No More Learning

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
To read what manner music that mote be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear
Was there consorted in one harmony:
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree;


## p. 13769 (#603) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13769
The joyous birds shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attemp'red sweet;
Th' angelical soft trembling voices made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet;
The silver-sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmur of the waters' fall;
The waters' fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.
The whiles some one did chant this lovely lay:—
"Ah! see, whoso fair thing dost fain to see,
In springing flow'r the image of thy day!
Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly she
Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty;
That fairer seems the less ye see her may!
Lo! see soon after how more bold and free
Her bared bosom she doth broad display;
Lo! see soon after how she fades and falls away!
"So passeth, in the passing of a day,
Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flow'r;
Ne more doth flourish after first decay,
That erst was sought to deck both bed and bow'r
Of many a lady and many a paramour.
Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime,
For soon comes age that will her pride deflow'r;
Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time,
Whilst loving thou mayst lovèd be with equal crime. "
He ceased; and then 'gan all the quire of birds
Their diverse notes t'attune unto his lay,
As in approvance of his pleasing words.
The constant pair heard all that he did say,
Yet swervèd not, but kept their forward way
Through many covert groves and thickets close,
In which they creeping did at last display
That wanton lady, with her lover loose,
Whose sleepy head she in her lap did soft dispose.
The noble elf and careful palmer drew
So nigh them, minding naught but lustful game,
That sudden forth they on them rush'd and threw
A subtle net, which only for that same
The skillful palmer formally did frame:


## p. 13770 (#604) ##########################################

13770
EDMUND SPENSER
So held them under fast; the whiles the rest
Fled all away for fear of fouler shame.
The fair enchantress, so unwares opprest,
Tried all her arts and all her sleights thence out to wrest;
And eke her lover strove: but all in vain;
For that same net so cunningly was wound,
That neither guile nor force might it distrain.
They took them both, and both them strongly bound
In captive bands, which there they ready found:
But her in chains of adamant he tied,
For nothing else might keep her safe and sound;
But Verdant (so he hight) he soon untied,
And counsel sage instead thereof to him applied.
But all those pleasant bow'rs, and palace brave,
Guyon broke down with rigor pitiless;
Ne ought their goodly workmanship might save
Them from the tempest of his wrathfulness,
But that their bliss he turn'd to balefulness:
Their groves he fell'd; their gardens did deface;
Their arbors spoil; their cabinets suppress;
Their banquet-houses burn; their buildings raze;
And of the fairest late, now made the foulest place.
Then led they her away, and eke that knight
They with them led, both sorrowful and sad:
The way they came, the same return'd they right,
Till they arrivèd where they lately had
Charm'd those wild beasts that raged with fury mad;
Which, now awaking, fierce at them 'gan fly,
As in their mistress' rescue, whom they lad:
But them the palmer soon did pacify.
Then Guyon ask'd, what meant those beasts which there did
lie?
Said he: "These seeming beasts are men indeed,
Whom this enchantress hath transformèd thus;
Whylome her lovers, which her lusts did feed,
Now turned into figures hideous,
According to their minds like monstruous.
Sad end," quoth he, "of life intemperate,
And mournful meed of joys delicious!
But, palmer, if it mote thee so aggrate,
Let them returnèd be unto their former state. "


## p. 13771 (#605) ##########################################

EDMUND SPENSER
13771
Straightway he with his virtuous staff them strook,
And straight of beasts they comely men became :
Yet being men, they did unmanly look
And stared ghastly; some for inward shame,
And some for wrath to see their captive dame:
But one above the rest in special
That had an hog been late, hight Grylle by name,
Repinèd greatly, and did him miscall
That had from hoggish form him brought to natural.
Said Guyon: "See the mind of beastly man,
That hath so soon forgot the excellence
Of his creation, when he life began,
That now he chooseth with vile difference
To be a beast, and lack intelligence! "
To whom the palmer thus: "The dunghill kind
Delights in filth and foul incontinence:
Let Gryll be Gryll, and have his hoggish mind;
But let us hence depart whilest weather serves and wind. "


## p. 13772 (#606) ##########################################

13772
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
(1829-)
W
ORKS SO widely different as Gutzkow's 'Knights of the Mind,'
Freytag's 'Debit and Credit,' and Spielhagen's 'Problem-
atic Natures,' all acknowledge in Wilhelm Meister' their
common spiritual ancestor. (Wilhelm Meister' is at once the finest
blossom of German novelistic literature, and the seed-sack of its later
yield. Romanticist and realist alike have found in this granary of
thought some seed to plant in their own minds, and to develop in
their own ways.
It is far from being a model of form and compo-
sition, but it is an inexhaustible treasure-
house of ideas; and to these subsequent
writers of fiction have gone, choosing each
that which best suited him, and transform-
ing it into something new and fair, and
withal his own. Structurally these later
novelists have made a great advance over
(Wilhelm Meister. ' As the complex George
Eliot was the lineal descendant of the sim-
ple Madame de La Fayette, so Spielhagen,
with his mastery of technique, is the de-
scendant of Goethe, with his careless con-
struction and often amorphous heaping-up
of thoughts. Problematic Natures' is re-
lated to Wilhelm Meister' in this respect
also, that it contains materials enough to furnish forth half a dozen
average novels: it is notable for its exuberance of creative power.
Friedrich Spielhagen was born at Magdeburg on February 24th,
1829. His taste for philosophical and philological pursuits was grat-
ified at Berlin, Bonn, and Greifswald; but gradually he came to find
in pure literature his surest and at last exclusive stay. In the auto-
biography which he published in 1890, under the title of 'Finder und
Erfinder' (Finders and Inventors), we have a detailed and voluminous
account of Spielhagen's early years. His young literary predilec-
tions were fostered chiefly by chance: in his father's house there
was no complete set of Goethe: only 'Hermann and Dorothea' and
the first part of 'Faust. ' Good fortune threw an old set of Lessing
into his hands. Heine's 'Book of Songs' and Freiligrath's poems were

