Forgive me! But why not be open about the only things that really matter? I haven’t found a God yet, but I’m grateful that I was able to find some revelation. You may regard the world of my ideas as nothing but a little kindergarten, but since I haven’t found anything better, I want to remain faithful to an aesthetic world whose ultimate boundaries are invisible to our eyes. I realize that even the highest achievements of our poets are just patchwork, and I sometimes feel that our entire literature is quite puny and impoverished; but the “world of poetry” that I have in mind is utterly magnificent, and when compared to its splendor, all existing works, even the Iliad and Hamlet and Faust, seem but a shabbily designed forecourt.[ … ]
TO KARL ISENBERG
Tübingen, June 12, 1897
Thanks for your kind and clever letter. I have a free hour right now, so I can pick up the thread again.
I have founded my “center” on a belief in beauty, which is virtually the same thing as a belief in art. You are a pedagogue, so you’re professionally more or less hostile to art, since whenever the concept of art crops up in the classroom, you have to start thinking about that ugly essay question on “Art and Morality.”
I certainly have no desire for a morality based on aesthetics, since art (“the beautiful”) would only suffer because it is too good for 90 out of 100 people. Aesthetics as an educator—legislation without criminal law. This “center” of mine has developed from a passing fancy, a mere plaything, into a religion. As a university graduate and teacher, you may dismiss this religion as a kind of unscientific aestheticism. But it is rich in consolation, rich in the diversity of lived experience, rich in secrets and revelations. I have discovered for the first time what religion is, and since then treat every “belief” unbelievably gently, for I believe firmly that I’m now at a higher stage of existence.
For me, Beauty in Nature and Beauty in Art (also literature) are of approximately equal value, although I’m perhaps a bit more sensitive to the latter. I don’t regard Nature as the mother of all Art and the primary mode of being for all Beauty, but rather, just like Art, as an image, a symbol, an attempt to represent ideal Beauty. No work of art or scene from nature ever encompasses within itself all the laws and possibilities of aesthetics that may be valid within its frame. So, e.g., I consider many landscapes to be to some extent subjective creations, marked with the stamp of an artistic personality.
You may think my love for Chopin is characteristic of my taste—but that’s only the case in music. Although I admire rhythm and euphony, when it comes to literature I love the beat produced by individual words and the meaningful individual sounds more than the perfect, complex tonal technique that impresses me in Chopin.
TO JOHANNES AND MARIE HESSE
Tübingen, September 25, 1897
[ … ] God help art now that the Swiss are discovering female folk poets. That is a flourishing industry. Not to mention religious poetry! That is the most ticklish and, on the whole, least artful genre I have ever come across. The more lyrical, the less pious—and vice versa! It was the Moravians who really slit the genre’s throat.
Do forgive me! It’s just that there is something tragicomical from the outset about the religious and, more specifically, nonliturgical verse of Protestant Pietism—and the gems by Gerhardt and Claudius don’t necessarily gainsay this.[ … ]
I understand why my Chopin lyric didn’t appeal to you.46 It’s not great. But what Wagner was to Nietzsche, Chopin is to me—perhaps even more so. There is a relationship between the very essence of my intellectual and spiritual life and the warm, lively melodies, the piquant, lascivious, nervous harmony, and all the other qualities of Chopin’s remarkably intimate music.
And I frequently marvel at the elegance, reserve, and accomplished sovereignity of Chopin as a person. Everything about him is noble, although he can be degenerate.
One other thing! Over the past few weeks I have written a couple of little essays, which are not intended for publication but for use in personal letters, etc. These are more or less ready now; they were intended for Mother’s birthday—as a substitute for my unsatisfactory correspondence. All are quite personal and written for you alone. But now I hesitate once again and don’t know whether I should send them to you. They certainly won’t be any great success—no doubt we shall always be going around in circles searching for mutual understanding.[ … ]
Much love and many kisses, gratefully yours
TO HELENE VOIGT-DIEDERICHS47
Tübingen, August 27, 1898
I’m putting aside Mundt’s Literary History, Sehlegel’s Reviews, and Novalis’s Hymns48 in order to visit you for a few moments.
