Regarded as a psychological process, Lenau's Weltschmerz therefore stands midway between that of Hoelderlin and Heine. It is more self-centred than Hoelderlin's and while the poet is able to diagnose the disease which holds him firmly in its grasp, he lacks those means by which he might free himself from it. Heine goes still further, for having become conscious of his melancholy, he mercilessly applies the lash of self-irony, and in it finds the antidote for his Weltschmerz.

Fichte, says Erich Schmidt, calls egoism the spirit of the eighteenth century, by which he means the revelling, the complete absorption, in the personal. This will naturally find its favorite occupation in sentimental self-contemplation, which becomes a sort of fashionable epidemic. It is this fashion which Goethe wished to depict in "Werther," and therefore Werther's hopeless love is not wholly responsible for his suicide. "Werther untergraebt sein Dasein durch Selbstbetrachtung," is Goethe's own explanation of the case.[113] And it is in this light only that Werther's malady deserves in any comprehensive sense the term Weltschmerz. Here, then, Lenau and Werther stand on common ground. Other traits common to most poets of Weltschmerz might here be enumerated as characteristic of both, such as extreme fickleness of purpose, supersensitiveness, lack of definite vocation, and the like; all of which goes to show that while for artistic purposes Goethe required a dramatic cause, or rather occasion, for Werther's suicide, he nevertheless fully understood all the symptoms of the prevailing disease with which his sentimental hero was afflicted.

While the personal elements in Lenau's Weltschmerz are much more intense in their expression than with Hoelderlin, its altruistic side is proportionately weaker. So far as we may judge from his lyrics, very little of Lenau's Weltschmerz was inspired by patriotic considerations. There is opposition, it is true, to the existing order, but that opposition is directed almost solely against that which annoyed and inconvenienced him personally, for example, against the stupid as well as rigorous Austrian censorship. Against this bugbear he never ceases to storm in verse and letters, and to it must be attributed in a large measure his literary alienation from the land of his adoption. That we must look to his lyrics rather than to his longer epic writings, in order to discover the poet's deepest interests, is nowhere more clearly evidenced than in the following reference to his "Savonarola," in a letter to Emilie Reinbeck during the progress of the work: "Savonarola wirkte zumeist als Prediger, darum muss ich in meinem Gedicht ihn vielfach predigen und dogmatisieren lassen, welches in vierfuessigen doppeltgereimten Iamben sehr schwierig ist. Doch es freut mich, Dinge poetisch durchzusetzen, an deren poetischer Darstellbarkeit wohl die meisten Menschen verzweifeln. Auch gereicht es mir zu besonderem Vergnuegen, mit diesem Gedicht gegen den herrschenden Geschmack unseres Tages in Opposition zu treten."[114] The inference lies very near at hand that his opposition to the prevailing taste was after all a secondary consideration, and that the poet's first concern was to win glory by accomplishing something which others would abandon as an impossibility. While recognizing the fact that Lenau's "Faust" and "Don Juan" are largely autobiographical, it is, I think, obvious that an entirely adequate impression of his Weltschmerz may be gained from his letters and lyrics alone, in which the poet's sincerest feelings need not be subordinated for a moment to artistic purposes or demands. And nowhere, either in lyrics or letters, do we find such spontaneous outbursts of patriotic sentiment as greet us in Hoelderlin's poems:

Glueckselig Suevien, meine Mutter![115]

This could not be otherwise; for was he (Lenau) not an Hungarian by birth, an Austrian by adoption, and in his professional affiliations a German? Had his interests not been divided between Vienna and Stuttgart, and had he not been possessed with an apparently uncontrollable restlessness which drove him from place to place, his patriotic enthusiasm would naturally have turned to Austria, and the poetic expression of his home sentiments would not have been confined, perhaps, to the one occasion when he had put the broad Atlantic between himself and his kin. That his brother-in-law Schurz should wish to represent him as a dyed-in-the-wool Austrian is only natural.[116] However this may be, the poet does not hesitate to state in a letter to Emilie Reinbeck: "Ein Hund in Schwaben hat mehr Achtung fuer mich als ein Polizeipraesident in Oesterreich."[117] And although he professes to have become hardened to the pestering interference of the authorities, as a matter of fact it was a constant source of unhappiness to him. "So aber war mein Leben seit meinem letzten Briefe ein bestaendiger Aerger. Die verfluchten Vexationen der hiesigen Censurbehoerde haben selbst jetzt noch immer kein Ende finden koennen."[118] Speaking of his hatred for the censorship law, he says: "Und doch gebuehrt mein Hass noch immer viel weniger dem Gesetze selbst, als denjenigen legalisierten Bestien, die das Gesetz auf eine so niedertraechtige Art handhaben;—und unsre Censoren stellen im Gegensatze der pflanzen- und fleischfressenden Tiere die Klasse der geistfressenden Tiere dar, eine abscheuliche, monstroese Klasse!"[119] Roustan expresses the opinion that with Lenau patriotism occupied a secondary place.[120] He had too many "native lands" to become attached to any one of them.

There is something of a counterpart to Hoelderlin's Hellenism and championship of Greek liberty in Lenau's espousal of the Polish cause. But here again the personal element is strongly in evidence. A chance acquaintance, which afterward became an intimate friendship, with Polish fugitives, seems to have been the immediate occasion of his Polenlieder, so that his enthusiasm for Polish liberty must be regarded as incidental rather than spontaneous. Needless to say that with a Greek cult such as Hoelderlin's Lenau had no patience whatever. "Dass die Poesie den profanen Schmutz wieder abwaschen muesse, den ihr Goethe durch 50 Jahre mit klassischer Hand gruendlich einzureiben bemueht war; dass die Freiheitsgedanken, wie sie jetzt gesungen werden, nichts seien als konventioneller Troedel,—davon haben nur wenige eine Ahnung."[121]

All these considerations tend to convince us that Lenau's Weltschmerz is after all of a much narrower and more personal type than Hoelderlin's. Again and again he runs through the gamut of his own painful emotions and experiences, diagnosing and dissecting each one, and always with the same gloomy result. Consequently his Weltschmerz loses in breadth what through the depth of the poet's introspection it gains in intensity.

One of the most striking and, unless classed among his numerous other pathological traits, one of the most puzzling of Lenau's characteristics is the perverseness of his nature. His intimate friends were wont to explain it, or rather to leave it unexplained by calling it his "Husarenlaune" when the poet would give vent to an apparently unprovoked and unreasonable burst of anger, and on seeing the consternation of those present, would just as suddenly throw himself into a fit of laughter quite as inexplicable as his rage. He takes delight in things which in the ordinarily constructed mind would produce just the reverse feeling. Speaking once of a particularly ill-favored person of his acquaintance he says: "Eine so gewaltige Haesslichkeit bleibt ewig neu und kann sich nie abnuetzen. Es ist was Frisches darin, ich sehe sie gerne."[122] And in not a few of his poems we see a certain predilection for the gruesome, the horrible. So in the remarkable figure employed in "Faust:"

Die Traeume, ungelehr'ge Bestien, schleichen Noch immer nach des Wahns verscharrten Leichen.[123]

This perverseness of disposition is in a large measure accounted for by the fact that Lenau was eternally at war with himself. Speaking in the most general way, Hoelderlin's Weltschmerz had its origin in his conflict with the outer world, Lenau's on the other hand must be attributed mainly to the unceasing conflict or "Zwiespalt" within his breast. In his childhood a devout Roman Catholic, he shows in his "Faust" (1833-36) a mind filled with scepticism and pantheistic ideas; "Savonarola" (1837) marks his return to and glorification of the Christian faith; while in the "Albigenser" (1838-42) the poet again champions complete emancipation of thought and belief. Only a few months elapsed between the writing of the two poems "Wanderung im Gebirge" (1830), in which the most orthodox faith in a personal God is expressed, and "Die Zweifler" (1831). The only consistent feature of his poems is their profound melancholy. But Lenau's inner struggle of soul did not consist merely in his vacillating between religious faith and doubt; it was the conflict of instinct with reason. This is evident in his relations with Sophie Loewenthal. He knows that their love is an unequal one[124] and chides her for her coldness,[125] warning her not to humiliate him, not even in jest;[126] he knows too that his alternating moods of exaltation and dejection resulting from the intensity of his unsatisfied love are destroying him.[127] "Oefter hat sich der Gedanke bei mir angemeldet: Entschlage dich dieser Abhaengigkeit und gestatte diesem Weibe keinen so maechtigen Einfluss auf deine Stimmungen. Kein Mensch auf Erden soll dich so beherrschen. Doch bald stiess ich diesen Gedanken wieder zurueck als einen Verraeter an meiner Liebe, und ich bot mein reizbares Herz wieder gerne dar Deinen zaertlichen Misshandlungen.—O geliebtes Herz! missbrauche Deine Gewalt nicht! Ich bitte Dich, liebe Sophie!"[128] And yet, in spite of it all, he is unable to free himself from the thrall of passion: "Wie wird doch all mein Trotz und Stolz so gar zu nichte, wenn die Furcht in mir erwacht, dass Du mich weniger liebest";[129] and all this from the same pen that once wrote: "das Wort Gnade hat ein Schuft erfunden."[130]

But just as helpless as this defiant pride proved before his all-consuming love for Sophie, so strongly did it assert itself in all his other relations with men and things. A hasty word from one of his best friends could so deeply offend his spirit that, according to his own admission, all subsequent apologies were futile.[131] For Lenau, then, such an attitude of hero worship as that assumed by Hoelderlin towards Schiller, would have been an utter impossibility. We have already seen the extent to which he was over-awed (?) by Goethe's views when they were at variance with their own.[132] On another occasion he writes: "Was Goethe ueber Ruysdael faselt, kannte ich bereits."[133] Toward his critics his bearing was that of haughty indifference: "Mag auch das Talent dieser Menschen,[TN1] mich zu insultieren, gross sein, mein Talent, sie zu verachten, ist auf alle Faelle groesser."[134] When his Fruehlingsalmanach of 1835 had been received with disfavor by the critics, he professed to be concerned only for his publisher: "Ich meinerseits habe auf Liebe und Dank nie gezaehlt bei meinen Bestrebungen."[135] "Die (Recensenten) wissen den Teufel von Poesie."[136] Whether this real or assumed nonchalance would have stood the test of literary disappointments such as Hoelderlin's, it is needless to speculate.

Hoelderlin eagerly sought after happiness and contentment, but fortune eluded him at every turn. Lenau on the contrary thrust it from him with true ascetic spirit.