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN


## p. 13773 (#607) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13773
likewise fortuitous favorites. But the rapid and strong growth of his
literary genius he attributes above all to Homer, in whose works he
saw nature transfigured. It was a weary and disheartening struggle
with Spielhagen before he was able to make his love of poetry the
central fact of his life. For him as for many another, the choice
of a career raised obstinate questionings; and between his native
impulses and torturing doubts of his own ability he for a long time
wavered. His first novelistic ventures, 'Clara Vere' (1857), and 'Auf
der Düne (On the Dune: 1858), made no impression. It was not
until 1860, with the publication of the first part of 'Problematische
Naturen in four volumes, that his fame as a German novelist was
established. A position as feuilletonist for a Hanoverian newspaper
was offered to him; and he was under a contract to produce four
volumes of fiction a year. He now shudders at the thought; but
he did not then. Moreover, he had four volumes ready in his mind:
these formed the second part of his famous work, to which against
the author's judgment a different title was given,-'Durch Nacht
zum Licht' (Through Night to Light). With the completion of this.
book, Spielhagen was fairly launched upon the ocean of literature;
and thenceforth he has been an indefatigable voyager on its many
seas.
An attempt to give in brief space a notion of the wide range of
interests and ideas covered by Spielhagen's many novels would be
fruitless. His is essentially a bourgeois mind: with methodical facil-
ity he has produced works on most diverse themes. Writing easily
and rapidly, he has made it a point never to let the printer's devil
get at his heels. He has always taken life very seriously, though not
lacking in humor, as his Skeleton in the House' shows.
His con-
temporaries sat to him for his characters, and events amid which he
lived furnished him with materials. This resulted in some cases in
giving too much emphasis to passing states of public feeling; in other
cases the enthusiasm of the partisan disturbed that serene aloofness
from the strife of opinions which is essential to the poetic creator.
But Spielhagen has kept pace with the progress of things, and has in
some respects outgrown himself. An eminent English critic has said
of him, that he more than any other seems to have retained his
youth. Those who love him as the author of 'Problematic Natures'
and 'In Reih' und Glied' (In Rank and File) must be disappointed
in his more recent work. Overproduction has indeed caused a dete-
rioration in quality; and we miss in the latest books that fineness
and firmness which distinguish 'Quisisana' (1880). Quisisana' is
free from tendency, psychologically interesting, faithful, direct, and
tender: it best exhibits Spielhagen's best qualities. It is a romance
of the man of fifty: a type which Goethe introduced into German
literature, as Balzac introduced the woman of thirty into French.


## p. 13774 (#608) ##########################################

13774
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
This hale and vigorous man of fifty is in love with his beautiful
ward; but he heroically sacrifices his own happiness by marrying her
to the young man whom she loves, while her lavish filial affection
for himself only augments his own anguish. This simple tale is in
its workmanship and feeling at once delicate and strong.
Spielhagen was only twenty-two years of age when he began to
work upon his first great novel. After a weary trip from publisher
to publisher, it appeared in Berlin eight years later. Young authors
naturally identify themselves with their heroes; and in their early
works seek to reveal their own microcosm. This book is in essence,
though not in form, a novel of the first person. Its title is taken
from phrase of Goethe's: "There are some problematical natures
who are unsuited to any situation in life, and whom no situation
suits. Thus there arises a terrible conflict, in which life is consumed
without enjoyment. " For a time Spielhagen believed himself to be
such a nature: but as the novel advanced, confidence in himself grew;
slowly he detached himself from his hero, and gained in objectivity.
The title, which originally read 'A Problematic Nature,' was changed
to the plural. In it is depicted the strife between the anciently in-
trenched feudalism and the resistlessly advancing industrialism. The
inner problem however is, to use the author's own words,—
"to portray the life of a man, most richly endowed by nature, who, in
spite of his struggle towards the good, is ruined because he does not know
how to set bounds to himself; and makes the discovery too late that the most
enthusiastic efforts to attain ideal ends are doomed to failure, and the striver
himself to destruction, if he refuse to recognize the conditions of our earthly
existence. »
In spite of the author's great productivity, and the wide popular-
ity of many of his later novels, it is always 'Problematic Natures'
that one first recalls when Spielhagen's name is mentioned.
Of the dominant importance of this work in the author's life, he
himself seems to be conscious. The circumstances, both inward and
outward, under which it came to be written, are the leading theme
of the autobiography. His theories of his craft in general are set
forth in his Technique of the Novel,' a companion-piece to Freytag's
'Technique of the Drama. ' Spielhagen also wrote several dramas,
some of which attained a moderate success. He enriched the Ger-
man reading public by translations from the French and English;
several works of Michelet, Roscoe's 'Lorenzo de' Medici,' and Emer-
son's 'English Traits. ' He was from his youth shy about publishing
poems: his first collection appeared in 1893; in which many a poem
reveals some soul experience in the poet's early life.
Spielhagen, however, is first of all the novelist. If his works
display a "tendency," his democratic principles and philosophy show


