No More Learning

Goethe was strongly attracted by the genius of Diderot, and
thought it worth his while not only to translate but to supply with
a long and luminous commentary the latter's Essay on Painting. '
It was by a singular trick of fortune, too, that one of Diderot's
most powerful works should first have appeared in German garb, and


## p. 4692 (#486) ###########################################

4692
DENIS DIDEROT
not in the original French until after the author's death. A manu-
script copy of the book chanced to fall into the hands of Goethe,
who so greatly admired it that he at once translated, annotated,
and published it. This was the famous dialogue Le Neveu de
Rameau' (Rameau's Nephew), a work which only Diderot's peculiar
genius could have produced. Depicting the typical parasite, shame-
less, quick-witted for every species of villainy, at home in every pos-
sible meanness, the dialogue is a probably unequaled compound of
satire, high æsthetics, gleaming humor, sentimental moralizing, fine
musical criticism, and scientific character analysis, with passages of
brutal indecency.
Among literary critics of painting, Diderot has his place in the
highest rank. His nine Salons'-criticisms which in his good-nature
he wrote for the use of his friend Grimm, on the annual exhibitions
in the Paris Salon from 1759 onward-have never been surpassed
among non-technical criticisms for brilliancy, freshness, and philo-
sophic suggestiveness. They reveal the man's elemental strength;
which was not in his knowledge, for he was without technical train-
ing in art and had seen scarcely any of the world's masterpieces,
but in his sensuously sympathetic nature, which gave him quickness.
of insight and delicacy in interpretation.
He had the faculty of making and keeping friends, being un-
affected, genial, amiable, enthusiastically generous and helpful to his
friends, and without vindictiveness to his foes. He needed these
qualities to counteract his almost utter lack of conscientiousness, his
gush of sentiment, his unregulated morals, his undisciplined genius,
his unbalanced thought. His style of writing, often vivid and strong,
is as often awkward and dull, and is frequently lacking in finish.
As a philosophic author and thinker his voluminous work is of little
enduring worth, for though plentiful in original power it totally lacks
organic unity; his thought rambles carelessly, his method is con-
fused. It has been said of him that he was a master who produced
no masterpiece. But as a talker, a converser, all witnesses testify
that he was wondrously inspiring and suggestive, speaking sometimes
as from mysterious heights of vision or out of unsearchable deeps of
thought.


## p. 4693 (#487) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4693
FROM RAMEAU'S NEPHEW
BE
E THE weather fair or foul, it is my custom in any case at
five o'clock in the afternoon to stroll in the Palais Royal.
I am always to be seen alone and meditative, on the bench
D'Argenson. I hold converse with myself on politics or love, on
taste or philosophy, and yield up my soul entirely to its own
frivolity. It may follow the first idea that presents itself, be the
idea wise or foolish. In the Allée de Foi one sees our young
rakes following upon the heels of some courtesan who passes on
with shameless mien, laughing face, animated glance, and a pug
nose; but they soon leave her to follow another, teasing them
all, joining none of them. My thoughts are my courtesans.
When it is really too cold or rainy, I take refuge in the Café
de la Régence and amuse myself by watching the chess-players.
Paris is the place of the world and the Café de la Régence the
place of Paris where the best chess is played. There one wit-
nesses the most carefully calculated moves; there one hears the
most vulgar conversation; for since it is possible to be at once
a man of intellect and a great chess-player, like Légal, so also
one may be at once a great chess-player and a very silly person,
like Foubert or Mayot.
One afternoon I was there, observing much, speaking rarely,
and hearing as little as possible, when one of the most singular
personages came up to me that ever was produced by this land
of ours, where surely God has never caused a dearth of singular
characters. He is a combination of high-mindedness and base-
ness, of sound understanding and folly; in his head the concep-
tions of honor and dishonor must be strangely tangled, for the
good qualities with which nature has endowed him he displays
without boastfulness, and the bad qualities without shame. For
the rest, he is firmly built, has an extraordinary power of im-
agination, and possesses an uncommonly strong pair of lungs.
Should you ever meet him and succeed in escaping from the
charm of his originality, it must be by stopping both ears with
your fingers or by precipitate flight. Heavens, what terrible
lungs!
And nothing is less like him than he himself. Sometimes he
is thin and wasted, like a man in the last stages of consump-
tion; you could count his teeth through his cheeks; you would