The mere thought of submitting to the ordinary process of negotiations and recommendations for a vacant professorship of Esthetics in Vienna is so repulsive to his pride, that the whole matter is at once allowed to drop, notwithstanding that he has been preparing for the place by diligent philosophical studies.[137] The asceticism with which he regarded life in general is expressed in a letter to Emilie Reinbeck, 1843, in which he says: "Wer die Welt gestalten helfen will, muss darauf verzichten, sie zu geniessen."[138] But more often this resignation becomes a defiant challenge: "Ich habe dem Leben gegenueber nun einmal meine Stellung genommen, es soll mich nicht hinunterkriegen. Dass mein Widerstand nicht der eines ruhigen Weisen ist, sondern viel Trotziges an sich hat, das liegt in meinen Temperament."[139]

Another characteristic difference between Lenau's Weltschmerz and Hoelderlin's lies in the fact that the writings of the latter do not exhibit that absolute and abject despair which marks Lenau's lyrics. Typical for both poets are the lines addressed by each to a rose:

Ewig traegt im Mutterschosse, Suesse Koenigin der Flur, Dich und mich die stille, grosse, Allbelebende Natur.

Roeschen unser Schmuck veraltet, Sturm entblaettert dich und mich, Doch der ew'ge Keim entfaltet Bald zu neuer Bluete sich![140]

Unmistakable as is the melancholy strain of these verses, they are not without a hopeful afterthought, in which the poet turns from self-contemplation to a view of a larger destiny. Not so in Lenau's poem, "Welke Rosen":

In einem Buche blaetternd, fand Ich eine Rose welk, zerdrueckt, Und weiss auch nicht mehr, wessen Hand Sie einst fuer mich gepflueckt.

Ach mehr und mehr im Abendhauch Verweht Erinn'rung; bald zerstiebt Mein Erdenlos; dann weiss ich auch Nicht mehr, wer mich geliebt.[141]

The intensely personal note of the last stanza is in marked contrast with the corresponding stanza of Hoelderlin's poem just quoted. Further evidence that Lenau's Weltschmerz was constitutional, while Hoelderlin's was the result of experience, lies in this very fact, that nowhere do the writings of the former exhibit that stage of buoyant expectation, youthful enthusiasm, or hopeful striving, which we find in some of the earlier poems of the latter. In Hoelderlin's ode "An die Hoffnung," he apostrophizes hope as "Holde! guetig Geschaeftige!"

Die du das Haus der Trauernden nicht verschmaehst.[142]

Lenau, in his poem of the same title, tells us he has done with hope:

All dein Wort ist Windesfaecheln; Hoffnung! dann nur trau' ich dir, Weisest du mit Trosteslaecheln Mir des Todes Nachtrevier.[143]

Even his Faust gives himself over almost from the outset to abject despair.

Logically consequent upon this state of mind is the poet's oft-repeated longing for death. The persistency of this thought may be best illustrated by a few quotations from poems and letters, arranged chronologically:

1831. Mir wird oft so schwer, als ob ich einen Todten in mir herumtruege.[144]

1833. Und mir verging die Jugend traurig, Des Fruehlings Wonne blieb versaeumt, Der Herbst durchweht mich trennungsschaurig, Mein Herz dem Tod entgegentraeumt.[145]

1837. Heute dachte ich oefter an den Tod, nicht mit bitterem Trotz und stoerrischem Verlangen, sondern mit freundlichem Appetit.[146]

1837. Soll ich Dir alles sagen? Wisse, dass ich wirklich daran dachte, mir den Tod zu geben.[147]

1838. Der Gedanke des Todes wird mir immer freundlicher, und ich verschwende mein Leben gerne.[148]

1838. Durchs Fenster kommt ein duerres Blatt Vom Wind hereingetrieben; Dies leichte offne Brieflein hat Der Tod an mich geschrieben.[149]

1840. Oft will mich's gemahnen, als haette ich auf Erden nichts mehr zu thun, und ich wuenschte dann, Gervinus moechte recht haben, indem er, wie Georg mir erzaehlte, mir einen baldigen Zusammenbruch und Tod prophezeite.[150]

1842. Ich habe ein wolluestiges Heimweh, in Deinen Armen zu sterben.[151]

1843. Selig sind die Betaeubten! noch seliger sind die Toten![152]

1844. In dieses Waldes leisem Rauschen Ist mir, als hoer' ich Kunde wehen, Dass alles Sterben und Vergehen Nur heimlichstill vergnuegtes Tauschen.[153]

If we should seek for the Leit-motif of Lenau's Weltschmerz, we should unquestionably have to designate it as the transientness of life. Thus in the poem "Die Zweifler," he exclaims:

Vergaenglichkeit! wie rauschen deine Wellen Durch's weite Labyrinth des Lebens fort![154]

Ten per cent, of all Lenau's lyrics bear titles which directly express or suggest this thought, as for example, "Vergangenheit," "Vergaenglichkeit," "Das tote Glueck," "Einst und Jetzt," "Aus!," "Eitel Nichts," "Verlorenes Glueck," "Welke Rose," "Vanitas," "Scheiden," "Scheideblick," and the like; while in not less than seventy-one per cent of his lyrics there are allusions, more or less direct, to this same idea, which shows beyond a doubt how large a component it must have been of the poet's characteristic mood.

If Hoelderlin, the idealist, judges the things which are, according to his standard of things as they ought to be, Lenau, on the other hand, measures them by the things which have been.

Friedhof der entschlafnen Tage, Schweigende Vergangenheit! Du begraebst des Herzens Klage, Ach, und seine Seligkeit![155]

Nowhere is this mental attitude of the poet toward life in all its forms more clearly defined than in his views of nature. That this is an entirely different one from Hoelderlin's goes without saying. Lenau has nothing of that naive and unsophisticated childlike nature-sense which Hoelderlin possessed, and which enabled him to find comfort and consolation in nature as in a mother's embrace. So that while for Hoelderlin intercourse with nature afforded the greatest relief from his sorrows, Lenau's Weltschmerz was on the contrary intensified thereby. For him the rose has no fragrance, the sunlight no warmth, springtime no charms, in a word, nature has neither tone nor temper, until such has been assigned to it by the poet himself. And as he is fully aware of the artistic possibilities of the mantle of melancholy "um die wunde Brust geschlungen,"[156] it follows consistently that he should select for poetic treatment only those aspects of nature which might serve to intensify the expression of his grief.

Among the titles of Lenau's lyrics descriptive of nature are "Herbst," "Herbstgefuehl" (twice), "Herbstlied," "Ein Herbstabend," "Herbstentschluss," "Herbstklage," and many others of a similar kind, such as "Das duerre Blatt," "In der Wueste," "Fruehlings Tod," etc. If we disregard a few quite exceptional verses on spring, the statement will hold that Lenau sees in nature only the seasons and phenomena of dissolution and decay. So in "Herbstlied":

Ja, ja, ihr lauten Raben, Hoch in der kuehlen Luft, 's geht wieder ans Begraben, Ihr flattert um die Gruft![157]

"Je mehr man sich an die Natur anschliesst," the poet writes to Sophie Schwab, "je mehr man sich in Betrachtungen ihrer Zuege vertieft, desto mehr wird man ergriffen von dem Geiste der Sehnsucht, des schwermuetigen Hinsterbens, der durch die Natur auf Erden weht."[158] Characteristic is the setting which the poet gives to the "Waldkapelle":

Der dunkle Wald umrauscht den Wiesengrund, Gar duester liegt der graue Berg dahinter, Das duerre Laub, der Windhauch gibt es kund, Geschritten kommt allmaehlig schon der Winter.

Die Sonne ging, umhuellt von Wolken dicht, Unfreundlich, ohne Scheideblick von hinnen, Und die Natur verstummt, im Daemmerlicht Schwermuetig ihrem Tode nachzusinnen.[159]

The sunset is represented as a dying of the sun, the leaves fall sobbing from the trees, the clouds are dissolved in tears, the wind is described as a murderer. We see then that Lenau's treatment of nature is essentially different from Hoelderlin's. The latter explains man through nature; Lenau explains nature through man. Hoelderlin describes love as a heavenly plant,[160] youth as the springtime of the heart,[161] tears as the dew of love;[162] Lenau, on the other hand, characterizes rain as the tears of heaven, for him the woods are glad,[163] the brooklet weeps,[164] the air is idle, the buds and blossoms listen,[165] the forest in its autumn foliage is "herbstlich geroetet, so wie ein Kranker, der sich neigt zum Sterben, wenn fluechtig noch sich seine Wangen faerben."[166] A remarkable simile, and at the same time characteristic for Lenau in its morbidness is the following:

Wie auf dem Lager sich der Seelenkranke, Wirft sich der Strauch im Winde hin und her.[167]

Hoelderlin speaks of a friend's bereavement as "ein schwarzer Sturm";[168] when he had grieved Diotima he compares himself to the cloud passing over the serene face of the moon;[169] gloomy thoughts he designates by the common metaphor "der Schatten eines Woelkchens auf der Stirne."[170] Lenau turns the comparison and says:

Am Himmelsantlitz wandelt ein Gedanke, Die duestre Wolke dort, so bang, so schwer.[171]

Where Hoelderlin finds delight in the incorporeal elements of nature, such as light, ether, and ascribes personal qualities and functions to them, Lenau on the contrary always chooses the tangible things and invests them with such mental and moral attributes as are in harmony with his gloomy state of mind. Consequently Lenau's Weltschmerz never remains abstract; indeed, the almost endless variety of concrete pictures in which he gives it expression is nothing short of remarkable, not only in the sympathetic nature-setting which he gives to his lamentations, but also in the striking metaphors which he employs. Of the former, probably no better illustration could be found in all Lenau's poems than his well-known "Schilflieder"[172] and his numerous songs to Autumn. One or two examples of his incomparable use of nature-metaphors in the expression of his Weltschmerz will suffice:

Hab' ich gleich, als ich so sacht Durch die Stoppeln hingeschritten, Aller Sensen auch gedacht, Die ins Leben mir geschnitten.[173]

Auch mir ist Herbst, und leiser Trag' ich den Berg hinab Mein Buendel duerre Reiser Die mir das Leben gab.[174]

Der Mond zieht traurig durch die Sphaeren, Denn all die Seinen ruhn im Grab; Drum wischt er sich die hellen Zaehren Bei Nacht an unsern Blumen ab.[175]

The forceful directness of Lenau's metaphors from nature is aptly shown in the following comparison of two passages, one from Hoelderlin's "An die Natur," the other from Lenau's "Herbstklage," in which both poets employ the same poetic fancy to express the same idea.