## p. 13775 (#609) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13775
themselves in the development of the plot, and are never directly
preached from the pages; his generalizations are under artistic re-
straint. "It is the business of novelists," he says, "to give world
pictures, pictures of their nation and its aspirations during a cer-
tain period. " Thus each of Spielhagen's works has added a touch to
his great picture of the age in which he lived; and the mass of his
creations is a thoughtful and poetical portrayal of persons and events
that have an actual counterpart in the private annals or public his-
tory of our time.
-
FROM 'QUISISANA ›
[Uncle Bertram, in the grief of his hopeless and unconfessed love, has
sought relief in the excitement of political life; and a brilliant career is open-
ing before him, when his health, undermined by his secret sorrow and fever-
ish activity, gives way. On the morrow he is to make an important speech;
his physician has warned him that it would be "undesirable. " In death he
"recovers his health," and this lends to the title of the novel a subtle moral
significance: "Where one grows well again. "]
"THE
HEN you insist upon joining in to-morrow's debate? " the
doctor was saying.
"I flatter myself that it is necessary! " replied Bertram.
"As a political partisan I admit it; as your medical adviser I
repeat, it is impossible. "
«<
Come, my good friend, you said just now it is undesirable;
now from that to impossible is rather a bold step. We had bet-
ter stick to the first statement. "
The doctor, who had taken up his hat and stick a few min-
utes before, laid both down again; pushed Bertram into the chair
before his writing-table; sat down again facing him; and said:-
"Judging from your momentary condition, it is merely desir-
able that you should have at present absolute repose for at least
a few days. But I very much fear that to-morrow's inevitable
excitement will make you worse; and then the downright neces-
sity for rest will arise, and that not only for a few days. Let me
speak quite frankly, Bertram. I know that I shall not frighten
you, although I should rather like to do so. You are causing
me real anxiety. I greatly regret that I kept you last autumn
from your projected Italian trip, and that I pushed and urged you
into the fatigues of an election campaign, and into the harassing
anxieties of parliamentary life. I assumed that this energetic
activity would contribute to your complete restoration to health;
•


## p. 13776 (#610) ##########################################

13776
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
and I find that I made a grievous mistake.
aware exactly where the mistake was made.
parliamentary duties with such perfect ease, you entered the
arena so well prepared and armed from top to toe, you used your
weapons with all the skill of a past master, and you were borne
along by such an ample measure of success-and that of course
has its great value. Well, according to all human understand-
ing and experience, the splendid and relatively easy discharge of
duties for which you are so eminently fitted should contribute to
your well-being; and yet the very opposite is occurring. In spite
of all my cogitations I can find but one theory to account for it.
In spite of the admirable equanimity which you always preserve,
in spite of the undimmed serenity of your disposition and appear-
ance, by which you charm your friends whilst you frequently dis-
arm your foes, there must be a hidden something in your soul
that gnaws away at your vitals, -a deep, dark undercurrent of
grief and pain. Am I right? You know that I am not asking
the question from idle curiosity. "
And yet I am not
You mastered your
"I know it," replied Bertram; "and therefore I answer: you
are right and yet not right, or right only if you hold me respons-
ible for the effect of a cause I was guiltless of. "
"You answer in enigmas, my friend. ”
"Let me try a metaphor. Say, somebody is compelled to
live in a house in which the architect made some grave mistake
at the laying of the foundations, or at some important period
or other of its erection. The tenant is a quiet, steady man, who
keeps the house in good order; then comes a storm, and the ill-
constructed building is terribly shaken and strained. The steady-
going tenant repairs the damage as best he can, and things go
on fairly enough for a time, a long time; until there comes
another and a worse storm, which makes the whole house topple
together over his head. "
The doctor's dark eyes had been dwelling searchingly and
sympathizingly upon the speaker. Now he said:
"I think I understand your metaphor. Of course it only meets
a portion of the case. I happen to know the house in question
extremely well. True, there was one weak point in it from the
beginning, in spite of its general excellent construction, but—»
"But me no buts," interrupted Bertram eagerly. "Given the
one weak point, and all the rest naturally follows. I surely need
not point out to such a faithful disciple of Spinoza's, that thought
and expansion are but attributes of one and the same substance;


