Friday, March 14, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
A Great Poet as a Music Critic
Heinrich Heine’s Relation to the Great Masters of Music
By Tod Buchanan Galloway
IN THAT MOST INTERESTING book, “That Man Heine” by Rabbi Browne, there is nothing finer or more dramatic than his closing words in which
he graphically depicts the agonizing death scene of the unfortunate
writer. He says, “Frightful convulsions
set in and his thin white face was distorted with the agony of the last
moment. Then the rigidity passed and his
face became calm once more. The fires
died down in his eyes; the bloodless lips no longer curled. The smile of Mephisto was gone and only the
sweet benignity of the Nazarene suffused the face of the poet. For at last Heinrich Heine was at rest. ‘Olav La-Shalon,’ his brethren in Israel
could now say of him: ‘Peace is upon
him!’ For his exile was ended, he was at
home at last—he belonged.”
It is
not generally known that the name of this widely gifted, most unhappy man was
not Heinrich but Harry, as he was named for an English merchant, a Mr. Harry
with whom his parents did business. It
was not until he apostatized from Judaism and accepted the Christian religion
that he emerged as Heinrich Heine, by which name he became known, and by which
name he will be famous through the ages.
A poor,
miserable, unhappy genius, who “completed the circle of faith through Judaism,
Catholicism, Paganism, Protestantism, Atheism and Saint Simonism, he returned
at last to is starting point, that battered, despised by (for the Jew)
apparently inevitable religion called Judaism.”
Heine
once wrote to his brother Max, “All the troubles of my life have not come
through any fault of mine but as a necessity of my social position and my
mental gifts.” Abuse and neglect from
which he suffered all his life, poisoned him spiritually and broke him
physically. At times his nerves were so
raw from incessant vexation and his body so poisoned with disease that he
really did not know what he was doing.
The Jew Despised
IT IS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE for those of us who live in the
present age to appreciate the unhappy—almost barbaric—indignities under which
the Jew lived in Germany during the lifetime of Heine, no matter what may have
been his genius and abilities. To
appreciate the conditions against which such a man labored and contended makes
it more possible to know and understand the bitterness and rancor which
affected his whole life.
As one
has said, he was one of those hapless creatures to be fated—inexorably
fated—never to enjoy rest and quiet; one for whom no place had been reserved at
“the festal board of life.” Partially
the fault of his own temperament, but largely the fault of the world. As an example of the intolerance and
blindness of the German Confederacy at this time, in 1835 it passed what Browne
characterizes as one of the most preposterous legislative enactments in all
modern history. It was a blanket
proscription of all books which ever had been written by any member of what was
known as the young Germany group, and also of all books any member might write
in the future. Of this group the most
brilliant member by far was Heine.
Heine
was essentially a modern poet. He
revolted against all imitations of classical poetry; so he became the founder
of a new school of poetry, not only for Germany but also for the whole
world. He was not only a lyrical poet
but also a poet of the sea, a writer of ballads and romance and the poet of
liberty. Had he not been preeminent as a
lyric poet, his ballads and romances alone, like Die beiden Grenadiere and Die Wallfahrt nach Kevlaar, would have
made his name famous. No other German
poet, with the exception of Goethe, ever made his verse so completely the
verbal embodiment of music.
Enjoy Robert Schumann's composition with text from Heinrich Heine's Die beiden Grenadier performed here by Bryn Terfel, baritone and Malcolm Martineau, piano:
George Brandes characterized him as “the thistle in the garden of literature.” Not only because he pricked most people who
came near him but also because he too was the product of neglect. This was the man whom Brandes said was “the
greatest lyric poet who ever had lived in Germany—the greatest who had ever
lived.”
George Eliot said of him, “His greatest power as a poet lies in his simple pathos, in
ever varied but natural expression he has given to the tender emotions.” DieLotusblume, Ich Grolle Nicht, EinFichtenbaum Steht Einsam, Vergiftelsind neine Lieder, were set to
everlasting song by the leading composers in the world, Schumann, Schubert,
Mendelssohn and Wagner; and the whole world has sung them.
The Poet Musical
THE INTERESTING STORY of Heine’s life—sad as it is—is not,
however, the purpose of this article for The Etude but rather as to how he came
in touch with music and his abilities as a musical critic.
When
finally, in 1831, Heine had been hounded out of Germany for his political and
literary efforts, he took refuge in Paris where he was much happier than in his
native land. Here he found the French
much more liberal in their treatment of the Jewish people; and his position,
socially and artistically, was much happier.