Tot ist nun, die mich erzog und stillte, Tot ist nun die jugendliche Welt, Diese Brust, die einst ein Himmel fuellte, Tot und duerftig wie ein Stoppelfeld.[176]

If we compare the simile in the last line with the corresponding metaphor used by Lenau in the following stanza,—

Wie der Wind zu Herbsteszeit Mordend hinsaust in den Waeldern, Weht mir die Vergangenheit Von des Glueckes Stoppelfeldern,[177]

the greater artistic effectiveness of the latter figure will be at once apparent.

The idea that nature is cruel, even murderous, as suggested in the opening lines of the stanza just quoted, seems in the course of time to have become firmly fixed in the poet's mind, for he not only uses it for poetic purposes, but expresses his conviction of the fact on several occasions in his conversations and letters. Tossing some dead leaves with his stick while out walking, he is said to have exclaimed: "Da seht, und dann heisst es, die Natur sei liebevoll und schonend! Nein, sie ist grausam, sie hat kein Mitleid. Die Natur ist erbarmungslos!"[178] It goes without saying that in such a conception of nature the poet could find no amelioration of his Weltschmerz.[179]

In summing up the results of our discussion of Lenau's Weltschmerz, it would involve too much repetition to mention all the points in which it stands, as we have seen, in striking contrast to that of Hoelderlin. Suffice it to recall only the most essential features of the comparison: the predominance of hereditary and pathological traits as causative influences in the case of Lenau; the fact that whereas Hoelderlin's quarrel was largely with the world, Lenau's was chiefly within himself; the passive and ascetic nature of Lenau's attitude, as compared with the often hopeful striving of Hoelderlin; the patriotism of the latter, and the relative indifference of the former; Lenau's strongly developed erotic instinct, which gave to his relations with Sophie such a vastly different influence upon his Weltschmerz from that exerted upon Hoelderlin by his relations with Diotima; and finally the marked difference in the attitude of these two poets toward nature.

A careful consideration of all the points involved will lead to no other conclusion than that whereas in Hoelderlin the cosmic element predominates, Lenau stands as a type of egoistic Weltschmerz. To quote from our classification attempted in the first chapter, he is one of "those introspective natures who are first and chiefly aware of their own misery, and finally come to regard it as representative of universal evil." Nowhere is this more clearly stated than in the poet's own words: "Es hat etwas Troestliches fuer mich, wenn ich in meinem Privatunglueck den Familienzug lese, der durch alle Geschlechter der armen Menschen geht. Mein Unglueck ist mir mein Liebstes,—und ich betrachte es gerne im verklaerenden Lichte eines allgemeinen Verhaengnisses."[180]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 75: Euphorion, 1899, p. 791.]

[Footnote 76: "Nicolaus Lenau," Neue Fr. Pr., Nr. 11166-7]

[Footnote 77: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 212.]

[Footnote 78: Cf. Euphorion, 1899, p. 795.]

[Footnote 79: Anton Schurz: "Lenau's Leben," Cotta, 1855 (hereafter quoted as "Schurz"), Vol. II, p. 199.]

[Footnote 80: "Lenaus Werke," ed Max Koch, in Kuerschner's DNL. (hereafter quoted as "Werke"), Vol. I, p. 525 f.]

[Footnote 81: Cf. supra, p. 22.]

[Footnote 82: Cf. among others Sadger, Weiler. Infra, p. 88.]

[Footnote 83: "Nicolaus Lenau's Briefe an einen Freund," Stuttgart, 1853, p. 68 f.]

[Footnote 84: "Nicolaus Lenau's saemmtliche Werke," herausgegeben von G. Emil Barthel, Leipzig, Reclam, p. CI.]

[Footnote 85: Schurz, Vol. I, p. 169.]

[Footnote 86: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 144.]

[Footnote 87: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 152f.]

[Footnote 88: Schurz, Vol. I, p. 275.]

[Footnote 89: Ricarda Huch: "Romantische Lebenslaeufe." Neue d. Rundschau, Feb. 1902, p. 126.]

[Footnote 90: Sept. 29, 1844. Cf. Schurz, Vol. II, p. 223.]

[Footnote 91: L. A. Frankl: "Lenau und Sophie Loewenthal," Stuttgart, 1891 (hereafter quoted as "Frankl") p. 189, incorrectly states the date as 1838. Possibly it is a misprint.]

[Footnote 92: Frankl, p. 155.]

[Footnote 93: Frankl, p. 151.]

[Footnote 94: Frankl, p. 164.]

[Footnote 95: Frankl, p. 102.]

[Footnote 96: Frankl, p. 149.]

[Footnote 97: Frankl, p. 150.]

[Footnote 98: Frankl, p. 150.]

[Footnote 99: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 7.]

[Footnote 100: Cf. Lenau's Saemmtl. Werke, herausg. von G. Emil Bartel, Leipzig, ohne Jahr. Introd., p. clxv.]

[Footnote 101: Frankl, p. 32.]

[Footnote 102: Frankl, p. 14.]

[Footnote 103: Frankl, p. 30.]

[Footnote 104: Cf. supra, p. 38.]

[Footnote 105: Frankl, p. 15.]

[Footnote 106: Werke, I, p. 89.]

[Footnote 107: Frankl, p. 114.]

[Footnote 108: Cf. supra, p. 18.]

[Footnote 109: Hoelderlins Werke, Vol. 1, p. 195.]

[Footnote 110: "Das Kruzifix, Eine Kuenstlerlegende," 1820.]

[Footnote 111: Schurz, Vol. I, p. 158f.]

[Footnote 112: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 6.]

[Footnote 113: Cf. Breitinger: "Studien und Wandertage;" Frauenfeld, Huber, 1870.]

[Footnote 114: Schlossar: "Nicolaus Lenaus Briefe an Emilie von Reinbeck," Stuttgart, 1896 (hereafter quoted as "Schlossar"), p. 98.]

[Footnote 115: Werke, Vol. II, p. 260.]

[Footnote 116: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 193.]

[Footnote 117: Schlossar, p. 109.]

[Footnote 118: Schlossar, p. 111.]

[Footnote 119: Schlossar, p. 112 f.]

[Footnote 120: "Lenau et son Temps," Paris, 1898, p. 351.]

[Footnote 121: Schlossar, p. 103.]

[Footnote 122: Schlossar, p. 154.]

[Footnote 123: Werke, Vol. II, p. 183.]

[Footnote 124: Frankl, p. 99.]

[Footnote 125: Frankl, p. 90.]

[Footnote 126: Frankl, p. 90.]

[Footnote 127: Frankl, p. 192.]

[Footnote 128: Frankl, p. 173.]

[Footnote 129: Frankl, p. 103.]

[Footnote 130: Schlossar, p. 55.]

[Footnote 131: Cf. Schlossar, p. 93 f.]

[Footnote 132: Cf. supra, p. 48.]

[Footnote 133: Schlossar, p. 46.]

[Footnote 134: Schlossar, p. 85.]

[Footnote 135: Schlossar, p. 83.]

[Footnote 136: Schurz, Vol. I, p. 176.]

[Footnote 137: Cf. Schlossar, p. 173.]

[Footnote 138: Schlossar, p. 184.]

[Footnote 139: Schlossar, p. 87.]

[Footnote 140: Hoelderlin, "An eine Rose," Werke, Vol. I, p. 142.]

[Footnote 141: Werke, Vol. I, p. 389.]

[Footnote 142: Hoelderlins Werke, Vol. I, p. 253.]

[Footnote 143: Werke, Vol. I, p. 99.]

[Footnote 144: Schurz, Vol. I, p. 132.]

[Footnote 145: Werke, Vol. I, p. 82.]

[Footnote 146: Frankl, p. 79.]

[Footnote 147: Frankl, p. 102.]

[Footnote 148: Frankl, p. 127.]

[Footnote 149: Werke, Vol. I, p. 267.]

[Footnote 150: Schlossar, p. 144.]

[Footnote 151: Frankl, p. 169.]

[Footnote 152: Schlossar, p. 188.]

[Footnote 153: Werke, Vol. I, p. 405.]

[Footnote 154: Werke, Vol. I, p. 130.]

[Footnote 155: Werke, Vol. I, p. 62.]

[Footnote 156: Werke, Vol. I, p. 102.]

[Footnote 157: Werke, Vol. I, p. 299.]

[Footnote 158: Cf. Farinelli, in Verhandlungen des 8. deutschen Neuphilologentages, Hannover, 1898, p. 58.]

[Footnote 159: Werke, Vol. I, p. 137.]

[Footnote 160: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 167.]

[Footnote 161: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 143.]

[Footnote 162: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 140.]

[Footnote 163: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 258.]

[Footnote 164: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 250.]

[Footnote 165: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 260.]

[Footnote 166: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 249.]

[Footnote 167: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 147.]

[Footnote 168: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 144.]

[Footnote 169: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 164.]

[Footnote 170: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. II, p. 117.]

[Footnote 171: Len. Werke, Vol. I, p. 147.]

[Footnote 172: Werke, Vol. I, p. 51 f]

[Footnote 173: "Der Kranich," Werke, Vol. I, p. 328.]

[Footnote 174: "Herbstlied," Werke, Vol. I, p. 299.]

[Footnote 175: "Mondlied," Werke, Vol. I, p. 310.]

[Footnote 176: Hoeld. Werke, Vol. I, p. 146.]

[Footnote 177: Werke, Vol. I, p. 299.]

[Footnote 178: Schurz, Vol. II, p. 104.]

[Footnote 179: For an exhaustive discussion of Lenau's nature-sense cf. Prof. Camillo von Klenze's excellent monograph on the subject, "The Treatment of Nature in the Works of Nikolaus Lenau," Chicago, University Press, 1902.]

[Footnote 180: Frankl, p. 116.]



CHAPTER IV

Heine

Heine was probably the first German writer to use the term Weltschmerz in its present sense. Breitinger in his essay "Neues ueber den alten Weltschmerz"[181] endeavors to trace the earliest use of the word and finds an instance of it in Julian Schmidt's "Geschichte der Romantik,"[182] 1847. He seems to have entirely overlooked Heine's use of the word in his discussion of Delaroche's painting "Oliver Cromwell before the body of Charles I." (1831).[183] The actual inventor of the compound was no doubt Jean Paul, who wrote (1810): "Diesen Weltschmerz kann er (Gott) sozusagen nur aushalten durch den Anblick der Seligkeit, die nachher verguetet."[184]

But although Heine may have been the first to adapt the word to its present use, and although we have fallen into the habit of thinking of him as the chief representative of German Weltschmerz, it must be admitted that there is much less genuine Weltschmerz to be found in his poems than in those of either Hoelderlin or Lenau. The reason for this has already been briefly indicated in the preceding chapter. Hoelderlin's Weltschmerz is altogether the most naive of the three; Lenau's, while it still remains sincere, becomes self-conscious, while Heine has an unfailing antidote for profound feeling in his merciless self-irony. And yet his condition in life was such as would have wrung from the heart of almost any other poet notes of sincerest pathos.