## p. 13777 (#611) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13777
that there is no physiological case that does not, rightly viewed,
turn to a psychological one; that so excitable a heart as mine
must needs be impressed by things more than other hearts whose
bands do not snap, happen what may and notwithstanding all the
storms of Fate. Or are you sure that if you had had to examine
the heart of Werther, or of Eduard in the 'Elective Affinities,'
you would not have found things undreamed-of by æsthetic phi-
losophers? I belong to the same race. I neither glory in this nor
do I blush for it; I simply state a fact, a fact which embod-
ies my fate, before whose power I bow, or rather whose power
bows me down in spite of my resistance. For however much I
may by disposition belong to the last century, yet I am also a cit-
izen of our own time; nor can I be deaf to its bidding. I know
full well that modern man can no longer live and die exclusively
for his private joys and sorrows; I know full well that I have a
fatherland whose fame, honor, and greatness I am bound to hold
sacred, and to which I am indebted as long as a breath stirs
within me. I know it; and I believe that I have proved it accord-
ing to my strength, both formerly, and again now when-"
He covered forehead and eyes with his hands, and so sat for
a while in deep emotion, which his medical friend respected by
keeping perfectly silent. Then looking up again, Bertram went
on in a hushed voice: -
-
-
"My friend, that last storm was very, very strong. It shook
the feeble building to its very foundation. What is now causing
your anxiety is indeed but a consequence of that awful tempest.
The terribly entrancing details no one as yet knows except one
woman, whom an almost identical fate made my confidante; and
who will keep my secret absolutely. So would you, I know.
You have been before this my counselor and my father-confessor.
And so you will be another time, perhaps, if you desire it and
deem it necessary. To-day only this one remark more, for your
own satisfaction: I read in your grave countenance the same
momentous question which my confidante put to me, Whether I
am willing to recover? I answered to the best of my knowledge
and belief, Yes! I consider it my duty to be willing. It is a
duty simply towards my electors, who have not honored me with
their votes that I may lay me down and die of an unhappy and
unrequited attachment. If the latter does happen,- I mean my
dying, you will bear witness that it was done against my will,
solely in consequence of that mistake in the original construction
which the architect was guilty of. But in order that it may not
XXIII-862


## p. 13778 (#612) ##########################################

13778
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
happen, or may at least not happen so soon, you, my friend, must
allow me to do the very thing which you have forbidden. The
dream I dreamed was infinitely beautiful; and to speak quite
frankly, real life seems barren and dreary in comparison with it.
The contrast is too great; and I can only efface it somewhat by
mixing with the insipid food a strong spice of excitement, such
as our parliamentary kitchen is just now supplying in the best
quality, and of which our head cook is sure to give us an extra
dose to-morrow. And therefore I must be in my place at the
table to-morrow and make my dinner speech. Quod erat demon-
strandum. "
He held out his hand with a smile. His friend smiled too.
It was a very melancholy smile, and vanished again forthwith.
"What a pity," he said, "that the cleverest patients are the
most intractable. But I have vowed I will never have a clever
one again, after you. "
"In truth," replied Bertram, "I am giving you far too much
trouble. In your great kindness and friendship you come to me
almost in the middle of the night, when you ought to be resting
from your day's heavy toil; you come of your own accord, sim-
ply impelled by a faithful care for my well-being; and finally,
you have to return with ingratitude and disobedience for your
reward. Well, well, let us hope for better things; and let me
have the pleasure of seeing you again to-morrow. "
Konski came in with a candle to show the doctor the way
down; for the lights in the house had long since been extin-
guished. The gentlemen were once more shaking hands, and the
physician slipped his on to Bertram's wrist. Then he shook his
head.
"Konski," he said, turning to the servant, "if your master
has a fancy one of these days to drink a glass of champagne,
you may give him one, as an exception; but only one. ”
"Now remember that, Konski! " said Bertram.
"It is not likely that it will happen," grumbled Konski.
«< Konski will leave me to-morrow," explained Bertram.
"Will, is it? No, I won't, but-"
"All right! " said his master: we must not bother the doctor
with our private affairs. Good-by, my friend! With your leave
I will dine with you to-morrow. "
The physician left; Bertram immediately again sat down at
the writing-table, and resumed the work which this late visit
had interrupted. It was a disputed election case, and he would


## p. 13779 (#613) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13779
have to report upon it to the House. There had been some irreg-
ularities, and it was in the interest of his own party that the
election should be declared null and void; he had been exam-
ining the somewhat complicated data with all the greater con-
scientiousness and care. But now he lost the thread, and was
turning over the voluminous pages of the evidence, when lo! a
daintily folded sheet of paper· a letter- fell out.
"Good heavens! how came this here ? »
He seized upon it with eagerness, as a wandering beggar
might seize upon a gold coin which he saw glittering among the
dust on the road. The hot blood surged to the temples from
the sick and sore heart; the hand that held the slight paper
trembled violently.
-
"Now he would not be grumbling at my slow pulse! "
Yesterday morning he had received this letter, but had not
succeeded in composing himself sufficiently to read more than a
few lines. He had thought that perhaps on his return from the
Reichstag he might be in a more settled frame of mind.
he had not been able to find again the letter which had been
laid aside, although he had searched for hours,- first alone, then
with Konski.
-
And now- after all those documents were pushed aside - he
was again, as yesterday, staring hard at the page; and again, as
yesterday, the different lines ran into each other: but he shook
his head angrily, drew his hand over his eyes, and then read:—
-
―
CAPRI, April 24th.
Dearest Uncle Bertram:
If to-day for the first time in our travels I write to you, take this
as a gentle punishment for not having come to our wedding. Take
it no, I must not tell you a falsehood, not even in jest. We-I
mean Kurt and myself-regretted your absence greatly; but were
angry only with those wretched politics, which would not release you
just at a time when, as Kurt explained to me, such important mat-
ters were at stake. Take then, I pray you, my prolonged silence as
a proof of the confusion under which I labor amidst the thousand
new impressions of travel, and through the hurry with which we
have traveled. Kurt has just four weeks' leave, so we had indeed to
make haste: and therefore we steamed direct from Genoa to Naples,
calling at Leghorn only; and yesterday evening we arrived there,
only to leave this morning and to sail to Capri, favored by a lively
tramontane.