As you can see, I’m making steady progress with the Romantics. I’m studying a lot, and am gradually acquiring an overview plus some firm opinions. Romanticism! It has all the mystery and youthfulness of the German heart, all its excess energy as well as its sickness, and above all that longing for intellectual heights, that gift for youthful, ingeniously speculative thought, which our age absolutely lacks. The religion of art: to me that is the essence and goal of Romanticism at its most naïve and refined. I find the amateurish, halfhearted cult of Nietzsche in our recent literature sad and ridiculous. How few understand him, how gloomy and pitiful they seem in comparison to him, and how little there is to show for all the adulation and quotation! The dark, feverish verses of Dehmel49 have the most life. The era of the Schlegels, Hardenberg, Steffens, Schelling, and Schleiermacher was far richer! If Novalis had been a bit more prolific—a not uncommon talent—if he had been better at putting books together, he would have surpassed all the literati of his time and those of subsequent eras. Anyhow, I love him the way he is. He is one of the few who know more than they say, who are richer than their poems, bigger than their words.
But forgive me for lecturing. That’s what happens to people who don’t keep a diary. It’s not easy for me to find the right conversational tone, since I’m wearing my work clothes and the study lamp is on. I would like to be with you today, asking you all sorts of things, and listening to your answers, which I already know. I would like to hear you speak or discuss one of our favorites together.
Some time ago I heard little Pauer playing Chopin’s Scherzo in B Minor. It was my first chance since Sarasate50 to hear a brilliantly virtuoso performance, and it did me a world of good. I’ve never heard Chopin played so finely, elegantly and fleetingly, with all the charm of his mysteries and twilights. The shrill high point of the scherzo, which few performers succeed in doing well, sounded pure and captivating.
A few weeks ago I spent an enjoyable day here with my two sisters. I brought them and some friends up the Lichtenstein—it was a beautiful, happy day, full of good cheer, lively conversations, forest fragrances, and mountain light. Since then we have had a succession of hot summer days and humid, sleepless nights; a daily swim in the Neckar was the only way to cool off, and there was a lot of work too, so in the evenings I was glad to get to bed at last, and yet I would start off the next day feeling impatient and not in the least bit refreshed. Then, finally, the day before yesterday, we had some rain and a storm. I lay at the window listening half the night. Now I can use the evenings again to work and read. Besides theoretical works, Novalis and also Tieck, his friend and counterpart. Am reading some things by Tieck for the first time, and understanding others better now. I often find his sense of color delightful; it’s interesting to watch his cheerful and often quite daring games with both theme and form; besides, there are some marvelous pieces in his fairy tales and novellas.
Tübingen, October 2, 1898
Thank you for your greetings from Nürnberg. I’m glad that you didn’t force yourself to write a more formal letter, and just to prove that I don’t want to be the kind of correspondent who simply tots up credits and debits, or questions and answers, I’m getting back to you unbidden.
This is a long, lonely Sunday; I find it impossible to spend the entire day doing intellectual work, and during the pa
st two months all my friends have been away on their travels. I have just come back from a walk. I sat along the splendid path lined with linden trees, and watched the leaves falling and the children playing. An aging, independent scholar disturbed my musings—a desiccated, lonely, and embittered bachelor known as “skullhead.” For years now he has been living all alone. He injected his bitter mockery into the elegy I had just begun, and walked around those paths with me for a whole hour, talking and grumbling. It was a strange thing to watch: he couldn’t help making bitter and angry jokes, yet he needed so badly to talk about himself and be sociable that he thrust himself upon me in a manner I found almost moving.