## p. 4694 (#488) ###########################################

4694
DENIS DIDEROT
think he had not tasted food for several days, or had come from
La Trappe.
A month later he is fattened and filled out as if he had never
left the banquets of the rich or had been fed among the Ber-
nardines. To-day, with soiled linen, torn trousers, clad in rags,
and almost barefoot, he passes with bowed head, avoids those
whom he meets, till one is tempted to call him and bestow upon
him an alms. To-morrow, powdered, well groomed, well dressed,
and well shod, he carries his head high, lets himself be seen, and
you would take him almost for a respectable man.
So he lives from day to day, sad or merry, according to the
circumstances. His first care, when he rises in the morning, is
to take thought where he is to dine. After dinner he bethinks
himself of some opportunity to procure supper, and with the night
come new cares. Sometimes he goes on foot to his little attic,
which is his home if the landlady, impatient at long arrears of
rent, has not taken the key away from him. Sometimes he goes
to one of the taverns in the suburbs, and there, between a bit of
bread and a mug of beer, awaits the day. If he lacks the six
sous necessary to procure him quarters for the night, which is
occasionally the case, he applies to some cabman among his
friends or to the coachman of some great lord, and a place on the
straw beside the horses is vouchsafed him. In the morning he
carries a part of his mattress in his hair. If the season is mild,
he spends the whole night strolling back and forth on the Cours
or in the Champs Élysées. With the day he appears again in
the city, dressed yesterday for to-day and to-day often for the
rest of the week.
For such originals I cannot feel much esteem, but there are
others who make close acquaintances and even friends of them.
Once in the year perhaps they are able to put their spell upon
me, when I meet them, because their character is in such strong
contrast to that of every-day humanity, and they break the oppress-
ive monotony which our education, our social conventions, our
traditional proprieties have produced. When such a man enters
a company, he acts like a cake of yeast that raises the whole, and
restores to each a part of his natural individuality. He shakes
them up, brings things into motion, elicits praise or censure,
drives truth into the open, makes upright men recognizable, un-
masks the rogues, and there the wise man sits and listens and is
enabled to distinguish one class from another.


## p. 4695 (#489) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4695
This particular specimen I had long known; he frequented a
house into which his talents had secured him the entrée. These
people had an only daughter. He swore to the parents that he
would marry their daughter. They only shrugged their shoul-
ders, laughed in his face, and assured him that he was a fool.
But I saw the day come when the thing was accomplished. He
asked me for some money, which I gave him. He had, I know
not how, squirmed his way into a few houses, where a couvert
stood always ready for him, but it had been stipulated that he
should never speak without the consent of his hosts. So there he
sat and ate, filled the while with malice; it was fun to see him
under this restraint. The moment he ventured to break the
treaty and open his mouth, at the very first word the guests all
shouted "O Rameau! " Then his eyes flashed wrathfully, and he
fell upon his food again with renewed energy.
You were curious to know the man's name; there it is. He
is the nephew of the famous composer who has saved us from
the church music of Lulli which we have been chanting for a
hundred years,
and who, having buried the Florentine,
will himself be buried by Italian virtuosi; he dimly feels this, and
so has become morose and irritable, for no one can be in a worse
humor- not even a beautiful woman who in the morning finds
a pimple on her nose - than an author who sees himself threat-
ened with the fate of outliving his reputation, as Marivaux and
Crébillon fils prove.
Rameau's nephew came up to me. "Ah, my philosopher, do
I meet you once again? What are you doing here among the
good-for-nothings? Are you wasting your time pushing bits of
wood about? "
·
·
-
I-No; but when I have nothing better to do, I take a
passing pleasure in watching those who push them about with
skill.
He-A rare pleasure, surely. Excepting Légal and Philidor,
there is no one here that understands it.
·
I-You are hard to please. I see that only the best finds
favor with you.
He-Yes, in chess, checkers, poetry, oratory, music, and such
other trumpery. Of what possible use is mediocrity in these
things?
I-I am almost ready to agree with you.