## p. 13780 (#614) ##########################################

13780
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
I am writing this my first letter upon the balcony of a house in
Capri.
Dearest Uncle Bertram, do you know such a house, which "stands
amidst orange groves, with sublimest view of the blue infinity of the
ocean,- -a fair white hostelry embowered in roses"?
The words are your own; and do you know when you spoke them
to me? On that first night when I met you in the forest on the
Hirschstein hill. You have probably forgotten it, but I remember it
well; and all through the journey your words were ever before me:
and of all the glories of Italy, I wanted first to see the house which
had since then remained in your fond remembrance, where you "ever
since longed to be back again," and the very name of which was
always to you "a sound of comfort, of promise: Qui si sana! »
And now we are here- we who need no comfort, we to whom
all promise of earthly bliss has been fulfilled; and so drink in the
blue air of heaven, and inhale the sweet fragrance of roses and
oranges.
And you, dearest Uncle Bertram, you dwell-your heart full of
longing for fair Quisisana-yonder in the dull gray North, buried
beneath parliamentary papers, wearied and worn: and, uncle, that
thought is the one gray cloud, the only one in the wide blue vault
of heaven; like the one floating yonder above the rugged rocky front
of Monte Solaro, of which our young landlord, Federigo, foretells that
it will bring us a burrasca. I gave him a good scolding, and told
him I wanted sunshine, plenty of sunshine, and nothing but sunshine;
but I thought of you only, and not of us. And surely for you too,
who are so noble and good, the sun does shine, and you walk in its
light, in the sunny light of great fame! Yes, Uncle Bertram, how-
ever modest you are, you must yet be glad and proud to learn how
your greatness is recognized and admired. I am not speaking of
your friends, for that is a matter of course; but of your political oppo-
nents. In Genoa, at the table d'hôte, we made the acquaintance of
some count from Pomerania,- I have forgotten his name,— with
whom Kurt talked politics a good deal. In the evening the count
brought us a Berlin paper, which contained your last great speech.
"Look here," he said: "there is a man from whom all can learn,—
one of whom each party should be proud. " He had no idea why
Kurt looked so pleased and proud, nor why I burst into tears when
I read your splendid speech.
Only fancy, Uncle Bertram! Signor Federigo has just brought
me, at my request, an old visitors' book—the one for the year 1859,
the year in which I knew you had been here. Many leaves had
been torn out, but the one upon which you had written your name
was preserved; and the date turns out to be that of the very day on
which I was born! Is not this passing strange? Signor Federigo has


## p. 13781 (#615) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13781
of course had to present the precious leaf to me; which he did with
a most graceful bow,-the paper in one hand and the other laid
upon his heart,- and we have resolved to celebrate here the day of
your arrival in Capri and of my arrival in the world. Why indeed
should we travel so swiftly? There can be no fairer scene than this
anywhere. Sunshine, the fragrance of roses, the bright blue sky, the
everlasting sea, my Kurt,- and the recollection of you, whose dear
image every rock, every palm-tree, everything I see, brings as if by
magic before my inner eye! No, no: we surely wil stay here until
my birthday.
Signor Federigo is calling from the veranda that "Madama" has
only five minutes more for writing if the letter is to leave to-day.
Of course it is to leave to-day; but I have the terrible conviction of
having written nothing so far. It cannot now be helped. So next
time I will tell you everything that I could not do to-day about my
parents, who are writing letters full of happiness — papa in particular,
who seems delighted that he has given up his factories, which sur-
prised me greatly; about Agatha's engagement to Herr von Busche,
- which did not surprise me, for I saw it coming during the merry-
makings previous to my wedding; about-
Signor Federigo, you are intolerable!
Dear Kurt, I cannot let you have the remaining space of two
lines, for I absolutely require it myself to send my beloved Uncle
Bertram a most hearty greeting and kiss from Quisisana.
Bertram laid the paper very gently down upon the table;
he was stooping to imprint a kiss upon it, but before his lips
touched the letter he drew himself up abruptly.
"No: she knows not what she does, but you know it, and she
is your neighbor's wife! Shame upon you! Pluck it out,— the
eye that offends you, and the base criminal heart as well! "
He seized the parliamentary papers, then paused.
"Until her birthday! Well, she will assuredly expect a few
kind words, and has a right to expect them; nay, more, she
would interpret my silence wrongly.
yet time? When is her birthday?
date: I think somewhere in the
what day did I arrive there? "
I wonder whether there is
She has not mentioned the
beginning of May. Now, on
He had not long to seek in the old diaries, which he kept
methodically and preserved with care. There was the entry:-
"May 1st. Arrived in Capri, and put up at a house which I
found it hard to climb up to; the name had an irresistible attrac-
tion for me: Quisisana Sit omen in nomine! »
-