I’m in my room now, alternating between writing and reading. Schleiermacher’s letters are propped open in front of me, and I’m reading them eagerly and with great pleasure. Alongside them is the copybook full of memories that I once mentioned. I’d love to show it to you. The uncovered past is here beside this fresh page, and I’m comparing my active life now to my phlegmatic dreams back then. And that brings to mind my only decent, worthwhile friendship during these years, and I think gratefully of you. I have often been poor, hard-bitten, embittered, but when I examine my life now, I realize that your concern has invigorated and encouraged me, and that I’m on my way uphill.
Just imagine! I have bought myself a violin again, and love fooling around with it, since I enjoy this harmless mode of introspection and meditation.
I don’t have any opportunity here to socialize with women, and this makes me feel even closer to you. I always found my relations with women especially meaningful, and miss them even more than family life; I have always profited greatly from the experience of having female company. Especially now, for since I stopped going to social gatherings and ceased drinking beer and wine in the pubs—out of a sense of revulsion and also for health reasons—my friends here have increasingly failed to meet my needs.
Once I get used to the idea of ditching my independent studies for a bit, I may go off wandering—who knows?—maybe next year. It is my inner isolation that makes me long for lots of conversations and activities with people, whom I could really love and learn something from.
An indirect result of this empty life devoid of social contacts is that my mind doubles its expectations of my solitary pursuits. My mind lusts after studies that I simply don’t have the free time to pursue; it squints at Plato and chides me every day for not having read the works of Kant and Hegel. I feel those summits are beyond the scope of my studies in literary aesthetics, and if I were leading a more active life, they would certainly lose much of their appeal. Actually, I’m not historically or philosophically minded, although I do have a critical bent; I find life the best test for my heartbeat, works of beauty for my eye, and euphonious song for my ear. My muse cherishes above all else the play of light, feverish colors, the quivering of delicate sounds, music rather than sculpture.
So you see, I was serious when I said I would tell you something about myself. The twilight is interrupting me, and I shall finish now, so I can devote the lamplight to my books.
Where are you now? And were you able to find what you’re looking for? In exchange for this glimpse of my solitary retreat, just send me a little whiff of the wide world and all those treasures you are seeing.
TO MARIE HESSE
Tübingen, December 2, 1898
There is no way I would ever refuse to listen attentively to what you have to say. I can see that you read the poems carefully51 and kept an eye out for the genuine article. What should I say about your opinion? I believe you are absolutely right in some cases, in others it’s a matter of insignificant differences of interpretation, and in others still you touch upon things that to me have the force of law. But what’s the point? I wish to thank you for reading all the lyrics so lovingly, and also for going beyond them and thinking of me with such heartfelt solicitude.
Just two things by way of justification! First of all, the very title Romantic Lyrics suggests a confession that is aesthetic as well as personal. I believe that they mark the end of a phase and that it just isn’t right to draw conclusions from them about my future work. The manuscript has been finished since spring—I have been lonelier, quieter, and more clearheaded ever since. Second, after a lot of reflection, I felt that, in putting it together and deciding which songs to include or omit, I couldn’t let myself be swayed by anything personal. The little book was not intended as a miscellany, but rather as a unified whole, a series of modulations and variations on one basic Romantic motif.
Believe me, Mother, your verdict was more important to me than any of the reviews; I’m much in awe of your judgment and sensitivity. Besides, our hearts are not at such a remove that I would find your motherly admonitions and worries incomprehensible and unworthy of respect. You have no idea how many of them seem true to me, even though, despite my best intentions, I’m unable at present to make them my own. When I think of my difficult years, how can there be any part of me left that is ungrateful and doesn’t want to submit to you!
I have been having headaches since the day before yesterday arid am using phenacetin with good results. I was healthy for so long that I now feel a bit Subdued and dispirited. You will always have to make plenty of allowances for me and my letters!
