oars of the ship are plying; Others dwell above beside the tiller Know the flight of birds and the lore of star-lands.
Many with weighted limbs must lie forever At the roots of the labyrinthine life-tree; Others have their place appointed With the sibyls, the queens of vision, Where they bide as in seats accustomed, Head untroubled and hand unburdened.
Yet from yonder lives a shadow falleth On the happier lives of the others, And the light unto the heavy As to air and earth are fettered :
From the weariness of forgotten peoples Vainly would I liberate mine eyelids, Or would keep my startled soul at distance From the silent fall of far-off planets.
Many fates with mine are interwoven, Subtly mingled flow the threads of being, And my share in it is more than merely One life's narrow flame or thin-toned lyre.
37
Higher A DREAM OF THE HIGHER MAGIC.
Far kinglier than a chain of pearls both seem,
And bold as morning-misted ocean blue,
Such — as methought then — was the mighty dream.
The doors of glass were wide, the wind went
through. — In a pavilion close to earth I slept, And through four open doors the breezes flew. —
And first a troop of bridled horses swept Before my bed, and hounds too in a pack. But with a sudden gesture the Adept —
That Greatest, First Magician — drew me back
Unto a wall, between the which and me
Swayed his proud head, the long hair kingly black.
And straight no wall behind him seemed to be ; But clifiFs and darkling ocean did uprear Behind his hand, and meadows fair to see.
He bent him down and drew the Deep more near. He bent him lower, and along the ground His fingers played as though it water were.
But the clear drops, to opals large and round Changing within his hands, in many a ring Were spilled again to earth with tuneful sound.
Then to the nearest cliff with easy swing 38
O' the loins — as in sheer pride — so light he rose Higher
His body seemed to me a weightless thing. Magic
But in his eyes was ever the repose
Of sleeping, and yet living, jewel-spheres.
He sat, and spoke a master-word to those
Old days we think long buried in the years, And they returned, with saddened glory great: Which raised his heart to laughter and to tears.
Dreamingly he had part in all men's fate,
As in his limbs he felt his vital force.
He knew no far or near, no small or great.
All life he shared in its tremendous course :
When Earth deep down grew cold with secret pang,
Darkness thronged outward from its central source,
Or night thrust forth the tepid airs that hang On tree- tops — he rejoiced so drunkenly That like a lion over cliffs he sprang.
Our soul's a Cherub and of lordly birth — Dwells not in us, but in some upper star Fixes his throne and leaves us oft in dearth.
Yet deep in us his fiery motions are :
— So in the dream I seemed to understand —
And he holds converse with yon fires afar,
And lives in me as I do in my hand.
39
Little THREE LITTLE SONGS. Songs
Heard'st not thou the music's tone As around thy house ft crept ? Night was heavy, no star shone, Yet 'twas I that there alone, Singing soft, my vigil kept.
What my tongue could tell, I spoke: ''Thou my All, my dearest, thou!" In the east the daylight broke, Home my heavy way I took, And my lips are silent now.
IL
Heavy was the sky and drear, Lonely we and full of fear, Far apart were pining. But 'tis now no longer so. Back and forth the breezes flow. And the whole wide earth is shining Like to glass, below.
Stars meanwhile have climbed aloft.
On our cheeks they sparkle soft.
Wise with sympathy.
Yet more glory heaven revealeth,
Till through us deep longing stealeth.
Spell-bound in an ecstasy.
Each the breath of other feeleth.
40
in. Little
My mistress said: "I hold thee not, Songs
No promise hast thou sworn.
The sons of men should not be bound,
To faith they are not born.
"Then go what way thou wilt, my friend.
Beholding many a land,
And rest thyself in many a bed,
Take many a woman's hand.
"If bitter wines no longer please. Drink thou of malmsey then ; And if my mouth seems yet more sweet. Come back to me agen."