## p. 13782 (#616) ##########################################

13782
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
"The first of May!
for a letter, of course;
Konski! "
once.
Why, to-morrow is the first. It is too late
but a telegram will do, if dispatched at
The faithful servant entered.
"My good Konski, I am very sorry, but you must be off to
the telegraph office at once. To-morrow is the birthday of Miss
Erna; - well, well, you know! Of course she must hear from
me. »
room.
He had written a few lines in German; then it occurred to
him that it might be safer to write them in Italian. So he
re-wrote them.
Konski, who had meanwhile got himself ready, entered the
"You will scarcely be back before midnight. And Konski,
we must begin the morrow cheerfully. So put the key of the cel-
lar into your pocket, and bring a bottle of champagne with you
when you return. No remonstrance, otherwise I shall put into
your 'character' to-morrow, 'Dismissed for disobedience'! " . . .
It was nearly three o'clock when the doctor came hurrying
in. Konski would not leave the master, and had dispatched the
porter. Konski took the doctor's hat and stick, and pointed in
silence- he could not speak to the big couch at the bottom of
the room. The doctor took the lamp to the writing-table, and
held it to the pale face. Konski followed and relieved him of
the lamp, whilst the doctor made his investigation.
"He must have been dead an hour or more, he said, looking
up. "Why did you not send sooner? Put the lamp back on the
writing-table, and tell me all you know. "
He had sat down in Bertram's chair. "Take a chair," he
went on, "and tell me all. "
Then Konski told.
---
He had come back at a quarter past twelve from the tele-
graph office; and had found his master writing away busily when
he brought in the bottle of champagne which he had been or-
dered to fetch from the cellar. His master had scolded him for
bringing only one glass, and made him fetch another; for they
must both drink and clink glasses to the health of the young
lady.
"Then," the servant went on, "I sat opposite to him, for the
first time in my life, in that corner, at the small round table; he
in the one chair and I in the other. And he chatted with me,
not like a master with his servant, no: exactly—well, I cannot


## p. 13783 (#617) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13783
describe it, sir; but you know how good and kind he always was.
I never heard an unkind word from him all these ten years I
have been with him; and if ever he was a bit angry, he always
made up for it afterwards. And to-morrow I was to leave for
Rinstedt to get married; and he had given us our furniture and
all, and fitted up a new shop for us into the bargain. Then we
talked a good deal of Rinstedt, and of the manœuvres last year,
and of Miss Erna that was, and of Italy,-where, as you know,
sir, I was with the master two years ago. Well, I mean, it was
not I who was talking so much, but master; and I could have
gone on listening, listening forever, when he was telling of Capri,
where we did not get that time, and where Mrs. Ringberg is
staying now Miss Erna as was. And then his eyes shone and
sparkled splendidly; but he hardly drank any wine,—just enough
to pledge the young lady's health with, and the rest is in his
glass still. But he made me fill up mine again and again, for I
could stand it, said he, and he could not, he said, and he would
presently finish his work; and there are the papers on the table
in front of you, sir, that he had been looking at. And then, of
a sudden like, he says, 'Konski, I am getting tired: I shall lie
down for half an hour. You just finish the bottle meanwhile,
and call me at half past one sharp. ' It was just striking one
o'clock then.
"So he lay down, and I put the rug over him, sir; and oh-
I'll never forgive myself for it; but all day long I had been run-
ning backward and forward about these things of mine, and then
at last the long walk at night to the telegraph office, and perhaps
the champagne had gone to my head a bit, since I am sure that
I had not sat for five minutes before I was asleep. And when
I woke it was not half past one but half past two; so that I was
regular frightened like. But as the master was a-sleeping calm
and steady, I thought, even as I was standing quite close to him,
that it was a pity to wake him, even though he was lying on
his left side again; which formerly he could not bear at all, and
which you, sir, had forbidden so particularly. I mind of our first
meeting in Rinstedt, sir, but then he did wake up again; — and
now he is dead. "
Konski was crying bitterly. The doctor held out his hand to
him.
"It is no fault of yours. Neither you nor I could have kept
him alive. Now leave me here alone; you may wait in the next
room. "


## p. 13784 (#618) ##########################################

13784
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
After Konski had left, the doctor went to the little round
table on which the empty bottle and two glasses were standing,
one empty, one half full. Above the sofa, to the right and left,
were gas brackets, with one lighted jet on either side. He held
the half-full glass to the light and shook it. Bright beads were
rising from the clear liquid.
He put the glass down again, and murmured: -
"He never spoke an untruth! It was in any case solely a
question of time. He drank his death draught six months ago.
The only wonder is that he bore it so long. "
Erna's letter was lying on the table. The doctor read it
almost mechanically.
"Pretty much as I thought! " he muttered. "Such a clever,
and as it would seem, large-hearted girl; and yet - but they are
all alike! "
――
A scrap of paper, with something in Bertram's handwriting,
caught his eye. It was the German telegram.
"All hail-happiness and blessing-to-day and forever for
my darling child in Quisisana. "
The doctor rose, and was now pacing up and down the cham-
ber with folded arms. From the adjoining room, the door of
which was left ajar, he heard suppressed sobs. The faithful
servant's unconcealed grief had well-nigh unchained the bitter
sorrow in his own heart. He brushed the tears from his eyes,
stepped to the couch, and drew the covering back.
He stood there long, lost in marveling contemplation.
The beautiful lofty brow, overshadowed by the soft and abund-
ant hair, the dark color of which was not broken by one silvery
thread; the daintily curved lips, that seemed about to open for
some witty saying,-lips the pallor of which was put to shame
by the whiteness of the teeth, which were just visible; the broad-
arched chest, what wonder that the man of fifty had felt in life
like a youth! -like the youth for whom Death had taken him.
From those pure and pallid features Death had wiped away
even the faintest remembrance of the woe which had broken the
noble heart.
―
Now it was still still for evermore!
He laid his hand upon that silent heart.
"Qui si sana! " he said, very gently.
-
Translated by H. E. Goldschmidt.


