A Man in Love
Page 15
The Countesses von Egloffstein and Adele Schopenhauer are as loyal to me as I am to them. To all three I’ve issued a standing invitation. Every day from five o’clock on they can come and stay as long as they want. And a small miracle: I keep them marvelously entertained. I was always a pretty good entertainer for young ladies. Now I am unsurpassable. And since my other clients are always in attendance, I can see how well my program works. Within me, the small miracle looks like this: since September 17th I have learned that whether sincere or malicious, expressions of sympathy are a disaster. I must make myself invulnerable. I cannot display an inscrutable demeanor from one moment to the next. But I have learned. I am fairly good vis-à-vis women and girls. Here is the inner secret of the small miracle (and I had to inflict this introduction on you only to tell you this), the inner secret is that the power and richness of my demeanor come from you and you alone. That is why it works so well on women and girls. And at the end of half an hour, even one of the Carolines, should she appear before me today, would think I was the pattern of an amiable admirer. And I’m capable of it because it is you I see and feel and thus admire in every girl, in every woman. Since taking you up within me, I’ve known that till now, every feeling, every word I projected onto girls and women was simply routine, lines from a play. Now for the first time I am myself the one who feels and speaks.
Is my hand allowed to hurt? Never since Werther’s days have I written so much by hand. Good night, Ulrike.
Weimar, October 10, 1823
Dear Ulrike,
Yesterday after Der Freischütz they arrived in a swarm and were served. I carved the roast myself. Ottilie, resurrected from her gloomy paralysis, stood next to me and watched my carving hands as if to make sure I was doing everything right. Indeed, she even praised me out loud, and much too loudly. She simply has no sense of propriety. Even my son August took offense. “Father is not a servant,” he said severely. “If you love me you must not judge me,” said Adele Schopenhauer, quoting me to put an ambiguous end to the episode. By the way, here’s another tactical accomplishment in my conduct of the war: if I’m invited to the opera, I always happily accept and then at the last minute, I don’t feel well. If I were to decline right away, I’d have to beat around the bush and conceal the fact that without Ulrike, I can’t stand to listen to music anymore. Thus my tactic of declining in stages. In the meantime, I have brought the young women (to everyone’s amusement I’ve taken to calling them my little foot soldiers) to the point where their eyes no longer search mine for traces of Ulrike. Except for Ottilie, of course. So we sat down to supper. One of the party was the young Nicolovius, a fine fellow who deserves support. And what do you know, the young ladies turned toward that fabulous young man like sunflowers. I was left with their backs. And there, too, it was Ottilie who did everything to keep young Nicolovius at the center of attention. I sensed her need to demonstrate how uninteresting I am when a young man shows up. That spoiled the evening for me, dear Ulrike. On one hand, I could be proud of the fact that no one noticed, but on the other, no one looked at me anymore because under Ottilie’s direction, the magnificently young Nicolovius really deserved everyone’s attention. So the host slunk off and hid in his room. Stadelmann came and lit five wax candles so I could read. Stadelmann knows what vice his master falls into when he makes himself scarce. He reads, but he reads the elegy. He reads it not once or twice, but exactly innumerable times. Dear Ulrike, please allow me to say HE. It is HE whom I need to be ME. What I write you is different than what HE writes you. I never hesitate whether to write as ME or as HE. Since Werther’s nut trees you’ve known who I am. HE is a façade one hopes will grow inward. ME is the admission that no façade can succeed. From September 17th to September 27th, he made a fair copy of the elegy on the best paper that John could obtain and it was unthinkable even for a second that John would be allowed to copy the elegy. And another thing: the elegy was still undisplayable and is so to this day. Of course, he seemed to himself a little immature as he read the elegy in his room, knowing that he should not have indulged himself. And luckily felt spirited enough to tell himself, Why should you deny yourself something that does you so much good. Gradually he came to know the elegy almost by heart, but that by no means led him to skim over the text. He read every line not just with his eyes, but with his soul. With his heart and soul. And now, Ulrike, it’s ME who’s come back. Now I have a confession: how many things I’ve put out into the world about the reasons I write. Whole schools seek their salvation in my avowals that writing can overcome everything that would kill you if you didn’t write. From Werther on. And now, dear Ulrike, I’ve written the elegy! For the first time, it doesn’t help to have written. Only writing helps. But what would I be without the elegy! It spells out my longing. It is proud, proud of itself. I would like to learn that pride from it. I would like to be like the elegy. So composed. It is your elegy. Our elegy. Before you have gotten it and read it, no one will read it. It doesn’t exist, the elegy. Just as you don’t exist. And thus I don’t exist. Listen to how one can grind one’s soul just like grinding one’s teeth. Now I’m going to write the elegy down and send this letter off! Even if Stadelmann has to transport it to Kahla or Pössneck first. Here it is, Ulrike, the Marienbad Elegy.
1.
Was soll ich nun vom Wiedersehen hoffen,
Von dieses Tages noch geschlossner Blüte?
