Bilder Aus Dem Geistigen Leben Unserer Zeit/Heine's Leben Und Werke/Letzte Gedichte Und Gedanken...

[Pictures of the Intellectual Life of our Time.] Von JULIAN SCHMIDT. Leipzig. [Heine’s Life and Works.] Von ADOLF STRODTMANN. 2 Bände. Berlin.

von HEINRICH HEINE. [Last Poems and Thoughts OF HEINRICH HEINE.] Hamburg. [Guide to the History of German Literature.] Von HEINRICH Kurz. Leipzig.¹

THESE volumes are not the very latest German publications, but they are books of lasting interest and especially recommend themselves to American readers. Heine has always been a favorite with English-speaking people, and it is well known that the first complete collection of his works was published in Philadelphia. One of the volumes mentioned below gives us more of his fascinating poetry and keen wit, while his biography enables us to form a more accurate opinion about his claims to our admiration. Whatever opinion we may form about the man, no one will deny the perfection of his genius.

Schmidt is, we fear, only too little known in this country ; and if any are tempted to consult his larger works by the reading of these essays, we feel confident that they will be repaid.

Those who are already familiar with him will gladly welcome this new volume from his pen, and those to whom he is still a stranger cannot help being attracted by the tempting list of the subjects of these essays.

The works by which he has established his reputation as a critic are his two histories of German literature from 1689 to Lessing’s death and from that time to the present, and his history of French literature since 1789. These works are thorough and valuable. Although at times we find in him a certain lack of sympathy for æsthetic beauty, we cannot help respecting the cool intelligence, which, if it renders him less enthusiastic for poetic merit, yet, perhaps, makes his judgment of other literary qualities only the more accurate. In his treatment of them, he shows no lack of industry, sympathy, and cool sense. The last is perhaps his chief characteristic. He keeps his head most admirably. His style too is lively and often witty.

In this volume he has collected various essays which have appeared during the last few years in different German publications. As readers of English, we are tempted by articles on Scott, Bulwer, and George Eliot. For those who are familiar with Tourguénieff and Erckmann-Chatrian there are essays on these authors, one on Sainte-Beuve, others which supplement Schimdt’s history of German literature, and a few on the present condition of European literature, which have almost as much interest for all of us as would a bit of our own biography.

Scott receives generous praise for his novels, which it is pleasant to see at a time when this great author’s fame seems to be waning in the presence of so many and able successors, and full credit for the enormous influence which he has exercised upon ihern and upon the writers of history.

The essay upon Bulwer is well worth reading. He is an author at whom it is becoming rather the fashion to sneer. In fact, Schmidt almost apologizes for the space he devotes to him, but adds: “This contempt is as unmerited as the former boundless admiration. It is true his power is far inferior to that of Scott and Dickens, and of all the different problems which he has brought forward, there is not one which he has satisfactorily solved, but, historically considered, he plavs an important part He had genuine and original thoughts, and although he was exposed to the danger of overestimating his own feelings and productions, he has yet plenty of real material.” Again : “ In his moral problems he has often failed, but it is to his praise that he has attempted them. At least he always tries to lead us into a great, rich, strong life, to busy our fancy with the highest questions of humanity.” In short, he was an idealist, and he cared for questions which other English novelists, Dickens and Thackeray for example, ignore. The author’s remarks on George Eliot will probably be more generally agreed to: “I know no living writer who can compare with her in regard to the power of penetrating into and seizing the moral kernel of life.” Although her types are few, she is distinguished from Thackeray and Dickens by the accuracy of her delineations, as well as by the depth and truth of her psychological studies. Dickens does not trouble himself about what he does not get by inspiration, and Thackeray, although the number of his characters is greater, does not see beneath the surface, which, it is true, he paints correctly, but he penetrates no deeper. George Eliot, on the other hand, goes to the very depths of the human heart; “ for her, life is no carnival, but a bitter, deep, and holy earnestness; she moves in no realm of Shadows, but among living people with an immortal soul.” Again: “Dickens has either a passionate fondness or aversion for his characters ; if there is one he does not like he boxes his ears as soon as he appears,” and he is equally unreasonable with his favorites, “ Thackeray does the same to those he does not like ; he more rarely reaches full sympathy.” George Eliot is decidedly different, “ she does not love this one or that one according lo her fancy, but she loves life as such, for she believes in life ; . . . . she regards the sinner, not as a self-satisfied judge, but with the warm sympathy of her own consciousness of wrong.” The problem which almost all of her novels treat is, “ What is sin ? How does it come to man ? And how may it be atoned for?” After this introduction there follow full analyses of her various stories, a method which Schmidt applies to all the novelists of whom he writes. The essay on Tourguenieff is extremely good, while Erckmann-Chatrian are hardly treated so satisfactorily.