## p. 13785 (#619) ##########################################

13785
BENEDICT SPINOZA
(1632-1677)
BY JOSIAH ROYCE
NA Jewish family of Spanish origin dwelling at Amsterdam,
was born in the year 1632, Baruch (in later years known
as Benedict) Spinoza. The family were refugees, who had
come to Holland directly from Portugal to escape persecution. The
Jewish community to which Spinoza's people belonged numbered
several hundred,- all wanderers, for similar reasons, from the Span-
ish peninsula. These people enjoyed a very full liberty as to their
own religious and national affairs, and some of them were wealthy.
Spinoza's parents however were of moderate means; but the boy
received a good training in a Jewish school under the Rabbi Morteira,
head of the synagogue. Later he read not only much Talmudic lit-
erature, but something of the medieval Jewish philosophers. He also
learned the trade of polishing lenses,- an art by which, after his
exile from the Jewish community, he earned his living.
But influences of a very different sort from those of his boy-
hood were to determine his maturer life. Independent thinking, no
doubt, began in his mind even before he had nearly finished his early
studies in Jewish literature; but this very trend towards independ-
ence soon found expression in an interest in life and thought far
removed from those of the orthodox Jewish community. He made a
comparatively close friendship with an Anabaptist, Jarigh Jelles; and
from this intercourse he acquired both a deep respect for Christian-
ity and a very free interpretation of its spirit. He studied Latin, as
well as several modern European languages. In consequence he was
soon able to have a wide acquaintance with contemporary thinking.
He read a good deal of physical science. As recent scholarship has
come to recognize, he also became fairly well versed in the genuine
scholastic philosophy, as it was taught in the text-books then most
current. And finally, he carefully studied the philosophical system of
Descartes, then at the height of its influence. The trains of thought
thus determined were from the first various, and not altogether
harmonious; and it is doubtful whether Spinoza was ever a disciple
either of the system of Descartes, or of any other one doctrine, before
he reached his own final views. But at all events Spinoza thus


## p. 13786 (#620) ##########################################

13786
BENEDICT SPINOZA
became, even as a young man, a thinker as resolute as he was calm,
and as little disposed to remain in the orthodoxy of his childhood as
he was to become an agitator against the faith of others. Although
free from hypocrisy, he was never disposed to disturb the little
ones; and he was as discreet as he was sincere. Yet fortune forced
him to assume ere long, and openly, the heretic's position. Youthful
companions, formerly schoolmates of Spinoza, deliberately drew out
of him in confidence some of his opinions, denounced him, and thus
brought him to trial before the synagogue court. Refusing to recant,
he was expelled from the synagogue, under circumstances involving
much agitation in the Jewish community; even an attempt was made
by an excited Jew upon Spinoza's life.
For Spinoza, excommunication meant a freedom not at all un-
desirable, and a sort of loneliness in no wise intolerable. Fond as
he always remained of the literary and scientific friendship of wiser
men, humane and kindly as he throughout appears in all his relations
with the common folk, Spinoza was of a profoundly independent dis-
position. No trace of romance can be found in the authentic records
of his career. He called no man master. He willingly accepted
favors from no one; and he craved only intellectual sympathy, and
that only where he respected, in a thoroughgoing way, the person
who was the source of this sympathy. A shrewd critic of human
weaknesses, a great foe of illusions, and especially of every form
of passionate illusion, Spinoza lived amongst men for the sake of
whatever is rational in meaning and universal in character in the
world of human intercourse. Exclusive affection, overmastering love,
he felt and cultivated only towards God, viewed as he came to view
God. Individual men were worthy, in his eyes, only in so far as they
lived and taught the life of reason. Social ambitions our philosopher
never shared. Worldly success he viewed with a gentle indifference.
A somewhat proud nature,- cool, kindly, moderately ascetic, prudent;
easily contented as to material goods, patiently strenuous only in the
pursuit of the truth; sure of itself, indifferent to the misunderstand-
ings, and even to the hatred, of others; fond of manifold learning,
yet very carefully selective of the topics and details that were to
be viewed as worth knowing; unaggressive but obstinate, rationalistic
but with a strong coloring of mystical love for eternal things,-
such is the personality that we find revealed in Spinoza's correspond-
ence as well as in his writings. He was a good citizen, but an un-
conventional thinker. His comprehension of human nature, while it
was far wider, by virtue of his native keenness of insight, than his
somewhat narrow experience of life would seem easily to explain,
was still limited by reason of his own well-defined and comparatively
simple private character. He has no comprehension of the romantic