41
Figures [gestalteri]
THE YOUNG MAN IN THE LANDSCAPE. Man in
Gardeners were laying out their plants in beds And beggars, beggars wandered everywhere With crutches, and black patches on their eyes; But some with harps too and with fresh-plucked
flowers — Ah the strong scent of the weak flowers in spring!
The naked trees left all things in full view; There was the river and the market-town And many children playing by the ponds. 'Twas through this landscape that he slowly went, Feeling its power and knowing in himself That he had part in the world's destiny.
He sought those children, — strangers though they
were, — Ready to bring the treasures of new life In willing service to a foreign threshold. He reckoned not the riches of his soul, — The ancient paths, and all the memories Of vanished hands and spirits now transformed — As of more value than an idle toy.
The perfume of the flowers told him but Of unknown Beauty, — and he softly breathed The April air, his soul unvexed by longing: 'Twas joy enough for him that he might serve.
45
Ship's THE SHIP'S COOK, A CAPTIVE, Cook SINGS:
Many weary weeks divide me From my folk, — unlucky sinner! — Worse, howe'er my foes deride me. Still I needs must cook their dinner.
Lovely purple-gleaming fishes, Brought me living from the water. Stare with failing eyes reproachful; Gentle beasts, too, I must slaughter.
Gentle beasts, too, I must slaughter. Fruit must peel or cut in slices, And for those who hate and scorn me Must compound the fiery spices.
While I work beneath the lantern, Mid the sweet, sharp odors reeling, Thoughts of freedom rouse within me Mighty throbs of savage feeling!
Many weary weeks divide me From my folk, — unlucky sinner! — Worse, how^e'er my foes deride me. Still I needs must cook their dinner.
46
AN OLD MAN'S LONGING FOR Longing
SUMMER. for Summer
If 'twere July at last instead of March,
Nothing would stop my going for a trip ; On horse-back, in a carriage or by rail I'd get me to a fair and hilly strip
Of country. There'd be groves of mighty trees, — Of elms and maples, sycamores and oaks: How long since I have looked on such as these !
There I'd dismount, or bid with sharp command The driver: "Stop," and wander aimless on Into the very heart of summer-land.
I'd rest beneath such trees as in their dome Have day and night together; not that each Should so be blurred and spoiled as here at home, —
Where day is oft as desolate as night, And night as lurid-lowering as the day, — For all would there be Glory, Life and Light.
From shadow into sunset, color-fraught,
I'd walk enraptured, and the breeze that came
Would never whisper: "All of this is naught."
It darkens; from the houses in the dell
The lights gleam, and the darkness weighs me down,
Yet not of dying doth the night-wind tell.
47
Longing I stroll across the churchyard and I see
for Summer The flowers waving in the dim last light, No other Presence there oppresses me.
Beneath the dusky hazel-branches near A brooklet flows, and like a child, I hark. But no such words as: "This is vain" I hear.
Then hastily undressing, in I spring. — I lift my head, and lo! the moon has come While in the current I was buffeting.
Emerging half from out the ice-cold stream, I choose a pebble, throw it landward far. And stand there in the moonlight's pallid beam.
Across the moon-bathed summer-land doth fall My shadow; is it this that noddeth here So sad behind the pillow on the wall?
— So sad and dreary, he that in the dim
First light of dawn stands crouching, while he knows
That Something lies in wait for me and him ? —
— He whom the rough wind never leaves at rest This March, nor lets him once lie down at night In peace, his black hands folded on his breast ?
Ah, where's July and where the summer-land?
48
LINES TO A LITTLE CHILD. To a Little
i^h '1/1
Thy pink little feet have been fashioned
To seek for the Kingdom of Sunshine:
The doors of that kingdom are open.
The air these thousands of years
On the silent tree-tops is hanging,
The inexhaustible ocean
Forever and ever abides.
By the rim of the ancient forest
Wilt thou from thy wooden bowl give
The frog to drink of thy milk?
A merry meal that ! yea, almost
The stars will fall into the bowl.