In Lenau's case we noted circumstances which point to a direct transmission from parent to child of a predisposition to melancholia. In Heine's, on the other hand, the question of heredity has apparently only an indirect bearing upon his Weltschmerz. To what extent was his long and terrible disease of hereditary origin, and in what measure may we ascribe his Weltschmerz to the sufferings which that disease caused him? The first of these questions has been answered as conclusively as seems possible on the basis of all available data, by a doctor of medicine, S. Rahmer, in what is at this time the most recent and most authoritative study that has been published on the subject.[185] Stage by stage he follows the development of the disease, from its earliest indications in the poet's incessant nervous headaches, which he ascribes to neurasthenic causes. He attempts to quote all the passages in Heine's letters which throw light upon his physical condition, and points out that in the second stage of the disease the first symptoms of paralysis made their appearance as early as 1832, and not in 1837 as the biographers have stated. To this was added in 1837 an acute affection of the eyes, which continued to recur from this time on. In addition to the pathological process which led to a complete paralysis of almost the whole body, Rahmer notes other symptoms first mentioned in 1846, which he describes as "bulbaer" in their origin, such as difficulty in controlling the muscles of speech, difficulty in chewing and swallowing, the enfeebling of the muscles of the lips, disturbances in the functions of the glottis and larynx, together with abnormal secretion of saliva. He discredits altogether the diagnosis of Heine's disease as consumption of the spinal marrow, to which Klein-Hattingen in his recent book on Hoelderlin, Lenau and Heine[186] still adheres, dismisses as scientifically untenable the popular idea that the poet's physical dissolution was the result of his sensual excesses, finally diagnoses the case as "die spinale Form der progressiven Muskelatrophie"[187] and maintains that it was either directly inherited, or at least developed on the basis of an inherited disposition.[188] He finds further evidence in support of the latter theory in the fact that the first symptoms of the disease made their appearance in early youth, not many years after puberty, and concludes that, in spite of scant information as to Heine's ancestors, we are safe in assuming a hereditary taint on the father's side.

The poet himself evidently would have us believe as much, for in his Reisebilder he says: "Wie ein Wurm nagte das Elend in meinem Herzen und nagte,—ich habe dieses Elend mit mir zur Welt gebracht. Es lag schon mit mir in der Wiege, und wenn meine Mutter mich wiegte, so wiegte sie es mit, und wenn sie mich in den Schlaf sang, so schlief es mit mir ein, und es erwachte, sobald ich wieder die Augen aufschlug. Als ich groesser wurde, wuchs auch das Elend, und wurde endlich ganz gross und zersprengte mein.... Wir wollen von andern Dingen sprechen...."[189]

And yet Heine's disposition was not naturally inclined to hypochondria. In his earlier letters, especially to his intimate friends, there is often more than cheerfulness, sometimes a decided buoyancy if not exuberance of spirits. A typical instance we find in a letter to Moser (1824): "Ich hoffe Dich wohl naechstes Fruehjahr wiederzusehen und zu umarmen und zu necken und vergnuegt zu sein."[190] Only here and there, but very rarely, does he acknowledge any influence of his physical condition upon his mental labors. To Immermann he writes (1823): "Mein Unwohlsein mag meinen letzten Dichtungen auch etwas Krankhaftes mitgeteilt haben."[191] And to Merkel (1827): "Ach! ich bin heute sehr verdriesslich. Krank und unfaehig, gesund aufzufassen."[192] In the main, however, he makes a very brave appearance of cheerfulness, and especially of patience, which seems to grow with the hopelessness of his affliction. To his mother (1851): "Ich befinde mich wieder krankhaft gestimmt, etwas wohler wie frueher, vielleicht viel wohler; aber grosse Nervenschmerzen habe ich noch immer, und leider ziehen sich die Kraempfe jetzt oefter nach oben, was mir den Kopf zuweilen sehr ermuedet. So muss ich nun ruhig aushalten, was der liebe Gott ueber mich verhaengt, und ich trage mein Schicksal mit Geduld.... Gottes Wille geschehe!"[193] Again a few weeks later: "Ich habe mit diesem Leben abgeschlossen, und wenn ich so sicher waere, dass ich im Himmel einst gut aufgenommen werde, so ertruege ich geduldig meine Existenz."[194] Not only to his mother, whom for years he affectionately kept in ignorance of his deplorable condition, does he write thus, but also to Campe (1852): "Mein Koerper leidet grosse Qual, aber meine Seele ist ruhig wie ein Spiegel und hat manchmal auch noch ihre schoenen Sonnenaufgaenge und Sonnenuntergaenge."[195] 1854: "Gottlob, dass ich bei all meinem Leid sehr heiteren Gemuetes bin, und die lustigsten Gedanken springen mir durchs Hirn."[196] Much of this sort of thing was no doubt nicely calculated for effect, and yet these and similar passages show that he was not inclined to magnify his physical afflictions either in his own eyes or in the eyes of others. Nor is he absolutely unreconciled to his fate: "Es ist mir nichts geglueckt in dieser Welt, aber es haette mir doch noch schlimmer gehen koennen."[197]

In his poems, references to his physical sufferings are remarkably infrequent. We look in vain in the "Buch der Lieder," in the "Neue Gedichte," in fact in all his lyrics written before the "Romanzero," not only for any allusion to his illness, but even for any complaint against life which might have been directly occasioned by his physical condition. What is there then in these earlier poems that might fitly be called Weltschmerz? Very little, we shall find.

Their inspiration is to be found almost exclusively in Heine's love-affairs, decent and indecent. Now the pain of disappointed love is the motive and the theme of very many of Hoelderlin's and Lenau's lyrics, poems which are heavy with Weltschmerz, while most of Heine's are not. To speak only of the poet's most important attachments, of his unrequited love for his cousin Amalie, and his unsuccessful wooing of her sister Therese,—there can be no doubt that these unhappy loves brought years of pain and bitterness into his life, sorrow probably as genuine as any he ever experienced, and yet how little, comparatively, there is in his poetry to convince us of the fact. Nearly all these early lyrics are variations of this love-theme, and yet it is the exception rather than the rule when the poet maintains a sincere note long enough to engender sympathy and carry conviction. Such are his beautiful lyrics "Ich grolle nicht,"[198] "Du hast Diamanten und Perlen."[199] Let us see how Lenau treats the same theme:

Die dunklen Wolken hingen Herab so bang und schwer, Wir beide traurig gingen Im Garten hin und her.

So heiss und stumm, so truebe, Und sternlos war die Nacht, So ganz wie unsre Liebe Zu Thraenen nur gemacht.

Und als ich musste scheiden Und gute Nacht dir bot, Wuenscht' ich bekuemmert beiden Im Herzen uns den Tod.[200]

We believe implicitly in the poet's almost inexpressible grief, and because we are convinced, we sympathize. And we feel too that the poet's sorrow is so overwhelming and has so filled his soul that it has entirely changed his views of life and of nature, or has at least contributed materially to such a change,—that it has assumed larger proportions and may rightly be called Weltschmerz. Compare with this the first and third stanzas of Heine's "Der arme Peter:"

Der Hans und die Grete tanzen herum, Und jauchzen vor lauter Freude. Der Peter steht so still und stumm, Und ist so blass wie Kreide.

* * * * *

Der Peter spricht leise vor sich her Und schauet betruebet auf beide: "Ach! wenn ich nicht zu vernuenftig waer', Ich thaet' mir was zu leide."[201]

It is scarcely necessary to cite further examples of this mannerism of Heine's, for so it early became, such as his "Erbsensuppe,"[202] "Ich wollte, er schoesse mich tot,"[203] "Doktor, sind Sie des Teufels;"[204] "Madame, ich liebe Sie!"[205] and many other glaring instances of the "Sturzbad," in order to show how the poet himself deliberately attempted, and usually with success, to destroy the traces of his grief. This process of self-irony, which plays such havoc with all sincere feeling and therefore with his Weltschmerz, becomes so fixed a habit that we are almost incapable, finally, of taking the poet seriously. He makes a significant confession in this regard in a letter to Moser (1823): "Aber es geht mir oft so, ich kann meine eigenen Schmerzen nicht erzaehlen, ohne dass die Sache komisch wird."[206] How thoroughly this mental attitude had become second nature with Heine, may be inferred from a statement which he makes to Friederike Roberts (1825): "Das Ungeheuerste, das Ensetzlichste, das Schaudervollste, wenn es nicht unpoetisch werden soll, kann man auch nur in dem buntscheckigen Gewaende des Laecherlichen darstellen, gleichsam versoehnend—darum hat auch Shakespeare das Graesslichste im "Lear" durch den Narren sagen lassen, darum hat auch Goethe zu dem furchtbarsten Stoffe, zum "Faust," die Puppenspielform gewaehlt, darum hat auch der noch groessere Poet (der Urpoet, sagt Friederike), naemlich Unser-Herrgott, allen Schreckensszenen dieses Lebens eine gute Dosis Spasshaftigkeit beigemischt."[207]

In not a few of his lyrics Heine gives us a truly Lenauesque nature-setting, as for instance in "Der scheidende Sommer:"

Das gelbe Laub erzittert, Es fallen die Blaetter herab; Ach, alles, was hold und lieblich Verwelkt und sinkt ins Grab.[208]

This is one of the comparatively few instances in Heine's lyrics in which he maintains a dignified seriousness throughout the entire poem. It is worth noting, too, because it touches a note as infrequent in Heine as it is persistent in Lenau—the fleeting nature of all things lovely and desirable.[209] This is one of the characteristic differences between the two poets,—Heine's eye is on the present and the future, much more than on the past; Lenau is ever mourning the happiness that is past and gone. Logically then, thoughts of and yearnings for death are much more frequent with Lenau than with Heine.[210]

Reverting to the point under consideration: even in those love-lyrics in which Heine does not wilfully destroy the first serious impression by the jingling of his harlequin's cap, as he himself styles it,[211] he does not succeed,—with the few exceptions just referred to,—in convincing us very deeply of the reality of his feelings. They are either trivially or extravagantly stated. Sometimes this sense of triviality is caused by the poet's excessive fondness for all sorts of diminutive expressions, giving an artificial effect, an effect of "Taendelei" to his verses. For example:

Du siehst mich an wehmuetiglich, Und schuettelst das blonde Koepfchen, Aus deinen Augen schleichen sich Die Perlenthraenentroepfchen.[212]

Sometimes this effect is produced by a distinct though unintended anti-climax. Nowhere has Heine struck a more truly elegiac note than in the stanza:

Der Tod, das ist die kuehle Nacht, Das Leben ist der schwuele Tag. Es dunkelt schon, mich schlaefert, Der Tag hat mich muede gemacht.[213]

There is the most profound Weltschmerz in that. But in the second stanza there is relatively little:

Ueber mein Bett erhebt sich ein Baum, Drin singt die junge Nachtigall; Sie singt von lauter Liebe, Ich hoer' es sogar im Traum.