## p. 13787 (#621) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13787
side of life, and sees in human passions only the expression of con-
fused and inadequate ideas as to what each individual imagines to
be advantageous or disadvantageous to the welfare of his own organ-
ism. On the other hand, whenever Spinoza speaks of the world of
absolute truth, he reveals a genuine warmth of religious experience,
which, as already indicated, often allies him to the mystics. In brief,
he is in spirit a Stoic, tinged with something of the ardor of the
mediæval saint, but also tempered by the cautious reasonableness of
a learned and free-thinking Jew. In consequence of these various
motives that determine his thought, it is easy at times to view him
as a somewhat cynical critic of life; and even as if he were one who
prudently veiled an extremely radical, almost materialistic doctrine,
under formulas whose traditional terms, such as God, Mind, Eternity,
and the like, only hinted, through symbols, their meaning. Yet
such a view is not only one-sided, but false. Equally easy, and less
mistaken, it is to view Spinoza, on the basis of other parts of his
work, as the "God-intoxicated" man whom a well-known tradition of
the German Romantic school declared him to be. Yet this too is a
one-sided view. Spinoza's doctrine, so far as it expresses his own
temperament, is a product of three factors: (1) His idea of God,
whose historical origin lies in the tradition common to all mysticism;
(2) his ingenious interpretation of certain empirical facts about the
relation of body and mind,—an interpretation which modified the for-
mer views of the Occasionalists; and (3) his shrewd Jewish common-
sense, in terms of which, although again not without much use of the
work of his predecessors, he estimated the strength and the weakness,
the passions and the powers, of our common human nature.
Enough has been already said to indicate that Spinoza's funda-
mental personal interest in philosophy lay rather more in its bearing
upon life than in its value as a pure theory. Yet Spinoza, for good
reasons, is best known by his metaphysical theories; and has influ-
enced subsequent thinking rather by his doctrine regarding Reality
than by his advice as to the conduct of life. The reason for this
fact is easy to grasp. Stoics and mystics all advise some more or
less ascetic form of retirement from the world. The advice is often
inspiring, but the deepest problem of life for mankind at large is
how to live in the world. Moreover, the Stoics and the mystics have
all alike certain beautiful but somewhat colorless and unvarying tales
to tell-tales either of resignation, or of passionless insight, or of rapt
devotion. Hence originality is possible in these types of doctrine only
as regards the form, the illustration, or the persuasiveness of exposi-
tion, of a teaching that in substance is as old as the Hindoo Upani-
shads. In so far as Spinoza belongs to this very general and ancient
genus of thinkers, he deeply moves his special disciples; but has less


## p. 13788 (#622) ##########################################

13788
BENEDICT SPINOZA
distinctive meaning for the world, since many others would so far do
as well to represent the gospel of the peace that passeth understand-
ing. On the other hand, what is historically distinctive about Spinoza
as a thinker is not the prime motive which inspired him,— namely
a determination to be at peace with life,- but the theoretical con-
ception of the universe in terms of which he justified his teaching.
Hence while Spinoza the man, the practical philosopher, the mystic,
profoundly attracts, it is Spinoza the thinker whose theories have
been of most importance for later literature. As for that central
interest in the conduct of life, its importance for Spinoza appears in
the titles of several of his books. He wrote an unfinished essay On
the Improvement of the Intellect'; a Theologico-Political Tractate'
(the only confessedly original and independent philosophical treatise
that he published during his life, a book inspired by a distinctly
practical and social aim); an essay 'De Monarchia'; a little work
long lost, and only recently known through a Dutch translation,-
on 'God, Man, and Man's Happiness'; and in addition to these he
wrote his great systematic philosophical exposition, his principal pro-
duction, under the title 'Ethics. ' These titles suggest a writer whose
main purposes are purely practical. Yet the contents of all these
books involve elaborately wrought theories. This gospel of Stoic or
of mystic type must receive a demonstrative defense. The defense
involves, however, both fundamental and supplementary theories
regarding God, Matter, Mind, and Knowledge. It is to these theo-
ries that Spinoza's influence upon the history of thought is due; and
this influence extends to men and to doctrines very remote from
Spinoza's own ethical and religious interests. During his life he also
published an exposition of the Cartesian philosophy, and this book
is indeed a confessed contribution to theoretical thought.
To return for a moment from the man's character and influence
to the story of his life,-there is indeed here little more to tell.
Spinoza removed from Amsterdam to escape persecution; lived first
in the country near by, then near Leyden, and later (1663) passed to
the vicinity of The Hague. In 1670 he again moved into The Hague
itself, and remained there until his death. In 1673 he received a
call from the Elector Palatine to a professorship of philosophy at
the University of Heidelberg, with a guarantee, very liberal in view
of that age, as to his freedom of teaching. Spinoza carefully consid-
ered this flattering proposal; and then, with characteristic prudence
and unworldliness, declined it. Meanwhile he had become a man of
prominence. He corresponded with numerous friends, some of them
persons of great note. His published 'Principles of Cartesian Phi-
losophy' were in many hands; his Theologico-Political Tractate,'
which appeared in 1670, aroused a storm of opposition, by reason of


## p. 13789 (#623) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13789
its rationalistic criticism of Scripture, and because of its admirable
defense of the freedom of thought and of speech; and his posthu-
mously published 'Ethics' had already become known in manuscript
to his more confidential friends, either as a whole or in part In
one or two instances only is Spinoza known to have shown an inter-
est in the political events of that decidedly eventful time. In the
slander and personal abuse to which malevolent critics often exposed
his name he showed almost as little concern.
His health was throughout these years never very bad; but also,
apparently, never robust. Without any previous warning by illness,
so far as known to the family in whose house he lived, he died quite
suddenly, February 21st, 1677. His 'Ethics' first received publication
in his Posthumous Works' in the same year.