By the rim of the ancient ocean
Thou soon wilt find thee a playmate,
The dolphin, friendly and good.
He'll spring on dry land at thy coming
And, if he be often away.
The ancient winds will attend thee
To quiet the rising tears.
And still in the Kingdom of Sunshine
The golden heroic old days
Forever and ever abide.
'Twas the sun with his secret might —
He fashioned thy little pink feet
To enter his timeless dominions.
49
Emperor THE EMPEROR OF CHINA SPEAKS:
of China , , . . . i, , •
In the very midst or all things
Here dwell I, the Son of Heaven.
And my wives, my waving forests,
All my beasts and pools unnumbered —
These the inmost wall encloseth.
Underneath, my ancestors
Lie entombed with their weapons.
With their crowns upon their foreheads,
All and each as well beseemeth, —
So they dwell there in the vaults.
Far into the world below me
Rings the echo of my footstep.
Silent from the banks of greensward —
Verdant pillows for my feet —
Glide the well-apportioned rivers
Eastward, westward, south- and northward,
To refresh the thirsty garden —
Water my wide realm, the Earth.
First my beasts' dark eyes they mirror.
And reflect the birds' bright pinions;
Then outside^ the painted cities.
Gloomy walls and tangled forests,
Faces too of many peoples.
These my nobles, dwelling round me
Like the stars, — they all are known by
Names which I myself have given.
Names according to the hour
When each one drew near to me;
50
And their wives I also gave them, Emperor
So that for their troops of children, — of China
All the noblest of the earth, —
I created form and feature,
As a gardener for his flowers.
But between the walls beyond them
Peoples dwell that are my soldiers.
Peoples too that are my farmers.
Then new walls, and after these
Yon subdued and vassal peoples.
Other folk of blood more sluggish
To the ocean, the last rampart
That surrounds my realm and me.
51
Grandmother GRANDMOTHER AND GRANDSON. and
Grandson
"Far thy mind, thy feet alone Enter at my door." Say, how know'st thou that so soon ? "Child, I guess at more."
What? "How sweetly she just now Shocked thy sweet repose." — Strange! how like herself wert thou, Nodding, half a-doze.
"Once." . . . Nay, her I now, in truth, See in happy trance. "Child, thou breathest now my youth Back with word and glance.
"Maidenhood with glowing tide Wells in me anew. Till my spirit opens wide." Yes, I feel it, too.
I'm by thee, and yet away On some distant star: In a waking trance I sway Now from near to far.
"When unto thy grandfather All my life I gave, Thoughts did not so wildly whir As beside my grave."
52
Grave! why speakest thou of that? Grandmother
Far the grave from thee! and
With thy grandson dost thou chat, Grandson Sitting peacefully.
Clear thine eyes and full of light, Fresh thy cheek's red hue. "Saw'st thou not where, black as night, Something past us flew?"
Something 'tis that like a dream Holds my loving breast. Strangely too this room doth seem Sultry and oppressed.
"Feel'st thou ? — Yea, 'tis bright above, Slower throbs my heart. — When thou kissest thy true love, From the world apart, —
"Feel it still, and think the while. But without dismay : With a young, young maiden's smile Dying here I lay."
53
Society SOCIETY.
Singer
Listeners, if ye be but young, Mighty is the power of song; It can make you sad or gay. Swift it bears the soul away.
Stranger
Peoples live both far and near ; What I show, ye gladly hear — Not the heart of many lands. But, as 'twere, the play of hands.
Young Man
Much that wakens joy in me
Through the fluttering scene is weaved,
But so phantom-shadowy:
Happy — I'm as one deceived.
Poet
What a soft reflected tone
Glimmers here from guest to guest —
Each one, feeling as alone.
Feels his being in the rest.
Painter
As between the candles bright So between the faces white See the fluttering laughter play !
54
Stranger Society
Song can make one sad or gay.
Poet
Great the power of song must be —
Peoples live both far and near.