As he wrote, “Ah! the sweet scent of Parisian politeness. How it refreshes my soul, after all the
tobacco smoke, sauerkraut smell and rudeness it swallowed in Germany.”
All the
pangs of leave taking from the Fatherland—and they had not been slight—were
forgotten in the ecstasy of his first sight of the holy soil of the
boulevards. Here his parched soul found
a freedom, a gayety and a politeness such as he had never known before. Here he
became acquainted with such literary lights as Gautier, Dumas, George Sand, de Musset and Bergner. He also
came to know Rossini, Berlioz, Liszt and Chopin.
He had
made an arrangement with his friend, Baron Colta [sic], to furnish the Allgemeine Zeitung with regular letters
from Paris. These at first were almost
wholly art articles. Heine had no real
knowledge of art, but such was his versatility—he was a born journalist—that he
could make any subject entertaining and amusing. These articles were afterwards gathered and
published as “The Salon,” and it is in them that we find most of his criticisms
on music and musicians. Stephen Heller,
the composer, wrote, “Heine understood nothing about music, theoretically or
practically; and yet, because of his imaginative and penetrating mind, he divined
more in music than many so-called musical people. . . . I do not believe that it ever occurred to ask
me to play for him. It did not interest
him greatly, although he wrote some clever and cultured as well as very
humorous things about it.”
Among
the first of his writings on musical subjects was a whimsical account of the
popularity of the “Der Freischutz” of von Weber, on its production in Berlin,
and of the persecution he suffered from hearing from morning to night the Jungfrau Kranz sung in all directions.
He
writes:
“In however good a temper I get
up in the morning, the cheerfulness is immediately driven out of me, for even
at this hour the schoolboys pass my window whistling the Jungfrau Kranz. An
hour does not pass before I hear that the daughter of my hostess is up with her
Jungfrau Kranz. I hear my barber then singing to himself upstairs
to the tune of the Jungfrau Kranz. The washerwoman’s little girl then comes
humming Lavendel, Myrt, and Thymian. So it goes on. My head swims. I cannot endure it. I rush out of the house and throw myself with
disgust into a hackney coach, happy that I can hear no singing while the wheels
are rattling. I get out at Miss __________’s,
and ask if she is at home. The servant
runs to see. Yes. The door opens; the sweet creature sits at
the pianoforte, and receives me with the words—
‘Wo bleibt der schmucke
Freirsmann, Ich kann ihn kaum erwarten.’
“’You sing like an angel!’ I
cry, in a spasmodic way. ‘I will begin
again from the beginning,’ lisps the good creature; and she twists me again her
Jungfrau Kranz, and twists, and
twists, until I twist myself like a worm with unspeakable pangs, and cry out in
anguish of soul, ‘Help, help!’ After
which the accursed song never quits me all day.
My most pleasant moments are embittered—even as I sit at midday at
dinner, the singer Heinsius trolls it out at dessert. The whole afternoon I am strangled with Veilchen
blauer Seide. There the Jungfrau Kranz is played off on the organ by a
cripple. Here it is fiddled off by a
blind man. In the evening the whole
horror is let loose. Then is there a
piping, a howling, a falsettoing, a gurgling, and always the same tune. The song of Kaspar or the Huntsman’s Chorus may
be howled in from time to time, by an illuminated student or ensign, for a
change; but the Jungfrau Kranz is
permanent: when one has ended it,
another begins it. Out of every house it
springs upon me; everybody sings it with his own variation; yea, I almost fancy
the dogs in the street howl it. . . .
However, do not imagine that the melody is really bad; on the contrary,
it has reached its popularity through excellence. Mais toujours perdrix! You understand me: the whole of ‘Der Freischutz’ is excellent
and surely deserves the consideration given to it by all German.”
It was
when painting and sculpturing for a time declined, in 1841, that Heine wrote,
“Only the younger sister, Music, lifts herself up with original individual
power. Will she keep her place or will
she again fall down? These are questions
which only a later generation can answer.”
He goes
on to explain that the music season terrifies more than it delights him; that
people are simply being drowned in music, and that in Paris there is not a
single house wherein one can take refuge as in an ark against the deluge of
sound. “The noble tone-science,” he
says, “is overflowing our whole existence.