## p. 4696 (#490) ###########################################

4696
DENIS DIDEROT
He- You have always shown some interest in me, because
I'm a poor devil whom you really despise, but who after all
amuses you.
I-That is true.
He-Then let me tell you. (Before beginning, he drew a
deep sigh, covered his forehead with both hands, then with calm
countenance continued:-) You know I am ignorant, foolish,
silly, shameless, rascally, gluttonous.
I-What a panegyric!
He-It is entirely true.
tradiction, I pray you.
myself, and I don't tell all.
Not a word to be abated; no con-
No one knows me better than I know
I-Rather than anger you, I will assent.
He- Now, just think, I lived with people who valued me pre-
cisely because all these qualities were mine in a high degree.
I-That is most remarkable. I have hitherto believed that
people concealed these qualities even from themselves, or excused
them, but always despised them in others.
He-Conceal them? Is that possible? You may be sure that
when Palissot is alone and contemplates himself, he tells quite a
different story. You may be sure that he and his companion
make open confession to each other that they are a pair of arrant
rogues. Despise these qualities in others? My people were much
more reasonable, and I fared excellently well among them.
I was cock of the walk. When absent, I was instantly missed. I
was pampered. I was their little Rameau, their good Rameau,
the shameless, ignorant, lazy Rameau, the fool, the clown, the
gourmand. Each of these epithets was to me a smile, a caress, a
slap on the back, a box on the ears, a kick, a dainty morsel
thrown upon my plate at dinner, a liberty permitted me after
dinner as if it were of no account; for I am of no account.
People make of me and do before me and with me whatever
they please, and I never give it a thought.
I-You have been giving lessons, I understand, in accom-
paniment and composition?
He-Yes.
I-And you knew absolutely nothing about it?
He-No, by Heaven; and for that very reason I was a much
better teacher than those who imagine they know something
about it. At all events, I didn't spoil the taste nor ruin the hands


## p. 4697 (#491) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4697
of my young pupils. If when they left me they went to a com-
petent master, they had nothing to unlearn, for they had learned.
nothing, and that was just so much time and money saved.
I-But how did you do it?
――
He The way they all do it. I came, threw myself into a
chair:-"How bad the weather is! How tired the pavement
makes one! " Then some scraps of town gossip:
« At
the last Amateur Concert there was an Italian woman who sang
like an angel.
Poor Dumênil doesn't know what to say
or do," etc. , etc.
"Come, mademoiselle, where is your
music-book? " And as mademoiselle displays no great haste,
searches every nook and corner for the book, which she has mis-
laid, and finally calls the maid to help her, I continue:- « Little
Clairon is an enigma. There is talk of a perfectly absurd mar-
riage of what is her name? " "Nonsense, Rameau, it isn't
possible. "—"They say the affair is all settled. "
"There
is a rumor that Voltaire is dead. "-"All the better. " — "Why
all the better? "-"Then he is sure to treat us to some droll
skit. That's a way he has, a fortnight before his death. " What
more should I say? I told a few scandals about the families in
the houses where I am received, for we are all great scandal-
mongers. In short, I played the fool; they listened and laughed,
and exclaimed, "He is really too droll, isn't he? " Meanwhile
the music-book had been found under a chair, where a little dog
or a little cat had worried it, chewed it, and torn it. Then the
pretty child sat down at the piano and began to make a frightful
noise upon it. I went up to her, secretly making a sign of
approbation to her mother. "Well, now, that isn't so bad," said
the mother; "one needs only to make up one's mind to a thing;
but the trouble is, one will not make up one's mind; one would
rather kill time by chattering, trifling, running about, and God
knows what. Scarcely do you turn your back but the book is
closed, and not until you are at her side again is it opened.
Besides, I have never heard you reprimand her. " In the mean
time, since something had to be done, I took her hands and
placed them differently. I pretended to lose my patience; I
shouted, "Sol, sol, sol, mademoiselle, it's a sol. " The mother:
"Mademoiselle, have you no ears? I'm not at the piano, I'm
not looking at your notes, but my own feeling tells me that it
ought to be a sol. You give the gentleman infinite trouble.
You remember nothing, and make no progress. " To break the
―
-
-
·