Young Man
What they say I gladly hear,
Though 'tis phantom-shadowy.
55
OF-.MOU%J^J^g
PROLOGUE TO THE BOOK ''Anator
"ANATOL."
Trellised gateways, box-wood hedges,
Coats of arms with gilding faded,
Sphinxes glimmering through the thicket . . .
Now the grinding doors are opened. — With cascades that no more trickle, Tritons weary of their spouting, All rococo, dusty, charming, — 'Tis Vienna in the time of Canaletto, Seventeen-and-Sixty. . . .
Green and brown the quiet pools are, Set in smooth white rims of marble. And within these nixie-mirrors Play the fishes, gold and silver. . . . On the turf so smoothly shaven Lie the slender, even shadows Of the graceful oleanders; Branches arch to form a dome here. Branches bending form a niche there For the stiffly-carven couples. Loving heroines and heroes. . . . Triple dolphins pour their murmuring Floods into a conch-shell basin . . . Scent-exhaling chestnut blossoms Whir and glimmer, downward gliding. And are drowned within the basin. . . .
From behind a box-wood rampart Fiddles, clarinets are sounding . . .
59
^^Anatol^^ And the notes appear to gush from Yonder graceful cupid-figures As they sit there on the terrace, Fiddling, twining flower-garlands. They themselves enwreathed in flowers Which out-stream from marble vases: Wall-flowers, jessamine and lilacs . . .
On the terrace too between them Sit the fine coquettish ladies. And the purple Monsignori . . . In the grass, on silken cushions At their feet, and on the stairway Sit the gallants and abbati . . . Others of them lift more ladies From the depths of perfumed litters. . . .
Lights are breaking through the branches, Flickering on the golden tresses. Shining on the gay-hued cushions, Gliding over grass and pebbles, Gliding o'er the scaffold structure We in haste have thrown together. Vines that clamber upward on it Cover all the fresh-hewn timber, And between them, rich in color. Flutter tapestries and carpets, Shepherd-scenes right boldly woven From Watteau's delicious patterns . . . With an arbor for our stage then, Summer sun instead of foot-lights, We are playing here at acting, 60
Playing plays ourselves have written, **AnatoV^
Immature and sad and tender,
Comedies of our soul's passion,
Ebb and flood of our emotions,
Ugly facts in pretty symbols,
Well-turned phrases, glowing pictures,
Hidden feeling half suggested.
Episodes of tragic meaning . . .
Some, not all, are listening to them.
Some are eating ices . . . many
Too are whispering choice gallantries . . .
In the tepid breeze are cradled Whitely exquisite carnations, Like white moths that swarm and flutter, And a lap-dog of Bologna Barks astonished at a peacock.
61
Similar FOR A SIMILAR BOOK.
Book A J ,1 T-L • •
Attend, attend ! 1 he present time is strange, And strange the children of the time: Ourselves. He that's too much enamored of the sweet Endures us not, for bitter is our way, And odd the entertainment we afford. "Set up a little stage here in the room. The daughter of the house would give a play!" Think you she'll trip out as a little Muse With loose locks and bare arms, in which will rest A not-too-heavy tinsel-gilded lyre? Or as a shepherdess, with a white lamb On a blue silken cord, about her lips A smile as sweet-insipid as the rhymes In pastoral plays? Then up! and get you gone! Depart, I beg you, if you look for such ! You'll not endure us ; we are otherwise. For we have made a play from out the life We live, and mingled with our comedy Our truth keeps ever gliding in and out As with a cunning juggler's hollow cups — The more you look at them, the more deceived! We cut off little shreds of our own selves To dress the puppets. How the inner meanings — (On which, it may be, smiles and tears are hung Like dew-drops on a bush with shaggy leaves) Must shudder, when they recognize themselves Enwoven through this play of ours, half painted, And half still like themselves, but so estranged 62
From the great guilelessness that once they had ! Similar Was ever play so tangled, so confusing? Book
It steals us from ourselves and is not lovely As dancing is or singing on the water, Yet 'tis the richest in seductive art Of all the dramas that we children know, We children of this most unusual time.