The first essays of the volume, those upon the present state of European literature, contain an investigation of the realism of to-day, and a comparison between the time from about the beginning of the century to the year 1848, and the twenty years since ; for that is the date which Schmidt regards as sharply dividing the practical present from the idealism of the past. Although he was born in 1818, and consequently was only thirty years old in 1848, he feels that he belongs to the previous generation, and he contrasts its enthusiastic belief in the future with the cooler and more critical spirit of to-day. He is too experienced a judge to condemn this, solely because it is new. “The men of the present are thoroughly in earnest, their sceptical investigations are simply to ferret out the truth, it is impossible for them to mistake windmills for giants. Scepticism and pessimism are for them only steps of transition ; their method is different from ours, but in their aims and effort they are of our flesh and blood.” He hopes for the best from the future of Germany, from the realization of the dream of so many of its thinkers, and although we belong to the generation of sceptics and pessimists, it is a hope in which we gladly join.

In this change in the modern spirit the influence of Heine was certainly considerable, and can be well studied in these volumes, though we imagine that hardly any reader will go through them faithfully. Fervent youth who dote upon Heine’s songs will not have the patience, nor will older persons have the time. To say that the book is complete, when it consists of one thousand pages, is but faint praise ; but it is more than complete, it has supplements on every possible subject. For instance, it is well known that Heine studied at Göttingen ; the author gives us a history of the University at some length, and so with the other events of his life. There is a long history of the German literature, an account of St. Simonism, of the politics of Europe, etc., all of which is valuable and generally interesting, but likely to chill the heart of the impatient American reader.

Not unnaturally the book gives us many interesting particulars about Heine himself. The veil of mystery is taken from the fair one who jilted him ; it was his cousin Amalie Heine, a daughter of his rich uncle Solomon Heine, and not a purely imaginary person, as has always seemed very possible. We have full accounts of his youth, of his friends, his political career, his marriage, and his last sad illness. On the whole, the book leaves a disagreeable impression of Heine upon us. In spite of his exquisite grace as a poet and his unparalleled wit, the man behind it all is very petty. His vanity gave him no rest. His whole life, his treatment of his friends, his lack of seriousness (a far different thing from the presence of wit), make him a disappointing character. His apologists acknowledge most of his personal faults, but seek to outweigh them by what seems to us undue praise for what he did in the cause of liberty. But in fact he fought rather with the boldness of an adventurer than with the faith of an earnest soldier. After he had devoted himself to the struggle for liberty, we find him seeking a place under the Prussian government. He wrote to Varnhagen : “ Here I am becoming very serious, almost German ; I think it must be the beer, I have often a longing for the capital, that is, for Berlin. When I. am well again I shall try whether I can live there. In Bavaria I have become a Prussian. With whom do you advise me to enter into communication in order to secure a successful return?” In fact it was for the same purpose that he had some years before embraced Christianity. About his conversion he wrote : “I am now becoming a genuine Christian ; I am sponging on the rich Jews.” When his plan failed he tried hard to get a professorship at tire Munich University. To praise more than the skill of such an ally seems to us to be degrading the cause. A great deal he undoubtedly did ; no one’s wit was keener, no one’s style was more fascinating, but the promise of a moderate salary would have turned him against the ranks of those with whom he fought. Whether his vagabondism would have let him stay on the side of conservatism is doubtful, but that is not to his praise. In fact he was only a brilliant man, and it is for his brilliancy alone that lie deserves our praise. Freedom is too holy a thing to need such defenders as he.

The book abounds with specimens of his wit ; for instance, one evening the conversation happened to turn to the thick and muddy appearance of the Seine after it had passed through Paris. Baron Rothschild said that he had visited the river near its source, and that the water there was as clear as crystal. “ Your father,”interrupted Heine, “ is said to have been a very honest man.”Speaking of his illness he said : “ The doctors may try to reassure me, but I have nothing to expect save a wretched, lingering sickness, probably full of changes. There is some consolation in that. When one wakes up a morning stonedeaf, he forgets for a time that he had become blind only a few days before. And what is the object of it all? There is none. I am not to be improved. I have always respected Jehovah, he need not make a martyr of me. Still this bitter suffering may be an advertisement of the collected edition of my works for the benefit of my publisher and my wife.”

The absence of an index to these two volumes is a bit of cruelty to the reader almost amounting to a crime.