Lenau's lyrics have shown that much Weltschmerz may grow out of unsatisfied love; Heine's demonstrate that mere love sickness is not Weltschmerz. The fact is that Heine frequently destroys what would have been a certain impression of Weltschmerz by forcing upon us the immediate cause of his distemper,—it may be a real injury, or merely a passing annoyance. What a strange mixture of acrimonious, sarcastic protest and Weltschmerz elements we find in the poem "Ruhelechzend"[214] of which a few stanzas will serve to illustrate. Again he strikes a full minor chord:

Las bluten deine Wunden, lass Die Thraenen fliessen unaufhaltsam; Geheime Wollust schwelgt im Schmerz, Und Weinen ist ein suesser Balsam.

This in practice rather than in theory is what we observe in Lenau,—his melancholy satisfaction in nursing his grief,—and we have promise of a poem of genuine Weltschmerz. Even through the second and third stanzas this feeling is not destroyed, although the terms "Schelm" and "Toelpel" gently arouse our suspicion:

Des Tages Laerm verhallt, es steigt Die Nacht herab mit langen Floehren. In ihrem Schosse wird kein Schelm, Kein Toelpel deine Ruhe stoeren.

But the very next stanza brings the transition from the sublime to the ridiculous:

Hier bist du sicher vor Musik, Vor des Pianofortes Folter, Und vor der grossen Oper Pracht Und schrecklichem Bravourgepolter.

* * * * *

O Grab, du bist das Paradies Fuer poebelscheue, zarte Ohren— Der Tod ist gut, doch besser waer's, Die Mutter haett' uns nie geboren.

It is scarcely necessary to point out that the specific cause which the poet confides to us of his "wounds, tears and pains" is ridiculously unimportant as compared with the conclusion which he draws in the last two lines.

Evidently then, he does not wish us to take him seriously, nor could we, if he did. Thus in their very attitude toward the ills and vexations of life, there appears a most essential difference between Lenau and Heine. Auerbach aptly remarks: "Spott und Satire verkleinern, Zorn und Hass vergroessern das Object."[215] And Lenau knew no satire; where Heine scoffed and ridiculed, he hated and scorned, with a hatred that only contributed to his own undoing. With Heine the satire's the thing, whether of himself or of others, and to this he willingly sacrifices the lofty sentiments of which he is capable. Indeed he frequently introduces these for no other purpose than to make the laugh or grimace all the more striking. And with reference to his love affair with Amalie, while the question as to the reality and depth of his feelings may be left entirely out of discussion, this much may be safely asserted, that in comparatively few poems do those feelings find expression in the form of Weltschmerz. Now there is something essentially vague about Weltschmerz; it is an atmosphere, a "Stimmung" more or less indefinable, rather than the statement in lyric form of certain definite grievances with their particular and definite causes. And that is exactly what we find in Lenau, even in his love-songs. His love-sorrow is blended with his many other heart-aches, with his disappointments and regrets, with his yearning for death. He sings of his pain rather than of its immediate causes, and the result is an atmosphere of Weltschmerz.

Turning to Heine's later poems, especially to the "Romanzero," we find that atmosphere much more perceptible. But even here the poet is for the most part specific, and his method concrete. So for instance in "Der Dichter Firdusi"[216] in which he tells a story to illustrate his belief that merit is appreciated and rewarded only after the death of the one who should have reaped the reward. So also in "Weltlauf,"[217] the first stanza of which suggests a poetic rendering of Matth. 13:12, "For whosoever hath, to him shall be given and he shall have more abundance; but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath,"—to which the poet adds a stanza of caustic ironical comment:

Wenn du aber gar nichts hast, Ach, so lasse dich begraben— Denn ein Recht zum Leben, Lump, Haben nur, die etwas haben.

And again, the poem "Lumpentum"[218] presents an ironical eulogy of flattery. His failure to realize the hopes of his youth is made the subject of "Verlorne Wuensche"[219] which maintains throughout a strain of seriousness quite unusual for Heine, and concludes:

Goldne Wuensche! Seifenblasen! Sie zerrinnen wie mein Leben— Ach ich liege jetzt am Boden, Kann mich nimmermehr erheben.

Und Ade! sie sind zerronnen, Goldne Wuensche, suesses Hoffen! Ach, zu toetlich war der Faustschlag, Der mich just ins Herz getroffen.

A number of these lyrics from the Romanzero show very strikingly Heine's objective treatment of his poems of complaint. Such selections as "Sie erlischt,"[220] in which he compares his soul to the last flicker of a lamp in the darkened theater, or "Frau Sorge,"[221] which gives us the personification of care, represented as a nurse watching by his bedside, bring his objective method into marked contrast with Hoelderlin's subjective Weltschmerz. The same may be said of his autobiography in miniature, "Rueckschau,"[222] which catalogues the poet's experiences, pleasant and adverse, with evident sincerity though of course with a liberal admixture of witty irony. Needless to say there is no real Weltschmerz discoverable in such a pot pourri as the following:

Die Glieder sind mir rheumatisch gelaehmt, Und meine Seele ist tief beschaemt.

* * * * *

Ich ward getraenkt mit Bitternissen, Und grausam von den Wanzen gebissen, etc.

It would scarcely be profitable to attempt to estimate the causes and development of this self-irony, which plays so important a part in Heine's poetry. Its possibility lay no doubt in his native mother-wit, with its genial perception of the incongruous, combined, it must be admitted, with a relatively low order of self-respect. Its first incentive he may have found in his unrequited love for Amalie. Had it been like that of Hoelderlin for Diotima, or Lenau for Sophie, reciprocated though unsatisfied, we could not easily imagine the ironical tone which pervades most of his love-songs. And so he uses it as a veil for his chagrin, preferring to laugh and have the world laugh with him, rather than to weep alone. But the incident in Heine's life which probably more than any other experience fostered this habit of making himself the butt of his witty irony was his outward renunciation of Judaism. Little need be said concerning this, since the details are so well known. He himself confesses that the step was taken from the lowest motives, for which he justly hated and despised himself. To Moser he writes (1825): "Ich weiss nicht, was ich sagen soll, Cohen versichert mich, Gans predige das Christentum und suche die Kinder Israels zu bekehren. Thut er dieses aus Ueberzeugung, so ist er ein Narr; thut er es aus Gleissnerei, so ist er ein Lump. Ich werde zwar nicht aufhoeren, Gans zu lieben; dennoch gestehe ich, weit lieber waer's mir gewesen, wenn ich statt obiger Nachricht erfahren haette, Gans habe silberne Loeffel gestohlen.... Es waere mir sehr leid, wenn mein eigenes Getauftsein Dir in einem guenstigen Lichte erscheinen koennte. Ich versichere Dich, wenn die Gesetze das Stehlen silberner Loeffel erlaubt haetten, so wuerde ich mich nicht getauft haben."[223] But in addition to the loss of self-respect came his disappointment and chagrin at the non-success of his move, since he realized that it was not even bringing him the material gain for which he had hoped. Instead, he felt himself an object of contempt among Christians and Jews alike. "Ich bin jetzt bei Christ und Jude verhasst. Ich bereue sehr, dass ich mich getauft hab'; ich sehe gar nicht ein, dass es mir seitdem besser gegangen sei; im Gegenteil, ich habe seitdem nichts als Unglueck."[224] He is so unhappy in consequence of this step that he earnestly desires to leave Germany. "Es ist aber ganz bestimmt, dass es mich sehnlichst draengt, dem deutschen Vaterlande Valet zu sagen. Minder die Lust des Wanderns als die Qual persoenlicher Verhaeltnisse (z. B. der nie abzuwaschende Jude) treibt mich von hinnen."[225]

In his tragedy "Almansor," written during the years 1820 and 1821,[226] his deep-rooted antipathy to Christianity finds strong expression through Almansor, although the countervailing arguments are eloquently stated by the heroine. Prophetic of the poet's own later experience is the representation of the hero, who is beguiled by his love for Zuleima into vowing allegiance to the Christian faith, only to find that the sacrifice has failed to win for him the object for which it was made. In the character of Almansor, more than anywhere else, Heine's "Liebesschmerz" and "Judenschmerz" have combined to produce in him an inner dissonance which expresses itself in lyric lines of real Weltschmerz:

Ich bin recht mued Und krank, und kranker noch als krank, denn ach, Die allerschlimmste Krankheit ist das Leben; Und heilen kann sie nur der Tod....[227]

But here too, as in "Ratcliff," such passages are exceptional. In the main these tragedies are nothing more than vehicles for the poet's stormy protest, much of it after the Storm and Stress pattern;[228] and mere protest, however acrimonious, cannot be called Weltschmerz.