Why are you waiting? That's the way we are.
But if you'd really hear what things ensue,
Well, stay. We shall not be disturbed at you.
63
Mttterwurzer IN MEMORY OF THE ACTOR, MITTERWURZER.
He went out like a candle all at once. We wore a pallor on our faces like The hue reflected from a lightning-flash.
He fell ; and with him all the puppets fell, Into whose veins this man had poured the blood Of his own being; silently they died, And where he lay, a heap of corpses lay, Strewn in disorder: here a toper's knee Pressing a king's eye, yonder Don Philippe With Caliban as nightmare on his neck. Dead every one.
At last we knew him who was lost to us: The conjurer, the mighty, mighty juggler! And from our houses then we sallied forth And all began to speak of who he was. Ah, but who was he, and who was he not ?
From one mask he would creep into another.
Spring from the father's body to the son's,
And, like to garments, change the forms he wore.
With swords, which he could swing about so fast
That no one saw the glitter of their blades.
He cut himself in pieces: This one was
Perhaps lago, and the other half
Would take the part of some sweet fool or dreamer.
For his whole body was a magic veil,
64
Within the folds of which were dwelling all things: Mitterwitrzer
He could fetch beasts from out that self of his:
A lion, a sheep, a devil of stupidness.
And one of horror, this and yonder man,
And you and me. A sort of inward fate
Set his whole body glowing through and through,
Like coals it glowed, and he dwelt in the midst
And looked on us, who only live in houses,
With the impenetrable alien look
Of the salamander, he that lives in fire.
He was a savage king. About his hips ^
He carried like a string of colored shells
The truth and lies of all us other folk.
In those deep eyes of his were glassed our dreams,
That flew across, as flocks of shy wild birds
Are imaged in the mirror of a lake.
Here he would come, even to this very spot
Where I now stand, and as in Triton's horn
The clamor of the ocean is contained,
So were in him the voices of all life :
He became tall. The whole wood now he was,
He was the country that the roads ran through.
With eyes like children's we would sit and gaze
In wonder up at him, as from the slope
Of a gigantic mountain ; in his mouth
There was a gulf, wherein the ocean surged.
For there was in him something that would open Many a door and fly through many a room :
65
NlitterwUTzer The force of Life was in him, this it was.
And over him the force of Death prevailed ! For Death blew out the eyes whose inmost core Was covered with mysterious hieroglyphs, It strangled in the throat a thousand voices, And killed the body which through every limb Was laden down with life as yet unborn.
'Twas here he stood. When will his like stand
here ? — A spirit peopling all the labyrinth Of the human breast with forms it comprehends, And opening it anew to fearsome joys. Those which he gave we can no longer keep, We hear his name and stare with vague affright Down the abyss that swallowed them from sight.
66
ON THE DEATH OF THE ACTOR, Miiller
HERMANN MULLER.
This house and we are servants to an art
Which turns each grief to some refreshing draught,
And gives even Death a relish.
And he whom we would call before our souls.
He was so strong! his body so endowed
With power of change that, as it seemed, no net
Was able to contain him! What a being!
He made himself transparent, let the whites
Of his eye betray the utmost secrecies
That slumbered there within him, and he breathed
The spirits of imaginary creatures
Into himself like smoke and sent them through
His pores again into the light of day.
He would transform himself, and out would well
Strange beings, hardly human, but so living —
The eye said yes to them, although before
It ne'er had seen the like : one little twinkle.
One fetch of the breath would prove that such
things were, And still might steam from out our mother earth. And men! Ah, close your eye-lids and think back! Now splendid bodies, where one last least spark Of soul gleams but in the corner of an eye, Now souls that build as body round themselves. Only to serve them, a transparent shrine: Commonplace men, and gloomy men, and kings,
67
Muller Men that could make you laugh, could make you shudder — He would transform himself, and there they stood.