This is for me a very critical sign and brings upon me sometimes a fit of ill humor which degenerates into the
most morose injustice against our great maestri
and dillettanti.” That he was at least an honest critic and not
above self-criticism seems apparent from this; and undoubtedly some allowance
should be made for the delicacy of the nerves of a man who, when he was staying
with a friend, was obliged to ask to have the clock stopped in the next room to
the one in which he passed the night, in order that he might go to sleep.
Of the
pianoforte, of which he speaks as “the instrument of martyrdom, whereby the
present elegant world is racked and tortured for all its affectations,” he
seems sometimes to have had a special horror.
However, that Heine was able to do honor to really great artists on the
piano is seen by his critiques of Liszt, Thalberg, and Chopin, with each of
whom he was intimately acquainted.
Of
Liszt he writes:
“He is indisputably the artist in Paris who
awakes the most unlimited enthusiasm, as well as the most zealous
opponents. It is a characteristic sign
that no one speaks of him with indifference.
Without power no one can excite in this world either favorable or
hostile passions. One must possess fire,
to excite men to hatred as well as to love.
That which testifies especially for Liszt is the complete esteem with
which even his enemies speak of his personal worth. He is a man of whimsical but noble character,
unselfish, and without deceit.
Especially remarkable are his spiritual proclivities; he has great taste
for speculative ideas; and he takes even more interest in the essays of the
various schools which occupy themselves with the solution of the great problems
of heaven and earth than in his art itself.
It is, however, praiseworthy, this indefatigable yearning after light
and divinity; it is a proof of his taste for the holy, for the religious.”
Notwithstanding
his liking for Liszt, personally, Heine confesses that his music which on one
occasion he likens to a scene from the Apocalypse, did not impress him
agreeable. On the occasion of a
subsequent visit of Liszt to Paris, he seems to have become more reconciled to
his playing.
He then
writes:
“Yes, Franz Liszt, the pianist of genius,
whose playing often appears to me as a the melodious agony of a spectral world,
is again here, and giving concerts which exercise a charm which borders on the
fabulous. By his side all piano players,
with the exception of Chopin, the Raphael of the pianoforte, are as
nothing. In fact, with the exception of
this last named artist alone, all the other piano players, whom we hear this
year in countless concerts, are only piano players—their only merit is the
dexterity with which they handle the machine of wood and wire. With Liszt, on the contrary, people think no
more about the ‘difficulty overcome’; the piano disappears, and music is
revealed. In this respect has Liszt,
since we last heard him, made the most astonishing progress. With this advantage he combines now a repose
of manner which we failed to perceive in him formerly. If, for example, he played a storm on the
pianoforte, we saw the lightning flicker about his features, his limbs
fluttered as with the blast of a storm, and his long locks of hair dripped as
with real showers of rain. Now, when he
plays the most violent storm, he still seems exalted above it, like the
traveler who stands on the summit of an Alp while the tempest rages in the
valley. The clouds lie deep below him,
the lightning curls like snakes at his feet, but his head is uplifted smilingly
into the pure ether.”
Heine
furnishes us with sketches of the famous composers of his time like Spontini,
Rossini, Meyerbeer and Berlioz. The
following description of the rugged, German Berlioz gives us a good example of
the poet’s idea in the interpretations of his genius.
“To each man all honor. We begin today with Berlioz, whose first
concert commenced the musical season, and was regarded, in fact, as its
overture. Those pieces—more or less
new—which were set before the public found due applause; and even the most
sluggish spirits were borne along by the might of his genius, which reveals
itself in all the creations of the great master. Here was a sweep of aerie which betrayed no
ordinary singing-bird. There was a
colossal nightingale, a philomel of the size of an eagle, such as there may
have been in the primeval world. Yes,
the music of Berlioz has, in my opinion, a smack of the primeval, if not
antediluvian world; and it reminds me of races of beasts which have become
extinct; of fabulous kingdoms and their impieties; of impossibilities towered
up heaven-high; of Babylon; of the handing gardens of Semiramis; of Nineveh; of
the miraculous works of Mizraim, as we see them in the pictures of Martin the
Englishman. Indeed, if we look around
for an analogy in the art of painting, we find the most sympathetic similarity
between Berlioz and the wild Briton—the same excuse for the monstrous, the gigantic—for
material immensity. With the one the
sharpest effects of light and shade, with the other the most crushing
instrumentation; with the one little melody, with the other little sense of
color; with both little beauty, and no gentleness of humor. Their works are neither classic nor romantic;
they remind us neither of Greece nor of the Catholic Middle Ages; but they
transplant us far deeper back—to the Assyrian, Babylonian and Egyptian period
of architecture, to the passion for massiveness, of which it was the
expression.”