Certain it is that during these early years numerous disappointments other than those of love contributed to produce in the poet a gloomy state of mind. A reflection of the unhappiness which he had experienced during his residence in Hamburg is found in many passages in his correspondence which express his repugnance for the city and its people. To Immanuel Wohlwill (1823): "Es freut mich, dass es Dir in den Armen der aimablen Hammonia zu behagen beginnt; mir ist diese Schoene zuwider. Mich taeuscht nicht der goldgestickte Rock, ich weiss, sie traegt ein schmutziges Hemd auf dem gelben Leibe, und mit den schmelzenden Liebesseufzern 'Rindfleisch[3] Banko!' sinkt sie an die Brust des Meistbietenden.... Vielleicht thue ich aber der guten Stadt Hamburg unrecht; die Stimmung, die mich beherrschte, als ich dort einige Zeit lebte, war nicht dazu geeignet, mich zu einem unbefangenen Beurteiler zu machen; mein inneres Leben war bruetendes Versinken in den duesteren, nur von phantastischen Lichtern durchblitzten Schacht der Traumwelt, mein aeusseres Leben war toll, wuest, cynisch, abstossend; mit einem Worte, ich machte es zum schneidenden Gegensatz meines inneren Lebens, damit mich dieses nicht durch sein Uebergewicht zerstoere."[229] To Moser (1823): "Hamburg? sollte ich dort noch so viele Freuden finden koennen, als ich schon Schmerzen dort empfand? Dieses ist freilich unmoeglich—"[230] "Hamburg!!! mein Elysium und Tartarus zu gleicher Zeit! Ort, den ich detestiere und am meisten liebe, wo mich die abscheulichsten Gefuehle martern und we ich mich dennoch hinwuensche."[231] Another letter to Moser is dated: "Verdammtes Hamburg, den 14. Dezember, 1825."[232] The following year he writes, in a letter to Immermann: "Ich verliess Goettingen, suchte in Hamburg ein Unterkommen, fand aber nichts als Feinde, Verklatschung und Aerger."[233] And to Varnhagen von Ense (1828): "Nach Hamburg werde ich nie in diesem Leben zurueckkehren; es sind mir Dinge von der aeussersten Bitterkeit dort passiert, sie waeren auch nicht zu ertragen gewesen, ohne den Umstand, dass nur ich sie weiss."[234] To his mother's insistent pleading he replies (1833): "Aber ich will, wenn Du es durchaus verlangst, diesen Sommer auf acht Tage nach Hamburg kommen, nach dem schaendlichen Neste, wo ich meinen Feinden den Triumph goennen soll, mich wiederzusehen und mit Beleidigungen ueberhaeufen zu koennen."[235]

His several endeavors to establish himself on a firm material footing in life had failed,—he had sought for a place in a Berlin high school, then entertained the idea of practising law in Hamburg, then aspired to a professorship in Munich, but without success. But more than by all these reverses, more even than by the circumstances and consequences of his Hebrew parentage, was the poet wrought up by the family strife over the payment of his pension, which followed upon the death of his uncle in December, 1844, and which lasted for several years. From the very beginning he had had much intermittent annoyance through his dealings with his sporadically generous uncle Salomon Heine. As early as 1823 Heine writes to Moser: "Auch weiss ich, dass mein Oheim, der sich hier so gemein zeigt, zu andern Zeiten die Generositaet selbst ist; aber es ist doch in mir der Vorsatz aufgekommen, alles anzuwenden, um mich so bald als moeglich von der Guete meines Oheims loszureissen. Jetzt habe ich ihn freilich noch noetig, und wie knickerig auch die Unterstuetzung ist, die er mir zufliessen laesst, so kann ich dieselbe nicht entbehren."[236] And again in the same year: "Es ist fatal, dass bei mir der ganze Mensch durch das Budget regiert wird. Auf meine Grundsaetze hat Geldmangel oder Ueberfluss nicht den mindesten Einfluss, aber desto mehr auf meine Handlungen. Ja, grosser Moser, der H. Heine ist sehr klein."[237] And when, after his uncle's demise, the heirs of the latter threatened to cut off the poet's pension, he writes to Campe[238] and to Detmold,[239] in a frenzy of wrath and excitement, and shows what he is really capable of under pressure of circumstances. Perhaps it is only fair to suppose that his long years of suffering, both from his physical condition and from the unscrupulous attacks of his enemies, had had a corroding effect upon his moral sensibilities. In his request to Campe to act as mediator in the disagreeable affair he says: "Sie koennen alle Schuld des Missverstaendnisses auf mich schieben, die Grossmut der Familie hervorstreichen, kurz, mich sacrificiren." And all this to be submitted to the public in print! "Ich gestehe Ihnen heute offen, ich habe gar keine Eitelkeit in der Weise andrer Menschen, mir liegt am Ende gar nichts an der Meinung des Publikums; mir ist nur eins wichtig, die Befriedigung meines inneren Willens, die Selbstachtung meiner Seele." But how he was able to preserve his self-respect, and at the same time be willing to employ any and all means to attain his end, perhaps no one less unscrupulous than he could comprehend. He intimates that he has decided upon threats and public intimidation as being probably more effective than a servile attitude, which, he allows us to infer, he would be quite willing to take if advisable. "Das Beste muss hier die Presse thun zur Intimidation, und die ersten Kotwuerfe auf Karl Heine und namentlich auf Adolf Halle werden schon wirken. Die Leute sind an Dreck nicht gewoehnt, waehrend ich ganze Mistkarren vertragen kann, ja diese, wie auf Blumenbeeten, nur mein Gedeihen zeitigen."[240]

It is quite evident that this long drawn out quarrel aroused all that was mean and vindictive, all that was immoral in the man, and that the nervous excitement thereby induced had a most baneful effect upon his entire nature, physical as well as mental. In a number of poems he has given expression to his anger and has masterfully cursed his adversaries, for example, "Es gab den Dolch in deine Hand,"[241] "Sie kuessten mich mit ihren falschen Lippen,"[242] and several following ones. But here, too, his fancy is altogether too busy with the suitable characterization of his enemies and the invention of adequate tortures for them, to leave room for even a suggestion of the Weltschmerz which we might expect to result from such painful emotions.

It is scarcely necessary to theorize as to what would have been the attitude and conduct of a sensitive Hoelderlin or a proud-spirited Lenau in a similar position. Lenau is too proud to protest, preferring to suffer. Heine is too vain to appear as a sufferer, so he meets adversity, not in a spirit of admirable courage, but in a spirit of bravado. In giving lyric utterance to his resentment, Heine is conscious that the world is looking on, and so he indulges, even in the expression of his Weltschmerz, in a vain ostentation which stands in marked contrast to Lenau's dignified pride. He is quite right when he says in a letter to his friend Moser: "Ich bin nicht gross genug, um Erniedrigung zu tragen."[243]

As an illustration of the vain display which he makes of his sadness, his poem "Der Traurige" may be quoted in part:

Allen thut es weh in Herzen, Die den bleichen Knaben sehn, Dem die Leiden, dem die Schmerzen Auf's Gesicht geschrieben stehn.[244]

A similar impression is made by the concluding numbers of the Intermezzo, "Die alten, boesen Lieder."[245] And here again the comparison,—even if merely as to size,—of a coffin with the "Heidelberger Fass" is most incongruous, to say the least, and tends very effectually to destroy the serious sentiment which the poem, with less definite exaggerations, might have conveyed. Similarly overdone is his poetic preface to the "Rabbi" sent to his friend Moser:[246]

Brich aus in lauten Klagen Du duestres Maertyrerlied, Das ich so lang getragen Im flammenstillen Gemuet!

Es dringt in alle Ohren, Und durch die Ohren ins Herz; Ich habe gewaltig beschworen Den tausendjaehrigen Schmerz.

Es weinen dir Grossen und Kleinen, Sogar die kalten Herrn, Die Frauen und Blumen weinen, Es weinen am Himmel die Stern.

It is not necessary, even if it were to the point, to adduce further evidence of Heine's vanity as expressed in his prose writings, or in poems such as the much-quoted

Nennt man die besten Namen, So wird auch der meine genannt.[247]

It cannot be denied that this element of vanity, of showiness, only serves to emphasize our impression of the unreality of much of Heine's Weltschmerz.

With the reference to this element of ostentation in Heine's Weltschmerz there is suggested at once the question of the Byronic pose, and of Byron's influence in general upon the German poet. On the general relationship between the two poets much has been written,[248] so that we may confine ourselves here to the consideration of certain points of resemblance in their Weltschmerz.

Julian Schmidt names Byron as the constellation which ruled the heavens during the period from the Napoleonic wars to the "Voelkerfruehling," 1848, as the meteor upon which at that time the eyes of all Europe were fixed. Certainly the English poet could not have wished for a more auspicious introduction and endorsation in Germany, if he had needed such, than that which was given him by Goethe himself, whose subsequent tribute in his Euphorion in the second part of "Faust" is one of Byron's most splendid memorials. The enthusiasm which Lord Byron aroused in Germany is attested by Goethe: "Im Jahre 1816, also einige Jahre nach dem Erscheinen des ersten Gesanges des 'Childe Harold,' trat englische Poesie und Literatur vor allen andern in den Vordergrund. Lord Byrons Gedichte, je mehr man sich mit den Eigenheiten dieses ausserordentlichen Geistes bekannt machte, gewannen immer groessere Teilnahme, so dass Maenner und Frauen, Maegdlein und Junggesellen fast aller Deutschheit und Nationalitaet zu vergessen schienen."[249]

It is important to note that this first period of unrestrained Byron enthusiasm coincides with the formative and impressionable years of Heine's youth. In his first book of poems, published in 1821, he included translations from Byron, in reviewing which Immermann pointed out[250] that while Heine's poems showed a superficial resemblance to those of Byron, the temperament of the former was far removed from the sinister scorn of the English lord, that it was in fact much more cheerful and enamored of life.[251] There is plenty of evidence, however, to show that it was exceedingly gratifying to the young Heine to have his name associated with that of Byron; and although he had no enthusiasm for Byron's philhellenism, he was pleased to write, June 25, 1824, on hearing of the Englishman's death: "Der Todesfall Byrons hat mich uebrigens sehr bewegt. Es war der einzige Mensch, mit dem ich mich verwandt fuehlte, und wir moegen uns wohl in manchen Dingen geglichen haben; scherze nur darueber, soviel Du willst. Ich las ihn selten seit einigen Jahren; man geht lieber um mit Menschen, deren Charakter von dem unsrigen verschieden ist. Ich bin aber mit Byron immer behaglich umgegangen, wie mit einem voellig gleichen Spiesskameraden. Mit Shakespeare kann ich gar nicht behaglich umgehen, ich fuehle nur zu sehr, dass ich nicht seinesgleichen bin, er ist der allgewaltige Minister, und ich bin ein blosser Hofrat, und es ist mir, als ob er mich jeden Augenblick absetzen koennte."[252] Significant is the allusion in this same letter to a proposition which the writer seems to have made to his friend in a previous one: " ... ich darf Dir Dein Versprechen in Hinsicht des 'Morgenblattes' durchaus nicht erlassen. Robert besorgt gern den Aufsatz. Byron ist jetzt tot, und ein Wort ueber ihn ist jetzt passend. Vergiss es nicht; Du thust mir einen sehr grossen Gefallen."[253] We shall probably not be far astray in assuming that the "Gefallen" was to have been the advertising of Heine as the natural successor of Byron in European literature. Three months later he once more urges the request: "Auch faende ich es noch immer angemessen, ja jetzt mehr als je, dass Du Dich ueber Byron und Komp. vernehmen liessest."[254]

But it was not long before Heine, with an increasing sense of literary independence, reinforced no doubt by the reaction of public opinion against Byron, and influenced also by his friend Immermann's judgment in particular,[255] was no longer willing to be considered a disciple of the English master. Several unmistakable references betoken this change of heart, for example, the following from his "Nordsee" III (1826): "Wahrlich in diesem Augenblicke fuehle ich sehr lebhaft, dass ich kein Nachbeter, oder, besser gesagt, Nachfrevler, Byrons bin, mein Blut ist nicht so spleenisch schwarz, meine Bitterkeit koemmt nur aus den Gallaepfeln meiner Dinte, und wenn Gift in mir ist, so ist es doch nur Gegengift, Gegengift wider jene Schlangen, die im Schutte der alten Dome und Burgen so bedrohlich lauern."[256] Byron, instead of being regarded as "kindred spirit" and "cousin," is now characterized as a ruthless destroyer of venerable forms, injuring the most sacred flowers of life with his melodious poison, or as a mad harlequin who thrusts the steel into his heart, in order that he may teasingly bespatter ladies and gentlemen with the black spurting blood. In remarkable contrast with his former views, he now writes: "Von allen grossen Schriftstellern ist Byron just derjenige, dessen Lektuere mich am unleidigsten beruehrt."