## p. 4698 (#492) ###########################################

4698
DENIS DIDEROT
force of this reproof a little, I tossed my head and said: "Pardon
me, madame, pardon me. It would be better if mademoiselle
would only practice a little, but after all it is not so bad. "—" In
your place I would keep her a whole year at one piece. ”—“Rest
assured, I shall not let her off until she has mastered every diffi-
culty; and that will not take so long, perhaps, as mademoiselle
thinks. "—"Monsieur Rameau, you flatter her; you are too good. "
And that is the only thing they would remember of the whole
lesson, and would upon occasion repeat to me. So the lesson
came to an end. My pupil handed me the fee, with a grace ful
gesture and a courtesy which her dancing-master had taught her.
I put the money into my pocket, and the mother said, "That's
very nice, mademoiselle. If Favillier were here, he would praise
you. " For appearance's sake I chattered for a minute or two
more; then I vanished; and that is what they called in those
days a lesson in accompaniment.
I-And is the case different now?
He-Heavens! I should think so. I come in, I am serious,
throw my muff aside, open the piano, try the keys, show signs
of great impatience, and if I am kept a moment waiting I shout
as if my purse had been stolen. In an hour I must be there or
there; in two hours with the Duchess So-and-so; at noon I must
go to the fair Marquise; and then there is to be a concert at
Baron de Bagge's, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.
I-And meanwhile no one expects you at all.
He-Certainly not.
And precisely because I can
further my fortune through vices which come natural to me,
which I acquired without labor and practice without effort, which
are in harmony with the customs of my countrymen, which are
quite to the taste of my patrons, and better adapted to their
special needs than inconvenient virtues would be, which from
morning to night would be standing accusations against them, it
would be strange indeed if I should torture myself like one of
the damned to twist and turn and make of myself something
which I am not, and hide myself beneath a character foreign to
me, and assume the most estimable qualities, whose worth I will
not dispute, but which I could acquire and live up to only by
great exertions, and which after all would lead to nothing,— per-
haps to worse than nothing. Moreover, ought a beggar like me,
who lives upon the wealthy, constantly to hold up to his patrons
a mirror of good conduct? People praise virtue but hate it; they
.


## p. 4699 (#493) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4699
fly from it, let it freeze; and in this world a man has to keep
his feet warm. Besides, I should always be in the sourest humor:
for why is it that the pious and the devotional are so hard, so
repellent, so unsociable? It is because they have imposed upon
themselves a task contrary to their nature. They suffer, and
when a man suffers he makes others suffer. Now, that is no
affair of mine or of my patrons'. I must be in good spirits, easy,
affable, full of sallies, drollery, and folly. Virtue demands rever-
ence, and reverence is inconvenient; virtue challenges admiration,
and admiration is not entertaining. I have to do with people
whose time hangs heavy on their hands; they want to laugh.
Now consider the folly: the ludicrous makes people laugh, and I
therefore must be a fool; I must be amusing, and if nature had
not made me so, then by hook or by crook I should have made
myself seem so. Fortunately I have no need to play the hypo-
crite. There are hypocrites enough of all colors without me,
and not counting those who deceive themselves.
Should
it ever occur to friend Rameau to play Cato, to despise fortune,
women, good living, idleness, what would he be ? A hypocrite.
Let Rameau remain what he is, a happy robber among wealthy
robbers, and a man without either real or boasted virtue. In
short, your idea of happiness, the happiness of a few enthusiastic
dreamers like you, has no charm for me.
I-He earns his bread dearly, who in order to live must
assail virtue and knowledge.
He I have already told you that we are of no consequence.
We slander all men and grieve none.
[The dialogue reverts to music. ]
-
I- Every imitation has its original in nature. What is the
musician's model when he breaks into song?
He-Why do you not grasp the subject higher up? What is
song?
I-That, I confess, is a question beyond my powers. That's
the way with us all. The memory is stored with words only,
which we think we understand because we often use them and
even apply them correctly, but in the mind we have only indefi-
nite conceptions. When I use the word "song," I have no more
definite idea of it than you and the majority of your kind have
when you say reputation, disgrace, honor, vice, virtue, shame,
propriety, mortification, ridicule.


## p. 4700 (#494) ###########################################

4700
DENIS DIDEROT
He-Song is an imitation in tones, produced either by the
voice or by instruments, of a scale invented by art, or if you
will, established by nature; an imitation of physical sounds or
passionate utterances; and you see, with proper alterations this
definition could be made to fit painting, oratory, sculpture, and
poetry. Now to come to your question, What is the model of
the musician or of song? It is the declamation, when the model
is alive or sensate; it is the tone, when the model is insensate.
The declamation must be regarded as a line, and the music as
another line which twines about it. The stronger and the more
genuine is this declamation, this model of song, the more numer-
ous the points at which the accompanying music intersects it,
the more beautiful will it be. And this our younger composers
have clearly perceived. When one hears "Je suis un pauvre
diable," one feels that it is a miser's complaint. If he didn't
sing, he would address the earth in the very same tones when
he intrusts to its keeping his gold: "O terre, reçois mon trésor. "
.
In such works with the greatest variety of characters,
there is a convincing truth of declamation that is unsurpassed.
I tell you, go, go, and hear the aria where the young man who
feels that he is dying, cries out, "Mon cœur s'en va. " Listen
to the air, listen to the accompaniment, and then tell me what
difference there is between the true tones of a dying man and
the handling of this music. You will see that the line of the
melody exactly coincides with the line of declamation.
I say
nothing of the time, which is one of the conditions of song; I
confine myself to the expression, and there is nothing truer than
the statement which I have somewhere read, "Musices seminarium
accentus," the accent is the seed-plot of the melody. And for
that reason, consider how difficult and important a matter it is
to be able to write a good recitative. There is no beautiful aria
out of which a beautiful recitative could not be made; no beauti-
ful recitative out of which a clever man could not produce a
beautiful aria. I will not assert that one who recites well will
also be able to sing well, but I should be much surprised if a
good singer could not recite well. And you may believe all that
I tell you now, for it is true.
(And then he walked up and down and began to hum a few
arias from the 'Île des Fous,' etc. , exclaiming from time to time,
with upturned eyes and hands upraised:-) "Isn't that beautiful,
great heavens! isn't that beautiful? Is it possible to have a pair