He gives us an amusing story
of the vanity of Spontini and his jealousy of Meyerbeer in Spontini’s declining
days. Heine says that Spontini was one
day at the Louvre before an Egyptian mummy whom he thus apostrophized:
“Unhappy Pharoah! thou art the author of my misfortune. Hadst thou refused to permit the children of
Israel to go forth from the land of Egypt, or hadst thou had them all drowned
in the Nile, then had I not been driven out of Berlin by Meyerbeer and
Mendelssohn, and I had even remained director of the great opera and of the
court concert. Unhappy Pharoah! weak
king of the crocodiles! through thy
half-measures has it happened that I now am in the main a ruined man, and that
Moses, and Halevy, and Mendelssohn, and Meyerbeer have been victorious!”
Heine’s
essay on the comparative merits of Rossini and Meyerbeer goes too far into the
matter to allow of the reproduction of its substance here. It must suffice to state that he gave the
preference to Rossini.
He had
the power of painting a picture in a few words; and we quote some of the
thumb-nail sketches scattered through his works referring to musicians.
He
praises Donizetti’s genius but declares that its most astonishing quality is
its fecundity, in which it yields precedence in the scheme of nature only to
rabbits.
Speaking
of Rossini sulking in his tent like Achilles, he says that he had heard of a
similar attitude on Donizetti’s part.
This, he is sure, is nonsense, which even on the part of a windmill
would not be more laughable. “Either
there is wind and the sails go round, or else there is no wind the sails stand
still.” Rossini he likens to Vesuvius
pouring forth beautiful flowers.
Meyerbeer, whose contract in Berlin had been modified to allow him to
spend six months in Paris and six months in Berlin, is the Modern Proserpina
who, however, must expect Hades and its troubles in both places. Chopin is the one musician about whom he
wrote no unkind word.
“That is, indeed, a man of the greatest
distinction. Born in Poland of French
parents, a considerable part of his education was gained in Germany. And the influence of the three races shows
itself in his remarkable personality. He
has indeed assimilated the best which these nationalities had to offer. Poland gave him his chivalrous feeling and
the sense of pain which her history gives all her sons; France bestowed on him
the easy, elegant grace which so distinguishes him; Germany imbued him with his
deep romanticism. And in addition nature
gave him a neat, slender, delicate frame, the noblest of hearts, and
genius. Yes, Chopin must be called a
genius in the truest sense of the word.
He is not a virtuoso only, he is a poet; and nothing can equal the
pleasure he gives when he sits at the piano improvising. Then he is neither Pole, French, nor German;
he claims a far higher origin, for he comes from the land of Mozart, of
Raphael, of Goethe, and his true Fatherland is the dreamland of Poetry.”
He
hears it said that there are not enough melodies in “Les Huguenots” and at once
decides, with characteristic energy, that “the only difficulty consists in not
seeing the woods for the trees.”
He
talks in one passage of Rossini, the “Swan of Pesaro,” surrounded by the
gabbling of geese. In another passage he
pities the poor “Swan of Pesaro,” who is in danger of being torn asunder
between the German eagle and the Gallic cock—figures only important as showing
the spontaneity of such thoughts and the light touch which enabled him so
successfully to present the same idea from different points of view without
spoiling it or making himself ridiculous.
Heine’s
hates, like his loves, were very strong and unreasoning, and the result is
shown in lamentable prejudices which seriously detract from the value of his
criticisms and conclusions. But the bias
is easily seen, and the savage invective which he hurls against individuals,
races, and causes, regarding them apparently as personal enemies of his own,
warns the reader against accepting either his statements or conclusions.
An
English writer has said, “Heine merely describes performances and performers,
and records the effect which a work or an artist seems to have made upon the
audience. Such ‘critics’ exercise an
important function for the passing generation.
But the lapse of a very few years show s how sadly they are lacking in
the gift of perspective. In old files of
newspapers we read warm praise of long forgotten works and artists, and much
indignation about matters of no moment to us, along with unfulfilled and falsified
prophecies. The real critic, whose
opinion can be trusted to stand the test of time, is very rare, and fortunately
his services are not much required. For
all the practical purposes of a later generation, a chatty reporter is
best. He seems to bring us into personal
contact with the composer and the artist; and we would rather read Kelly’s
description of the first performance of “The Marriage of Figaro” in Prague,
than all the critical estimates, the scientific analyses and most carefully
considered prophecies which the files of the Prague daily papers could offer.”