It is to the author of this life that we are indebted for another volume of Heine’s works. The title is not a perfectly accurate one, for the poems were written at various years of his life, only a few during his last illness, and most of the thoughts are from notes made before that time. The poems are of the various kinds which appear in his other volumes,— sentimental, satirical, cynical, and scurrilous. The longest is one called “ Bimini,”which describes Don Juan Ponce de Leon’s search for the fountain of youth. We will translate into prose a few of the verses. Those who know the melody of Heine’s poetry can best appreciate the baldness of this version. “ Lonely on the shore of Cuba stands a man, gazing at his image reflected in the water. This man is old, but his bearing Spanish-like and stiff, his strange dress half a sailor’s, half a soldier’s. . . . . As if entreating he stretches out his hands, shakes his head, and sighing, says to himself: ‘Is this Juan Ponce de Leon, who, as page, carried the haughty train of the alcade’s daughter ? ’ That lad was slim and merry, and the golden locks played about his careless, rosy head. All the ladies of Seville knew the sound of his horse’s hoofs, and flew to the window when he rode through the street. Is that Juan Ponce de Leon, the terror of the Moors, who cut off the heads of the Turks, as if they were thistletops? .... With years came seriousness and ambition, and I followed Columbus on his second voyage. Never shall I forget the mildness of his looks. Silently he suffered, and only told his woes by night to the stars and waves. When the admiral returned to Spain I entered Ojeda’s service, and shipped with him for adventure. Don Ojeda was a knight from top to toe, no better was there at King Arthur’s Round Table. Fighting was has soul’s pleasure. Laughing merrily he fought the savages, who in countless bands surrounded him. . . . . Later I became companion-in-arms of Bilbao, this hero, as bold as Ojeda, but shrewder in his plans. . . . . To him Spain owes a hundred kingdoms, greater than Europe, richer than Venice and Flanders. For reward for the hundred kingdoms greater than Europe, and richer than Venice and Flanders they gave him a hempen necklace, a rope, and like a criminal he was hanged in the market-place at San Sebastian. . . . . I have now acquired what all eagerly covet, royal favor, glory, and honors, and the Calatrava order. I am governor, own a hundred thousand pesos, gold in bars, jewels, sacks of the richest pearls. Alas ! at the sight of these pearls I become sad, for I think it were better that I had teeth as in my youth. .... Ah ! happier than we are the trees, for the winter-wind robs them all of their leaves at the same time, but we men live each his years; while it is winter with one it is spring with another. And the old man feels with double pang his weakness, at the sight of youth’s wanton strength. Shake from my limbs, O blessed Virgin, this wintry age, which whitens my head with snow, and freezes my blood ; tell the sun to breathe the glow into my veins, and the spring to awaken the nightingale within my breast. ” The poem, as this extract will show, is like many of the Romanzero. “ Zur Teleologie ” is the title of a characteristic fragment of another style of Heine : “ God gave us two eyes that we might see clearly, to believe what we read one eye would have been enough. God gave us two, that we might look about and see how fair he has made the world, to the delight of men’s eyes. Still while staring in the street we ought to use our eyes and not let people tread on our corns, which bother us so much when we wear tight boots. God gave us only one nose, because we could not have put two in a glass, and should have had to lap up our wine. God gave us only one mouth, because two mouths would have been too many. With one mouth man talks already too much nonsense, and if he had two he would only guzzle and lie still more. If his mouth is full now, he must hold his peace, but if he had two he would lie while eating,” etc., etc. The last poems, “Zum ‘ Lazarus ’ ” are sad and bitter.

The thoughts are witty like everything be said. He thought in witticisms. For example, in regard to immortality he says : “God has manifested nothing which proves an existence after death, nor does Moses speak of it. Perhaps God is not pleased that the pious count so surely upon it. In his fatherly kindness he is perhaps keeping it as a surprise for us.” Following this we find : “ Among no people has the belief in immortality been stronger than among the Celts; one could borrow money from them to return it in another world. Pious Christian usurers should mould their lives after this model.”

The volume contains Heine’s letters to his wife written during his visits to Germany in the years 1843 and 1844, which are more amiable than what he prepared for publication, and a few fragmentary additions to his already published writings.

Let us briefly call attention to an excellent book, the “ Leitfaden zur Geschichte der Deutscken Literatur by Heinrich Kurz.”

The student of German literature will find it a most useful manual. In a compact and well-arranged form we have a synoptical history of German literature from the earliest times. The older authors are treated with greater fulness, but about the later we get just that information for which we might otherwise have to hunt for half a day. He gives us the principal dates in each author’s life, a list of his works with the date and place of publication, and a word of intelligent criticism. The author also gives us a list of his various authorities. In regard to the arrangement nothing could be desired. The book is well printed, and the mere fact that it is a German book, with a full index, is alone almost merit enough to demand that it be mentioned, so many are almost useless from omission of an index'.