Perhaps the most interesting passage in this connection, because so thoroughly characteristic of the Byronic pose in Heine, occurs in the "Baeder von Lucca": "Lieber Leser, gehoerst du vielleicht zu jenen frommen Voegeln, die da einstimmen in das Lied von Byronischer Zerrissenheit, das mir schon seit zehn Jahren in allen Weisen vorgepfiffen und vorgezwitschert worden ...? Ach, teurer Leser, wenn du ueber jene Zerrissenheit klagen willst, so beklage lieber, dass die Welt selbst mitten entzwei gerissen ist. Denn da das Herz des Dichters der Mittelpunkt der Welt ist, so musste es wohl in jetziger Zeit jaemmerlich zerrissen werden. Wer von seinem Herzen ruehmt, es sei ganz geblieben, der gesteht nur, dass er ein prosaisches, weitabgelegenes Winkelherz hat. Durch das meinige ging aber der grosse Weltriss, und eben deswegen weiss ich, dass die grossen Goetter mich vor vielen andern hoch begnadigt und des Dichtermaertyrtums wuerdig geachtet haben."[257] Here while vociferously disclaiming all kinship or sympathy with Byron, he pays him the flattering compliment of imitation. Probably nowhere in Byron could we find a more pompous display of egoism under the guise of Weltschmerz.

Byron's Weltschmerz, like Heine's, had its first provocation in a purely personal experience. "To a Lady"[258] and "Remembrance"[259] both give expression in passionate terms to the poet's disappointed love for Mary Chaworth, the parallel in Heine's case being his infatuation for his cousin Amalie. The necessity for defending himself against a public opinion actively hostile to his earliest poems,[260] largely diverted Byron from this first painful theme, so that from this time on until he left England, he is almost incessantly engaged in a bitter warfare against the injustice of critics and of society. To this second period Heine's development also shows a general resemblance. Thus far both poets exhibit a purely egoistic type of Weltschmerz. But with his separation from his wife in 1816, and his final departure from England, that of Byron enters upon a third period and becomes cosmic. Ostracized by English society, his relations with it finally severed, he disdains to defend himself further against its criticism, and espouses the cause of unhappy humanity. No longer his own personal woes, but rather those of the nations of the earth are nearest his heart:

What are our woes and sufferance?... ................................ Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day— A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.[261]

And in contemplating the ruins of the Palatine Hill:

..................... Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs? Let me not number mine.[262]

Here we have the essential difference between these two types of Weltschmerz. Heine does not, like Byron, make this transition from the personal to the universal stage. Instead of becoming cosmic in his Weltschmerz, he remains for ever egoistic.

Numerous quotations might be adduced from the writings of both poets, which would seem to indicate that Heine had borrowed many of his ideas and even some forms of expression from Byron. Except in the case of the most literal correspondence, this is generally a very unsafe deduction. Such passages as a rule prove nothing more than a similarity, possibly quite independent, in the trend of their pessimistic thought. Compare for example Byron's lines in the poem "And wilt thou weep when I am low?"

Oh lady! blessed be that tear— It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep,[263]

with Heine's stanza:

Seit ich sie verloren hab', Schafft' ich auch das Weinen ab; Fast vor Weh das Herz mir bricht, Aber weinen kann ich nicht.[264]

Or again, "Childe Harold," IV, 136:

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy Have I not seen what human things could do? From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few— And subtler venom of the reptile crew,[265]

with the first lines of Heine's ninth sonnet:

Ich moechte weinen, doch ich kann es nicht; Ich moecht' mich ruestig in die Hoehe heben, Doch kann ich's nicht; am Boden muss ich kleben, Umkraechzt, umzischt von eklem Wurmgezuecht,[266]

a thought which in one of his letters (1823) he paraphrases thus: "Der Gedanke an Dich, liebe Schwester, muss mich zuweilen aufrecht halten, wenn die grosse Masse mit ihrem dummen Hass und ihrer ekelhaften Liebe mich niederdrueckt."[267] There can be no doubt that Heine for a time studied diligently to imitate this fashionable model, pose, irony and all. So diligently perhaps, that he himself was sometimes unable to distinglish between imitation and reality. So at least it would appear from No. 44 of "Die Heimkehr:"

Ach Gott! im Scherz und unbewusst Sprach ich, was ich gefuehlet: Ich hab mit dem Tod in der eignen Brust Den sterbenden Fechter gespielet.[268]

In summing up our impressions of the two poets we shall scarcely escape the feeling that while Byron is pleased to display his troubles and his heart-aches before the curious gaze of the world, they are at least in the main real troubles and sincere heart-aches, whereas Heine, on the other hand, does a large business in Weltschmerz on a very small capital.

Nor is Heine the man more convincing as to his sincerity than Heine the poet. No more striking instance of this fact could perhaps be found than his letter to Laube on hearing the news of Immermann's death.[269] "Gestern Abend erfuhr ich durch das Journal des Debats ganz zufaellig den Tod von Immermann. Ich habe die ganze Nacht durch geweint. Welch ein Unglueck!... Welch einen grossen Dichter haben wir Deutschen verloren, ohne ihn jemals recht gekannt zu haben! Wir, ich meine Deutschland, die alte Rabenmutter! Und nicht nur ein grosser Dichter war er, sondern auch brav und ehrlich, und deshalb liebte ich ihn. Ich liege ganz darnieder vor Kummer." But scarcely has he turned the page with a short intervening paragraph, when he continues: "Ich bin, sonderbar genug, sehr guter Laune," and concludes the letter with some small talk. Now if he was sincere, as we may assume he was, in the asseveration of his grief at the death of his friend, then either that grief must have been anything but profound, or we have the clearest sort of evidence of the poet's incapacity for serious feeling of more than momentary duration. It is safe to assert that Heine never set himself a high artistic task, and remained true to his purpose until the task was accomplished. In other words, Heine betrays a lack of will-energy along artistic lines, which in the case of Hoelderlin and Lenau was more evident in their attitude toward the practical things of life.

But the fact that Heine never created a monumental literary work of enduring worth is not attributable solely to a fickleness of artistic purpose or lack of will-energy. We find its explanation rather in the poet's own statement: "Die Poesie ist am Ende doch nur eine schoene Nebensache."[270] and to this principle, consciously or unconsciously, Heine steadily adhered. Certain it is that he took a much lower view of his art than did Hoelderlin or Lenau. Hence we find him ever ready to degrade his muse by making it the vehicle for immoral thoughts and abominable calumnies.[271]

The question of Heine's patriotism has always been a much-debated one, and must doubtless remain so. But whatever opinion we may hold in regard to his real attitude and feelings toward the land of his birth, this we shall have to admit, that there are exceedingly few traces of Weltschmerz arising from this source. Genuine feeling is expressed in the two-stanza poem "Ich hatte einst ein schoenes Vaterland"[272] and also in "Lebensfahrt,"[273] although this latter poem illustrates a characteristic of so many of his writings, namely that he himself is their central figure. It is the sublime egoism which characterizes Heine and all his works. No wonder, then, that one of his few "Freiheitslieder" refers to his own personal liberty.[274] For the failings of his countrymen he is ever ready with scathing satire,[275] he grieves over his separation from them only when he thinks of his mother;[276] and in regard to the future of Germany he is for the most part sceptical.[277] In a word, Heine's lyric utterances in regard to his fatherland are of so mixed a character, that altogether aside from the question of the sincerity of his feeling toward the land of his birth, certainly none but the blindest partisan would be able to discover more than a negligible quantity of Weltschmerz directly attributable to this influence.

Heine's conscience is at best a doubtful quantity. Where Byron with a sincere sense and acknowledgment of his guilt writes:

"My injuries came down on those who loved me— On those whom I best loved: . . . . . . But my embrace was fatal."[278]

Heine sees it in quite another light: "War ich doch selber jetzt das lebende Gesetz der Moral und der Quell alles Rechtes und aller Befugnis; die anruechigsten Magdalenen wurden purifiziert durch die laeuternde und suehnende Macht meiner Liebesflammen,"[279] a moral aberration which he attributes to an imperfect interpretation of the difficult philosophy of Hegel. If further evidence were necessary to show the perversity of Heine's moral sense, the following paragraph from a letter to Varnhagen would suffice, in its way perhaps as remarkable a contribution to the theory of ethics as has ever been penned: "In Deutschland ist man noch nicht so weit, zu begreifen, dass ein Mann, der das Edelste durch Wort und That befoerdern will, sich oft einige kleine Lumpigkeiten, sei es aus Spass oder aus Vorteil, zu schulden kommen lassen darf, wenn er nur durch diese Lumpigkeiten (d. h. Handlungen, die im Grunde ignobel sind,) der grossen Idee seines Lebens nichts schadet, ja dass diese Lumpigkeiten oft sogar lobenswert sind, wenn sie uns in den Stand setzen, der grossen Idee unsres Lebens desto wuerdiger zu dienen."[280] Scarcely less remarkable is the poet's confession to his friend Moser that he has a rubber soul: "Ich kann Dir das nicht oft genug wiederholen, damit Du mich nicht misst nach dem Massstabe Deiner eigenen grossen Seele. Die meinige ist Gummi elastic, zieht sich oft ins Unendliche und verschrumpft oft ins Winzige. Aber eine Seele habe ich doch. I am positive, I have a soul, so gut wie Sterne. Das genuege Dir. Liebe mich um der wunderlichen Sorte Gefuehls willen, die sich bei mir ausspricht in Thorheit und Weisheit, in Guete und Schlechtigkeit. Liebe mich, weil es Dir nun mal so einfaellt, nicht, weil Du mich der Liebe wert haeltst.... Ich hatte einen Polen zum Freund, fuer den ich mich bis zu Tod besoffen haette, oder, besser gesagt, fuer den ich mich haette totschlagen lassen, und fuer den ich mich noch totschlagen liesse, und der Kerl taugte fuer keinen Pfennig, und war venerisch, und hatte die schlechtesten Grundsaetze—aber er hatte einen Kehllaut, mit welchem er auf so wunderliche Weise das Wort 'Was?' sprechen konnte, dass ich in diesem Augenblick weinen und lachen muss, wenn ich daran denke."[281]

Taking him all in all then, Heine is not a serious personality, a fact which we need to keep constantly in mind in judging almost any and every side of his nature.