Das Paradies, die Hölle steht dir offen;
Wie wankelsinnig regt sich’s im Gemüte!—
Kein Zweifeln mehr! Sie tritt ans Himmelstor,
Zu ihren Armen hebt sie dich empor.
2.
So warst du denn im Paradies empfangen,
Als wärst du wert des ewig schönen Lebens;
Dir blieb kein Wunsch, kein Hoffen, kein Verlangen,
Hier war das Ziel des innigsten Bestrebens,
Und in dem Anschaun dieses einzig Schönen
Versiegte gleich der Quell sehnsüchtiger Tränen.
3.
Wie regte nicht der Tag die raschen Flügel,
Schien die Minuten vor sich her zu treiben!
Der Abendkuss, ein treu verbindlich Siegel:
So wird es auch der nächsten Sonne bleiben.
Die Stunden glichen sich in zartem Wandern
Wie Schwestern zwar, doch keine ganz den andern.
4.
Der Kuss, der letzte, grausam süß, zerschneidend
Ein herrliches Geflecht verschlungner Minnen
Nun eilt, nun stockt der Fuß, die Schwelle meidend,
Als trieb’ ein Cherub flammend ihn von hinnen;
Das Auge starrt auf düstrem Pfad verdrossen,
Es blickt zurück, die Pforte steht verschlossen.
1.
What have I now to hope from the reunion,
The still unopened blossom of this day?
The gates of Paradise and hell stand open,
How changeable, unsteady is my mind!
But doubts, begone! She comes to heaven’s gate,
And opens wide her arms to raise you up
2.
And thus you were received in Paradise,
As if deserving of eternal life,
With nothing left to wish, to hope, to long for.
Here was the goal of all your inner strife,
And contemplating her unequalled beauty,
The source of yearning tears had quite dried up.
3.
And how the day did beat its hasty pinions
And seemed to drive the minutes rushing on!
The kiss at evening was a seal, a promise
That it will still be thus at the next sunrise.
The hours ran their smooth and gentle course
Like sisters, yes, but each a little different.
4.
A kiss—the last one. Cruelly sweet, it severs
A glorious web of intertwining loves.
My feet, now keen now loath to leave that threshold,
As if a flaming cherub
drove them off;
I stare morosely down the gloomy path,
And looking back, I see the gate is locked.
5.
Und nun verschlossen in sich selbst, als hätte
Dies Herz sich nie geöffnet, selige Stunden
Mit jedem Stern des Himmels um die Wette
An ihrer Seite leuchtend nicht empfunden;
Und Missmut, Reue, Vorwurf, Sorgenschwere
Belasten’s nun in schwüler Atmosphäre.
6.
Ist denn die Welt nicht übrig? Felsenwände,
Sind sie nicht mehr gekrönt von heiligen Schatten?
Die Ernte, reift sie nicht? Ein grün Gelände,
Zieht sich’s nicht hin am Fluss durch Busch und Matten?
Und wölbt sich nicht das überweltlich Große,
Gestaltenreiche, bald Gestaltenlose?
7.
Wie leicht und zierlich, klar und zart gewoben
Schwebt seraphgleich aus ernster Wolken Chor,
Als glich’ es ihr, am blauen Äther droben
Ein schlank Gebild aus lichtem Duft empor;
So sahst du sie in frohem Tanze walten,
Die lieblichste der lieblichsten Gestalten.
8.
Doch nur Momente darfst dich unterwinden,
Ein Luftgebild statt ihrer festzuhalten;
Ins Herz zurück! dort wirst du’s besser finden,
Dort regt sie sich in wechselnden Gestalten;
Zu vielen bildet eine sich hinüber,
So tausendfach, und immer, immer lieber.
5.
And now this heart, locked up within itself,
As if it never opened, never felt
Those blissful, luminous hours at her side,
Shining as bright as every star in heaven;
Now discontent, regret, recriminations,
Weigh upon it like a muggy day.
6.
But have I not the world? Do not the cliffs
Still wear a crown of blessed shadow, fields
Still ripen in the sun? Is there not green
And open land, a meadow by the river?
Does not the sky unfold unearthly greatness,
So full of figures, shifting, disappearing?
7.
How light and dainty, clear and finely spun,
A slender image, luminous and hazy,
Floats up, angelic, from the clouds’ stern choir
On high, in the blue ether, so like her.
You saw her thus, the sovereign of the dance,
The loveliest of all the loveliest dancers.
8.
But only for a moment do you dare
Embrace an airy image in her place;
Look in your heart! There you will better find it,
There where she appears in shifting guises;
In your heart the one becomes the many,
A thousand shapes, each dearer than the last.
9.
Wie zum Empfang sie an den Pforten weilte
Und mich von dannauf stufenweis beglückte,
Selbst nach dem letzten Kuss mich noch ereilte,
Den letztesten mir auf die Lippen drückte:
So klar beweglich bleibt das Bild der Lieben
Mit Flammenschrift ins treue Herz geschrieben.
10.
Ins Herz, das fest wie zinnenhohe Mauer
Sich ihr bewahrt und sie in sich bewahret,
Für sie sich freut an seiner eignen Dauer,
Nur weiß von sich, wenn sie sich offenbaret,
Sich freier fühlt in so geliebten Schranken
Und nur noch schlägt, für alles ihr zu danken.