But when the play was quenched and when the
curtain Silently like a painted eye-lid fell Across the cavern of dead wizardry. And he himself went forth, a stage was then Opened before him in such wise it seemed A staring, ever sleepless eye, a stage On which no pitying curtain ever sinks : The terror-striking stage, Reality. There all his arts of transformation fell Away from him, and his poor spirit went Unveiled and could but see through childish eyes. There he, unknowing how it came about. Was caught in an inexorable play; Each step entangled worse than that before. And each inanimate thing was cruel toward him : The countenance of night conspired as well. The wind conspired, the gentle wind of spring, And all against him ! Not for common souls, For delicate souls it is that darkling Fate Sets nooses of this sort. Then came a day: He raised himself, and his tormented eye Was flooded with foreboding and with dream. And with firm grasp, like to a heavy cloak He threw life off from him and did not heed 68
More than the dust upon his mantle's hem Miiller
The forms that now were crumbled into naught.
Think only thus of him. Let reverent music Call him before you, dimly guess his fate, And let me cease, for I have reached the bounds Where awe shatters the word within my mouth.
69
Bocklin FOR A COMMEMORATION ON THE DEATH OF ARNOLD BOCKLIN.
[Durinff the last bars of the music the speaker of the prologue advances, his torch-bearers following. The speaker is a youth dressed in the Venetian style, all in black, as a mourner.^
Music, be silent! Now the scene is mine,
And now will I lament, as well I should !
In these my years the sap of youth runs strong
Within, and he whose statue looks on me
Was to my spirit a beloved friend.
And of such favor was I sore in need,
For gloom oppresses much in these my years;
And as the swan, a happy swimming creature,
Kisses its nourishment from out the white
And dripping hands of naiads, even so
I bent me in dark hours above his hands
To take the food my soul would have: deep dream.
Shall I adorn thy statue but with flowers?
Thou did'st adorn the image of the world
For me, and did'st enhance with such a glow
The loveliness of every blossoming spray,
I threw myself all drunken on the earth,
I cried exultant, feeling how for me
Shining-limbed Nature let her robe sink down!
Harken to me, my friend ! I will not bid
Heralds go out and trumpet forth thy name
To the four winds, as though a king were dead :
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A king leaves to his heir his royal crown, Bocklin
And to a tomb the echo of his name,
But thou wert a magician of such might
That, though thy visible self is gone, there lurks
An oh I know not what of thee here and there, —
Which, dark of eye, with strange still-living power
Lifts itself to the bank from out the flood
Of night — or stretches out a hairy ear
Listening behind the ivy.
So I'll not Believe that I am anywhere alone, Where there are trees or flowers, where even are But silence-keeping rocks and tiny clouds Beneath the heavens: how easily a Something, A more transparent shape than Ariel was. Might flit away behind me! For I know That there was knit a secret bond 'twixt thee And many a creature, yea, the field in spring — Behold ! it laughed on thee as might a woman On him to whom by night she gave herself.
I purposed to lament you, and my mouth Swells with a flood of glad and drunken speech : Thus it befits I stand no longer here. I'll strike my thyrsus on the ground three times And fill this tent-like space with forms of dream. These will I so o'erburden with the weight Of sadness, they shall stagger as they go, At which whoever sees must weep and feel With how great sorrow is enmingled all
71
B'dckUn That we may do.
Let now a play reveal The mirror of yon dark and anxious hour, And do ye learn from shadowy lips what prize Is the great master's melancholy dower!
72
'D%zA<J^<^nC II^TJ^
IDYLL Idyll
AFTER AN OLD VASE PAINTING : A CENTAUR ON THE BANK OF A RIVER CARRYING A WOUNDED WOMAN.