A trial
has been made to show that Heine attempted to blackmail both Liszt and
Meyerbeer, when he was almost at the point of starvation in Paris. Liszt refused to aid him, but Meyerbeer did
help Heine on many occasions, as it appears that all composers were not like
Liszt averse to “buying recognition on the market.”
Even
after Meyerbeer had been obliged to decline to satisfy Heine’s request for aid,
as his purse could no longer satisfy his demands, we find that he sent Heine
through a friend a thousand francs, crying, “What, the greatest poet of Germany
in such need!” and added a humble request to be permitted to call on the sick
man the next day.
Forgetting
this blot on Heine’s escutcheon, we would prefer to remember the “Buch der
Leider” or the “Romancers” for their enduring worth and merit.
Of
Thalberg, Heine wrote:
“As in his life so in his art he shows such
inborn tact. His playing is so
gentlemanlylike, so well to do, so respectable.
There is only one whom I place above him, that is Chopin, who, however,
is more of a composer than a virtuoso.
With Chopin I forget his mastery of technic in the sweet depths of his
music, in the almost painful pleasure of creation, as deep as they are tender.”
The
reader will know how far to trust our critic when he goes on to call Chopin
“the great tone-poet who can be placed beside only Mozart, Beethoven, or
Rossini.”
Although
Heine seems not to have been fond of singers, and seldom speaks of them with
much patience, the more striking is his testimony to the charm of “that
wonderful pair of nightingales, Mario and Grisi, who made the very spring
blossom with their voices.”
In all
his unjustifiable and bitter attacks,
there are none more so than his allusions to Jenny Lind, “The Swedish
Nightingale,” who after her first and futile visit to Paris in 1842 positively
declined to sing there again, although she created a furore in every other
musical center in Europe. We fancy that
it was not so much this resolution on her part as the fact that his dearest
foes were the English, who went quite mad of the Swedish singer.
Heine
hated the English—did not approve of anything they said or did—and yet, with
the irony of fate, there is no country in which Heine’s poetry has had a
greater vogue.
Although
it was in Heine’s writings that Richard Wagner found the idea of the Flying Dutchman’s salvation through a
woman’s love; yet, after his failure in Paris, Heine’s judgment upon Wagner’s
aims, methods and music, was that of many prejudiced and ignorant critics of
his time.
The
various glimpses of musical life, of musicians, performances, criticisms, and
tendencies, which make these articles so interesting to the amateur and student
of musical history, have no intrinsic value as contributions to musical
history. We are transported to the
actual period, like the worthy citizen in Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy talewho wore the magic slippers; but, although the musical world of Paris, in the
period between 1831 and 1844, moves vividly and distinctly before our eyes, we
see everything through spectacles which discolor, distort, and exaggerate too
many details. It is remarkable that the
most thoroughly appreciative passages, those which are of any service to
musical history, are those which deal with four Italians—Rossini, Donizetti,
Bellini, and Paganini. His remarks about
the first are more or less built on hearsay, however cleverly put; the second
comes in for some good humored, but very pointed, persiflage; but his account
of poor Bellini in his last years of affliction forms a real contribution to
the personal history of great musicians; and his description of a Paganini
concert—even with all its exaggerations—gives us one of the best portraits we
have of that wonderful executive artist.
As an
introduction to an interesting appreciation of Rossini’s “Stabat Mater,” he
describes a church fete in Italy, where he saw groups of children take part in
a kind of Passion play. A little boy was
dressed to represent the Saviour, wearing a crown of thorns, and with drops of
blood painted in glaring color on his forehead, as were the wounds in his hands
and naked feet. The Mater Dolorosa was a
small girl clothed in black, bearing several swords with gilded hilts on her
breast. Other children represented
apostles—one as Judas with a purse in his hand; a few were dressed as cupids;
and some in the costume of French stage shepherds, hat and staff bedizened with
ribbons. “How could one believe that the
sight of such a spectacle could stir the depths of one’s being! But true Christianity in art does not consist
in barrenness of ornament or leanness in figure;” and Heine finds Rossini’s
“Stabat Mater” more truly Christian than Mendelssohn’s “St. Paul”—as, indeed,
one might have expected from a bitter, prejudiced, perverted Jew.