11.
War Fähigkeit zu lieben, war Bedürfen
Von Gegenliebe weggelöscht, verschwunden,
Ist Hoffnungslust zu freudigen Entwürfen,
Entschlüssen, rascher Tat sogleich gefunden!
Wenn Liebe je den Liebenden begeistet,
Ward es an mir aufs lieblichste geleistet;
12.
Und zwar durch sie!—Wie lag ein innres Bangen
Auf Geist und Körper, unwillkommner Schwere:
Von Schauerbildern rings der Blick umfangen
Im wüsten Raum beklommner Herzensleere;
Nun dämmert Hoffnung von bekannter Schwelle,
Sie selbst erscheint in milder Sonnenhelle.
9.
The way she waited for me at the gate
And cheered me as we mounted, step by step,
And even after the last kiss she ran
To press yet one more kiss upon my lips:
So clear and vivid is her image now,
Inscribed upon my heart in flaming letters.
10.
My heart, which like a lofty battlement
Defends itself and keeps her safe within,
And for her sake is glad to be alive,
Not knowing itself save in her revelation,
And feels more free in such beloved strictures,
And only beats in gratitude to her.
11.
Was ever readiness to love, or ever
The need for love snuffed out or disappeared,
At once hope reappears, makes joyful plans,
Puts resolutions quickly into action.
If ever love gave lover inspiration,
Then I am he, and in the loveliest fashion;
12.
It was through her!—How heavy lay an inner,
Unwelcome fear upon my mind and body,
My gaze enwrapped by images of terror,
My heart a bleak and empty desolation;
Now hope is dawning at a well-known threshold,
Where she herself appears in the mild sunlight.
13.
Dem Frieden Gottes, welcher euch hienieden
Mehr als Vernunft beseliget—wir lesen’s—,
Vergleich ich wohl der Liebe heitern Frieden
In Gegenwart des allgeliebten Wesens;
Da ruht das Herz, und nichts vermag zu stören
Den tiefsten Sinn, den Sinn, ihr zu gehören.
14.
In unsers Busens Reine wogt ein Streben,
Sich einem Höhern, Reinern, Unbekannten
Aus Dankbarkeit freiwillig hinzugeben,
Enträtselnd sich den ewig Ungenannten;
Wir heißen’s: fromm sein!—Solcher seligen Höhe
Fühl ich mich teilhaft, wenn ich vor ihr stehe.
15.
Vor ihrem Blick, wie vor der Sonne Walten,
Vor ihrem Atem, wie vor Frühlingslüften,
Zerschmilzt, so längst sich eisig starr gehalten,
Der Selbstsinn tief in winterlichen Grüften;
Kein Eigennutz, kein Eigenwille dauert,
Vor ihrem Kommen sind sie weggeschauert.
16.
Es ist, als wenn sie sagte: “Stund um Stunde
Wird uns das Leben freundlich dargeboten,
Das Gestrige ließ uns geringe Kunde,
Das Morgende, zu wissen ist’s verboten;
Und wenn ich je mich vor dem Abend scheute,
Die Sonne sank und sah noch, was mich freute.
13.
The peace of God that grants more bliss on earth
Than even reason can—as we have read—
For me is like the peace of love serene
In the presence of the being I love best.
The heart’s at rest and nothing can disturb
The deepest sense that I belong to her.
14.
In our pure breasts there surges aspiration
To give ourselves in voluntary thanks
To something higher, purer, yet unknown,
Decipher what remains forever nameless;
We call it piety!—And in her presence
I feel a part of such a lofty bliss.
15.
Her gaze is like the working of the sun,
Her breath is like the gentle airs of spring.
They m
elt away the icey self-absorption
That long has lingered deep in wintry crevices.
No selfishness, no willfulness remains,
For at her coming, both evaporate.
16.
It is as if she said, “Hour by hour
Life is offered in pure benevolence,
Little remains of what was yesterday
And what tomorrow brings we cannot know.
If ever I felt dread at the coming evening,
The sun still sank, and looked on something joyful.
17.
Drum tu wie ich und schaue, froh verständig,
Dem Augenblick ins Auge! Kein Verschieben!
Begegn’ ihm schnell, wohlwollend wie lebendig,
Im Handeln sei’s, zur Freude, sei’s dem Lieben!
Nur wo du bist, sei alles, immer kindlich,
So bist du alles, bist unüberwindlich.”
18.
Du hast gut reden, dacht ich: zum Geleite
Gab dir ein Gott die Gunst des Augenblickes,
Und jeder fühlt an deiner holden Seite
Sich augenblicks den Günstling des Geschickes;
Mich schreckt der Wink, von dir mich zu entfernen—
Was hilft es mir, so hohe Weisheit lernen!
19.
Nun bin ich fern! Der jetzigen Minute,
Was ziemt denn der? Ich wüsst es nicht zu sagen;
Sie bietet mir zum Schönen manches Gute,
Das lastet nur, ich muss mich ihm entschlagen.