Читать книгу Main Currents in Nineteenth Century Literature - 6. Young Germany - Георг Брандес - Страница 10

The classical literature of Germany in the end of the eighteenth and the early years of the nineteenth century was in subject or form imitative of the antique; the Romantic literature which followed swore allegiance to the Middle Ages; both stood aloof from surrounding actualities, from the Now, from existing political or social conditions; neither directly aimed at producing any change in these. The ideal floated in the deep blue ether of Greece or in the Catholic sky of the Middle Ages. Now it was resolutely dragged down to earth. The modern ideal, an ideal which contains no mythic element, manifested itself to the dreamers and the workers. And with a haste, a violence, that too often made prose journalistic, poetry only lyric or quite fragmentary, the opposition poets and prose writers set to work to draw all modern life into the sphere of literature. From the fact of this inclusion, this appropriation, taking place when things were on a war footing, wit and satire became more prominent powers than they had ever been before in Germany; and the mood and inspiration of the "Sturm und Drang" period seemed to have revived, so far as aggressive defiance of the established was concerned. It was a strong craving for liberty that first induced Heine and Börne to strike out a new path in German literature, and afterwards inspired the writers who followed them, and were known by the vague name of "Young Germany."

But there was one great man who, foreigner though he was, influenced German intellectual life by his personality, writings, and actions more than any of the famous men of the past. This was Lord Byron. It was long before men's eyes in Germany were opened to his artistic weaknesses and deficiencies. Gutzkow alone, about the year 1835, begins to criticise him discerningly. But the Byron whom Goethe had admired and shown favour to (though principally because of that in him which the old master attributed to his own influence), Byron, with his contempt for the real negation of liberty that lay concealed beneath the "wars of liberty" against Napoleon, with his championship of the oppressed, his revolt against social custom, his sensuality and spleen, his passionate love of liberty in every domain, transfigured by his death as a liberator, seemed to the men of that day to be an embodiment of all that they understood by the modern spirit, modern poetry.

Wilhelm Müller, the poet of the Griechenlieder, sings of him with fervent enthusiasm:

"Siebenunddreissig Trauerschüsse? Und wen haben sie gemeint?

Sind es siebenunddreissig Siege, die er abgekämpft dem Feind?

Sind es siebenunddreissig Wunden, die der Held trägt auf der Brust?

… … … … … … … … … … … … … . …

Siebenunddreissig Jahre sind es, welche Hellas heut beweint!

Sind' die Jahre, die du lebtest? Nein um diese wein ich nicht:

Ewig leben diese Jahre in des Ruhmes Sonnenlicht,

Auf des Liedes Adlerschwingen, die mit nimmer müdem Schlag

Durch die Bahn der Zeiten rauschen, rauschend grosse Seelen wach.

Nein, ich wein um andre Jahre, Jahre die du nicht gelebt,

Um die Jahre, die für Hellas du zu leben hast gestrebt:

Solche Jahre, Monde, Tage kündet mir des Donners Hall,

Welche Lieder, welche Kämpfe, welche Wunden, welchen Fall!

Einen Fall im Siegestaumel auf den Mauern von Byzanz,

Eine Krone dir zu Füssen, auf dem Haupt der Freiheit Kranz!"[1]

Byron's pride and his contempt for political slavery meet us again in Platen; his aristocratic tone, his antipathy to prejudice, his taste for travel, his love of animals and of nature, his charm and his irony, live again in Prince Pückler. How enormously he influenced the formation of Heine's poetical ideal needs no insisting on, so forcibly does it strike every one who is familiar with the development of the modern literature of Europe. But it is both remarkable and instructive to observe the light in which he was looked upon by Börne, the first pioneer of the new German literary movement, a fundamentally different character from the English poet. One would naturally imagine that the vain, frivolous sides of Byron's personality would repel him, as these same qualities did in the case of Heine. Far from it. Note the expressions he employs in writing about him (Briefe aus Paris, No. 44) after reading Moore's Life of Byron. He calls the book wine that sends a glow of warmth through the poor German wayfarer, shivering on his journey through life. He feels almost ill with envy of such a life:

"Like a comet that submits to no rules and regulations of the star community, Byron wandered through the world, wild and free; came without welcome, departed without farewell, preferring solitude to the thraldom of friendship. His feet never touched the dry earth; through storm and shipwreck he steered undauntedly onwards, and the first harbour he came to was the grave. Oh, how he was tossed about! But what islands of bliss did he not discover! … His was the kingly nature … he is king who lives as he lists. When I hear people say that Byron only lived for thirty-seven years, I laugh; he lived for a thousand. And when they pity him because he was so melancholy! Is not God melancholy? Melancholy is God's gladness. Is it possible to be glad when one loves? Byron hated men because he loved mankind, hated life because he loved eternity. I would give all the joys of my life for a year of Byron's sorrows."

We observe not only that Börne takes everything about Byron seriously, but that he is quite unconscious of the same self-indulgent temperament in Byron which repelled him so strongly in Goethe. And it is still more surprising that Börne should consider his own nature to be akin to Byron's. He writes:—

"Perhaps you ask me in surprise how such a beggarly fellow as I come to compare myself with Byron; in which case I must tell you something that you do not know. When Byron's genius on his journey through the firmament first came to this earth, he stayed for a night with me. But the lodging was not to his mind; he left again at once, and took up his quarters at the Hotel Byron. I sorrowed over this for many a year, grieved over my insignificance, my failure. But that is past now; I have forgotten it, and live contented in my poverty. My misfortune is that I was born in the middle class, for which I am not suited."

Words such as these bear striking witness to the magic power which the shade of Byron still exercised over the minds of the leaders of literature.

[1] What mean these thirty-seven minute-guns? Do they tell of thirty-seven victories? of thirty-seven wounds on the hero's breast? … They are thirty-seven years, that Greece is mourning to-day. Are they the years of thy life? Nay, over these we do not mourn; these live for ever in the sunlight of fame, borne upon the eagle wings of song, whose tireless beat resounds down the ages, awakening great souls. 'Tis other years I weep, the years thou wouldst have lived for Greece. 'Tis of these years and months and days that the volley's thunder speaks to me. What songs, what struggles, what wounds, what a fall! A fall in the intoxicating moment of victory, on the walls of Byzantium, a crown at thy feet, on thy brow the wreath of liberty!