Enjoy Joyce DiDonato, mezzo-soprano, with Antonio Pappano conducting, at the 2007 BBC Proms "Fac ut portem" from Rossini's Stabat Mater:
Enjoy Kimberly Marshall's performance of the Overture from Felix Mendelssohn's St. Paul:
Enjoy Joyce DiDonato, mezzo-soprano, with Antonio Pappano conducting, at the 2007 BBC Proms "Fac ut portem" from Rossini's Stabat Mater:
Enjoy Kimberly Marshall's performance of the Overture from Felix Mendelssohn's St. Paul:
Heine
recognized that of all composers Liszt found Beethoven most in accordance with
his taste. Of the Titan among master
musicians he wrote:
“Beethoven, especially, has advanced the spiritualism
of art to that tuneful agony of the world of vision—to that annihilation of nature
which fills us with a terror which I cannot conceal, although my friends shake
their heads over it. It seems to me a
characteristic circumstance that Beethoven was deaf at the end of his days, so
that not even the invisible tone-world had any reality in sound for him. His tones were but reminiscences of a
tone—the ghost of sounds which had died away, and his last productions bore on
their brow the ghostly hand of dissolution.”
While
Heine may have lacked the practical musical training necessary for the best
fulfillment of the duties of a musical critic, it cannot be denied but that his
intuitive genius and unusual perceptive powers enabled him to reproduce the musical
atmosphere of his day.
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE –October 1936
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE –October 1936
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Love Your Neighbor As Yourself
"Mute instruments, as they are called, have been invented. Try them awhile just to see how useless they are. The dumb cannot teach speech." That is one of Schumann's maxims which would seem to need frequent application in these days. Pianists in particular have become impatient of the old drudgery of practice, and are eager to seize upon anything which will lead their feet to the proverbial royal road. We have even got the length of pretending to teach "touch" and technic by correspondence! Surely, as a writer in a contemporary remarks, if there is is a subject in the world which demands practical as well as verbal illustration is to be conveyed by means of letters it is impossible to imagine. The advertisers must either be astonishingly clever men or atrociously bad teachers. With regard to mute instruments for practice very different opinions have been entertained. Mendelssohn at one time used to practice on a dumb keyboard while sitting up in bed. Henselt used a dumb instrument for conquering all technical difficulties and advised his pupils to do the same. He said the plan spared his nerves. Sgambati also used a mute instrument, not so much to spare his own nerves as the nerves of his neighbors. "No one who can avoid it," he said, "has any right to inflict on his neighbors the annoyance of listening to that amount of passage-practicing from which no talent can dispense any individual whatever." Would that everybody who plays the piano were so considerate! If an almost dumb pianoforte be required, we are reminded that it can be obtained by placing a long strip of heavy baize or flannel across the strings in a diagonal direction from treble to bass. I commend the idea to the attention of philanthropic people. Instead of sending blankets to the Hottentots, let them make judicious presents of flannel at home.
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE – February 1896
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE – February 1896
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Summer Thoughts of Beethoven
“O God! send your light into beautiful
Nature.”
“Who can express completely the glory
and ecstasy of the woods. O, the sweet
solitude of the forest!”
“Ere long comes the fall. Then may I be like the fruitful tree, which pours
rich store of fruit into our laps! But
in the wintertime of our life, when I shall be gray and tired of life, I wish
that I may have the good fortune to have repose as honorable and good as the
repose of Nature in wintertime.”
“Nature is a magnificent school for
the soul!”
“No man can adore the woods and trees
as I adore them. Nature send back to us
the echo which man desires.”
“In summer, I read Goethe every
day—when I read at all.”
“I am pursued by the kindness of men
which I do not intend to earn, and yet, which really do earn. That a man should humble himself before his
fellow-man pains me; and when I consider myself as part of the Universe, what
am I, and who is He they call the Most High?”
“To me a residence in a town during
the summer is misery.”
“Thus, then, I take leave of you, and
with sadness, too. The fond hope I
brought with me here of being to a certain degree cured now utterly forsakes
me. As autumn leaves fall and wither, so
are my hopes blighted. Almost as I came
I depart. Even the lofty courage that so
often animated me in the lovely days of summer is gone forever. O, Providence! vouchsafe me one day of pure felicity! How long have I been estranged from the glad
echo of true joy! When, O my God, when
shall I again feel it in the temple of Nature and of Man?”
Enjoy The Knight’s performance of the first of movement from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 (Pastoral):
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE – July 1910
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