As a matter of fact, Heine's Weltschmerz, like his whole personality, is of so complex and contradictory a nature, that it would be a hopeless undertaking to attempt to weigh each contributing factor and estimate exactly the amount of its influence. All the elements which have been briefly noted in the foregoing pages, and probably many minor ones which have not been mentioned, combined to produce in him that "Zerrissenheit" which finds such frequent expression in his writings. But it must be remembered that this "Zerrissenheit" does not always express itself as Weltschmerz. In Heine it often appears simply as pugnacity; and where wit, satire, self-irony or even base calumny succeeds in covering up all traces of the poet's pathos we are no longer justified on sentimental or sympathetic grounds in taking it for granted. In looking for pathos in Heine's verse we shall not have to look in vain, it is true, but we shall find much less than his popular reputation as a poet of Weltschmerz would lead us to expect; and we frequently gain the impression that his disposition and his personal experiences are after all largely the excuse for rather than the occasion of his Weltschmerz.

Pluemacher maintains: "Der Weltschmerz ist entweder die absolute Passivitaet, und die Klage seine einzige Aeusserung, oder aber er verpufft seine Kraefte in rein subjectivistischen, eudaemonischen Anstrengungen,"[282]—a characterization which certainly holds good in the case of Lenau and Hoelderlin respectively. Hoelderlin, although in a visionary, idealistic way, remains, en in his Weltschmerz, altruistic and constructive. Lenau is passive, while Heine is solely egoistic and destructive.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 181: "Studien und Wandertage," Frauenfeld, Huber, 1884.]

[Footnote 182: Vol. II, p. 265.]

[Footnote 183: "Franzoesische Maler. Gemaelde-Ausstellung in Paris, 1831." Heines Saemmtliche Werke, mit Einleitung von E. Elster. Leipzig, Bibliogr. Inst., 1890. (Hereafter quoted as "Werke.") Vol. IV, p. 61.]

[Footnote 184: "Selina, oder ueber die Unsterblichkeit," II, p. 132.]

[Footnote 185: "Heinrich Heines Krankheit und Leidensgeschichte." Eine kritische Studie, von S. Rahmer, Dr. Med., Berlin, 1901.]

[Footnote 186: "Das Liebesleben Hoelderlin's, Lenaus, Heines." Berlin, 1901.]

[Footnote 187: Rahmer, op. cit. p. 45.]

[Footnote 188: Rahmer, p. 46.]

[Footnote 189: Werke, Vol. III, p. 194.]

[Footnote 190: Karpeles ed. Werke (2. Aufl.) VIII, p. 441.]

[Footnote 191: Ibid., p. 378.]

[Footnote 192: Ibid., p. 520.]

[Footnote 193: Karpeles ed. Werke, IX, p. 371.]

[Footnote 194: Ibid., p. 374.]

[Footnote 195: Ibid., p. 459 ff.]

[Footnote 196: Ibid., p. 513.]

[Footnote 197: Ibid., p. 475.]

[Footnote 198: Werke, Vol. I, p. 72, Nos. 18 and 19.]

[Footnote 199: Werke, Vol. I, p. 123, No. 62.]

[Footnote 200: Lenaus Werke, Vol. I, p. 257 ff.]

[Footnote 201: Werke, Vol. I, p. 37.]

[Footnote 202: Ibid., Vol. II, p. 11.]

[Footnote 203: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 97.]

[Footnote 204: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 177.]

[Footnote 205: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 197.]

[Footnote 206: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 408.]

[Footnote 207: Ibid., p. 468.]

[Footnote 208: Karpeles ed. Werke, Vol. II, p. 31.]

[Footnote 209: A few other examples of this same coloring in Heine's lyrics are to be found in the "Neuer Fruehling," Nos. 40, 41 and 43.]

[Footnote 210: Werke, Vol. II, p. 89, No. 55, "O Gott, wie haesslich bitter ist das Sterben!" etc.]

[Footnote 211: Engel: "Heine's Memoiren," p. 133.]

[Footnote 212: Werke, Vol. I, p. 87.]

[Footnote 213: Werke, Vol. I, p. 134.]

[Footnote 214: Ibid., Vol. II, p. 102.]

[Footnote 215: "Nicolaus Lenau. Erinnerung und Betrachtung." Wien, 1876.]

[Footnote 216: Werke, Vol. I, p. 367f.]

[Footnote 217: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 415.]

[Footnote 218: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 48.]

[Footnote 219: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 42 f.]

[Footnote 220: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 428.]

[Footnote 221: Werke, Vol. I, p. 424.]

[Footnote 222: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 416.]

[Footnote 223: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 473.]

[Footnote 224: Cf. Heine's letter to Moser, Jan. 9, 1826, in Karpeles' Autob. p. 191.]

[Footnote 225: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 491.]

[Footnote 226: Cf. Werke, Einleitung, Vol. II, p. 241.]

[Footnote 227: Werke, Vol. II, p. 293.]

[Footnote 228: Cf. Almansor's Speech, Werke, Vol. II, p. 288 f.]

[Footnote 229: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 363.]

[Footnote 230: Ibid., p. 384.]

[Footnote 231: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 391.]

[Footnote 232: Ibid., p. 472.]

[Footnote 233: Ibid., p. 503.]

[Footnote 234: Ibid., p. 540.]

[Footnote 235: Ibid., IX, p. 25.]

[Footnote 236: Ibid., VIII, p. 392.]

[Footnote 237: Karpeles ed. VIII, p. 396.]

[Footnote 238: Ibid., IX, p. 308 ff.]

[Footnote 239: Ibid., p. 316.]

[Footnote 240: Letter to Detmold, Jan. 9, 1845, Werke (Karpeles ed.), Vol. IX, p. 310.]

[Footnote 241: Werke, Vol. II, p. 104.]

[Footnote 242: Ibid., Vol. II, p. 105.]

[Footnote 243: Cf. Karpeles' Autob. p. 164.]

[Footnote 244: Werke, Vol. I, p. 35.]

[Footnote 245: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 92.]

[Footnote 246: Werke, Vol. II, p. 164.]

[Footnote 247: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 102.]

[Footnote 248: One of the most exhaustive monographs on the subject is that of Felix Melchior (Cf. bibliography, infra p. 90), to whom I am indebted for several of the parallels suggested.]

[Footnote 249: Weimar Ausg. I Abt. Bd. 36, p. 128.]

[Footnote 250: In the Rheinisch-westfaelischer Anzeiger, May 31, 1822, No. 23.]

[Footnote 251: Cf. Strodtmann, "H. Heines Leben und Werke," 3. ed., Hamburg, 1884. Vol. I, p. 200.]

[Footnote 252: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 434.]

[Footnote 253: Ibid., p. 433.]

[Footnote 254: Ibid., p. 441.]

[Footnote 255: In discussing the first volume of Heine's "Reisebilder," Immermann had said: "Man hat Heinen beim Beginn seiner dichterischen Laufbahn mit Byron vergleichen wollen. Diese Vergleichung scheint nicht zu passen. Der Brite bringt mit ungeheuren Mitteln nur massige poetische Effekte hervor, waehrend Heine eine Anlage zeigt, sich kuenstlerisch zu begrenzen und den Stoff gaenzlich in die Form zu absorbieren." (Jahrbuecher f. wissenschaftliche Kritik, 1827, No. 97, p. 767.)]

[Footnote 256: Werke, III, p. 116.]

[Footnote 257: Werke, Vol. Ill, p. 304.]

[Footnote 258: Byron's Works, Coleridge ed., London and New York, 1898. Vol. I, p. 189 ff.]

[Footnote 259: Ibid., p. 211.]

[Footnote 260: Cf. the poems "To a Knot of Ungenerous Critics," "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," and others.]

[Footnote 261: Coleridge ed., Vol. II, p. 388 f.]

[Footnote 262: Ibid., p. 406.]

[Footnote 263: Coleridge ed., Vol. I, p. 266 f.]

[Footnote 264: Werke, Vol. I, p. 78.]

[Footnote 265: Coleridge ed., Vol. II, p. 429.]

[Footnote 266: Werke, Vol. I, p. 61.]

[Footnote 267: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 411.]

[Footnote 268: Werke, I, p. 117.]

[Footnote 269: Werke, Karpeles ed. Vol. IX, p. 162 f.]

[Footnote 270: Letter to Immermann, Werke (Karpeles ed.), Vol. VIII, p. 354.]

[Footnote 271: Cf. his vulgar prognostication of Germany's future, Kaput XXVI of the "Wintermaerchen," Werke, Vol. II, p. 488 ff.]

[Footnote 272: Werke, Vol. I, p. 263.]

[Footnote 273: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 308.]

[Footnote 274: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 301, "Adam der erste."]

[Footnote 275: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 316, "Zur Beruhigung."]

[Footnote 276: Ibid., Vol. I, p. 320, "Nachtgedanken."]

[Footnote 277: Cf. supra, note 1.]

[Footnote 278: "Manfred," Coleridge ed., IV, p. 101.]

[Footnote 279: Werke VI, p. 48.]

[Footnote 280: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 541.]

[Footnote 281: Karpeles ed. Werke, VIII, p. 399.]

[Footnote 282: Pluemacher: "Der Pessimismus." Heidelberg, 1888, p. 103.]



CHAPTER V

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THE END