[The scene is in the style of a painting by Bocklin. An open village smithy. Behind the house in the background, a stream. The smith is at his work, his wife leans idly in the doorway which leads from the smithy into the house. On the floor a little fair- haired child is playing with a tame crab. In a niche is a skin of wine, some fresh figs, and slices of melon.~\
THE SMITH
Where do your musing thoughts betake themselves,
While silently, with hostile air almost
And lightly twitching lips, you watch my toil ?
THE WOMAN
I often sat in a garden, blossom-white,
Turning my gaze upon my father's work,
The comely potter's craft, as on the disk.
That, humming, whirled, a noble form would rise
In quiet growth like to a tender flower.
With the cool glint of ivory. Then to this
He set a handle with acanthus leaves.
An olive- or acanthus-garland too,
Dark-red, went round to ornament the rim.
The body he enlivened with a row
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Idyll O' the Hours, the Hovering Life-outpouring Ones. He wrought the wondrous form of Phaedra, faint With longing, stretched upon her royal couch; And Eros fluttering above her there, Eros that filled her limbs with sweetest pain. He loved to decorate a mighty jug With bacchic revelry, where purple must Would spurt beneath the maenad's naked foot, And all the air was filled with tossing hair And waving of the thyrsus, held aloft. On mortuary urns Persephone Was pictured, with her reddened soulless eyes. And poppies, flowers of forgetfulness, Twined in her sacred tresses, while she trod The life-oblivious fields of asphodel. I'd never end, were I to tell of all The godlike beings, in whose lovely life, — Living a second time what there I saw, — In all their fear and hatred and desire And strange adventures of whatever sort — I also had my share, though but a child. The breath of their emotions, half divined. Touched on the deepest harp-strings of my soul, So that at times methought that I in sleep Had wandered through the dark-hid mysteries Of Joy and Grief with open, conscious eye. Hence, though I'm now returned to sunlight, still My thoughts are mindful of that other life. Making of me a stranger, one shut out Here in the world of healthful living air. 76
THE SMITH Idyll
Overmuch idleness confused, methinks, The sense of being in the fanciful And dream-delighted child. There lacked besides The high respect which wisely separates Things fit for gods alone from those which gods Allow to mortals. This did Semele, Her mad wish granted, feel as she expired. Learn to revere your husband's handicraft, — Born of the entrails of all-mothering Earth — Which, having first subdued the hundred-armed Unfettered flame, does deft and mighty work.
THE WOMAN
To watch the flame, that lure is ever new, — The changeful, with its hot bewildering breath.
THE SMITH
Rather rejoice to gaze upon the work!
The weapons, look ! the sacred plough's hard blade,
This axe that shapes the tree trunks for our house.
So does the smith make that which makes all else.
Where pungent upturned furrows drink the seeds
And yellow wheat against the sickle flows,
Where through still branches toward the startled
deer The arrow whirs and strikes into its neck. Where the hard horse-hoofs, thudding, spurn the
dust
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Idyll And rapid wheels roll between town and town, And where with ringing blade the strife of men Reveals the manhood that should live in song: Thus I work on and hold the world thus bound With tokens of my work, because 'tis good. [Pause.]
THE WOMAN
I see a centaur coming, young he is,
A beauteous god, methinks, though half a beast;
He leaves the wood and trots along the bank.
THE CENTAUR
[He has in his hand a spear, which he holds out
toward the smith.] May my dull weapon here find remedy And a new point to suit its weight? Reply!
THE SMITH
I've seen your like before, but never you.
THE CENTAUR
For the first time now has my course been lured Into your village by the need you know of.
THE SMITH
'Twill soon be satisfied. Do you, meanwhile, If you would win this woman's gratitude, 78
Tell of the wonders you'll have seen, whereof Idyll
No tidings come here, if no wanderer comes.
THE WOMAN
I'll bring you first the wine-skin : it is filled With cool sharp cider ; nothing else have we. [She has poured the wine from the skin into an earthen drinking-cup, which he slowly empties.^ Next time you'll drink — right far from here per- chance— A warmer liquor from a better cup Filled by a woman fairer than am I.