TO HELENE VOIGT-DIEDERICHS
Tübingen, February 19, 1899
Your kind letter reached me unexpectedly early this time. Your inner eye must be unusually clear-sighted and you must have a remarkable sensitivity in personal matters, since you can read my entire being in a way nobody else can. The nighttime pages that you’re holding in your hands originated during countless midnight walks on sleepless nights along streets, bridges, and avenues. These solitary hours under the swaying chestnut and plane trees have become an invaluable and purifying source of memory and reflection; my days have been refreshed and deepened by the cold breath of those nights. During that period I must have reviewed the memories of my entire life some hundred times; I had much cause for self-accusation and regret, since I discovered many extinguished stars in my firmament. But I felt that the remaining ones deserved to survive, and I made friends with my past. My wishes reflect the day and the hour; perhaps I shall never again be able to spend months in humble reflection discovering inner strengths the way I have since last summer. Often, when I had finished contemplating some memory and stood gazing into the dark Neckar, I would see standing beside me in a vision a friend, who was inwardly at one with me. Occasionally I had to smile and stretch out my hand, as if you were coming toward me and knew everything I had gone through and contemplated here in the dark.
On these strolls I’m often approached by the shadowy forms of future works, which have arisen from the depths, those large misty shapes. I used to greet them, and certainly recognized them emotionally, and yearned for a time when I could finish molding them. So I’m expecting two treasures, and wish one of them could be present to share my peace and happiness.
Nighttime sounds heard during one of those late walks—the branches creaking, the river murmuring, the sound of someone’s footsteps one night—there is nothing more to those artlessly written pages in my copybook. I had intended to add a wreath in honor of my dear Chopin, but haven’t found anything good enough yet.
On Shrove Tuesday a harlequin put his arm around me and asked: “Are you the ghost of the avenues?” I said yes and freed myself; he then called out after me: “If it’s poetry you want, you’ll have to come up with something more forceful than your ‘silken’ Romantic verse.”
Today (Sunday) I had a most uncommonly pleasant experience. I was at one of the splendid Schapitz matinees and heard two Beethoven quartets, op. 59 III and op. 131. The minuet and allegro molto in the first piece are wonderfully elegant. In all of Germany one couldn’t hear anything that would surpass the noble, exceptionally well-rehearsed and tightly disciplined Beethoven quartets of those four chamber musicians from Stuttgart. The audience is very small and just about every connoisseur is there.
I really enjoy the whole thing. It takes some courage to give a public concert in that sober hall, in the morning light, standing there with just four stands, the instruments, and those virtually unknown Beethoven quartets. I find this Schapitz music unutterably refreshing. Just imagine: a string quartet on Sunday morning, without the lighting, jewelry, and pomp of the virtuosos, in front of barely a hundred listeners, with no gossipy intermissions and sparkling dresses, so that the audience is extremely attentive and has to do its best to fill the hall with applause. The four performers, on the other hand, are hardworking artists, who are superbly trained and work together cordially, without any trace of virtuoso egotism, to bring pure versions of these masterly old quartets to light. It’s a great test for the audience: most drift away; limitations in intellect and education become quite clear. The opera fans are the first to leave; one senses with some embarrassment that the music and orchestra in the theaters have dulled even good ears and made it impossible for them to appreciate these elegant, but by no means pompous works of art. If you had heard today’s andante ma non troppo, there would be no need for me to resort to words: the four violinists sitting on their little chairs, painfully misunderstood.
Now it has got very late, so addio! I’m eager to hear whether your husband has any use for my manuscript. My thanks for your letter, and also for your friendship. You know, the trust and understanding you have shown have created an echo in me, indeed more than an echo. With an expression of friendship
TO EUGEN DIEDERICHS
Tübingen, April 6, 1899
I was delighted to get your friendly letter. I fully agree with your plan to publish 600 copies;52 please let me know if you have any other suggestions. I fully realize that we cannot expect any great demand given the specific and perhaps all too personal nature of my little book. The very thought of those 600 customers makes me want to burst out laughing.
Soul of the Age Page 7