THE CENTAUR
I went not on the common streets, I shunned The thronging bustle of the landing-place, Where one may glean gay news from sailor-folk. The barren heath I chose as path by day, Rousing flamingoes only or black bulls; And stamped the heather Into scent by night, Roaming beneath the hyacinthlne dusk. Once as I wandered by a sacred grove, Suddenly in some whim of wilful joy. Out of a troop of naiads one came forth And joined me for a space, whom then I lost Again to a young satyr by the road Blowing his syrlnx-plpes enticingly.
THE WOMAN
Unspeakably sweet this freedom seems to me.
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Idyll THE SMITH
The wood-born creatures know not shame or faith, Which learn to long for and to guard the house.
THE WOMAN
Say, did you chance to hear the flute of Pan?
THE CENTAUR
In a deep valley it was granted me.
Borne from the cliff's edge on the sultry wind
Of evening, eerie notes came floating down,
Deeply disturbing as the stress combined
Of all deep things that tremble through the soul ;
It was as if my self was whirled away
Through myriad-shifting moods of drunkenness.
THE SMITH
Forbidden things leave rather undescribed !
THE WOMAN
Nay, let him ! — What more sweetly stirs the soul ?
THE SMITH
'Tis life matures the pulsing of the heart, As ripened fruit will gladly leave the tw'ig. And to no other shuddering are we born Than fate breathes o'er the surface of our life. 80
THE CENTAUR Idyll
Would you know nothing of the wondrous art
Which the gods use, O man beneath your race,
Of mounting in the storm to other times;
As dolphin splashing in the primal wet,
Or circling through the air with eagle-joy?
Friend, you know little of the world, methinks.
THE SMITH
I know the whole, who know my proper sphere, I shun the measureless, desiring not To cup the fleeting wave with hollow hand. Know first the brook that rocked your cradle ; know Yon tree, with fruit the sun makes ripe for you, Wlience tepid perfume-laden shadows pour; The cool green grass, — you trod it as a child. Your sire walked there, with gently chilling blood ; Your sweetheart too, beneath whose step welled up The scented violets, nestling at her feet. Know too the house where you shall live and die ; Then reverently know yourself, your work. In this there will be more than you can grasp. — I'll not detain the wanderer, except For a last polishing. The file's not here ; I'll find it, so that all may be complete. \^He goes into the house.^
THE WOMAN
Your way will never lead you here again ; And, trampling through the hyacinthine night,
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Idyll Enraptured, you will soon, I fear, forget Me, who, I fear, will not forget so soon.
THE CENTAUR
You're wrong. I were accurst in leaving you.
As though behind me rumbling gates should close
Upon the perfumed garden of all love.
But 'tis my meaning you should come with me ;
I'd take along such rapture as today's, —
Joy that Queen Aphrodite ne'er poured out,
Who quickens all the ocean and the plain.
THE WOMAN
How could I leave my husband, house and child?
THE CENTAUR
How should you grieve for what you'll soon forget?
THE WOMAN
He's coming back ; the dream is soon dissolved !
THE CENTAUR
Never, while joy and way are still to choose. Twine your firm fingers in my mane and cling, Resting upon my back, to neck and arms!
[She swings herself up on his back, and he dashes down to the river with shrill cries, the child becomes frightened and breaks into pitiful weeping. The 82
smith steps out of the house. Just then the centaur Idyll plunges into the rushing waters of the stream. His bronze breast and the figure of the woman stand out sharply against the surface which is gilded by the sunset. The smith sees them; with the spear of the centaur in his hand he runs down to the bank and, bending far forward, casts the spear. It strikes and remains for a moment fixed with quivering shaft in the back of the woman, till with a piercing cry she looses the mane of the centaur and with arms out- spread falls backward into the water. The centaur catches her, dying, in his arms and, lifting her on high, bears her down the river while he swims toward the opposite bank.]
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This volu:::r: preserved with funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities, 1990.