## p. 4701 (#495) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4701
of ears on one's head and question its beauty? " Then as his
enthusiasm rose he sang quite softly, then more loudly as he
became more impassioned, then with gestures, grimaces, contor-
tions of body. "Well," said I, "he is losing his mind, and 1
may expect a new scene. " And in fact, all at once he burst out
singing.
He passed from one aria to another, fully
thirty of them,- Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort.
Now with a deep bass he descended into hell; then, contracting
his throat, he split the upper air with a falsetto, and in gait,
mien, and action he imitated the different singers, by turns rav
ing, commanding, mollified, scoffing. There was a little girl that
wept, and he hit off all her pretty little ways. Then he was a
priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatened, commanded, stormed;
then he was a slave and submissive. He despaired, he grew
tender, he lamented, he laughed, always in the tone, the time,
the sense of the words, of the character, of the situation.
•
All the chess-players had left their boards and were gathered
around him; the windows of the café were crowded with passers-
by, attracted by the noise. There was laughter enough to bring
down the ceiling. He noticed nothing, but went on in such a
rapt state of mind, in an enthusiasm so close to madness, that I
was uncertain whether he would recover, or if he would be
thrown into a cab and taken straight to the mad-house; the while
he sang the Lamentations of Jomelli.
With precision, fidelity, and incredible warmth, he rendered
one of the finest passages, the superb obligato recitative in which
the prophet paints the destruction of Jerusalem; he wept himself,
and the eyes of the listeners were moist. More could not be
desired in delicacy of vocalization, nor in the expression of over-
whelming grief. He dwelt especially on those parts in which the
great composer has shown his greatness most clearly. When he
was not singing, he took the part of the instruments; these he
quickly dropped again, to return to the vocal part, weaving one
into the other so perfectly that the connection, the unity of the
whole, was preserved. He took possession of our souls and held
them in the strangest suspense I have ever experienced. Did
I admire him? Yes, I admired him. Was I moved and melted?
I was moved and melted, and yet something of the ludicrous
mingled itself with these feelings and modified their nature.
But you would have burst out laughing at the way he imi-
tated the different instruments. With a rough muffled tone and


## p. 4702 (#496) ###########################################

4702
DENIS DIDEROT
puffed-out cheeks he represented horns and bassoon; for the oboe
he assumed a rasping nasal tone; with incredible rapidity he
made his voice run over the string instruments, whose tones he
endeavored to reproduce with the greatest accuracy; the flute
passages he whistled; he rumbled out the sounds of the German
flute; he shouted and sang with the gestures of a madman, and
so alone and unaided he impersonated the entire ballet corps, the
singers, the whole orchestra,-in short, a complete performance, —
dividing himself into twenty different characters, running, stop-
ping, with the mien of one entranced, with glittering eyes and
foaming mouth.
He was quite beside himself. Ex-
hausted by his exertions, like a man awakening from a deep
sleep or emerging from a long period of abstraction, he remained
motionless, stupefied, astonished. He looked about him in be-
wilderment, like one trying to recognize the place in which he
finds himself. He awaited the return of his strength, of his con-
sciousness; he dried his face mechanically. Like one who upon
awaking finds his bed surrounded by groups of people, in com-
plete oblivion and profound unconsciousness of what he had been
doing, he cried, "Well, gentlemen, what's the matter? What
are you laughing at? What are you wondering about? What's
the matter? »
I- My dear Rameau, let us talk again of music. Tell me
how it comes that with the facility you display for appreciating
the finest passages of the great masters, for retaining them in
your memory, and for rendering them to the delight of others
with all the enthusiasm with which the music inspires you,-
how comes it that you have produced nothing of value yourself?
(Instead of answering me, he tossed his head, and raising his
finger towards heaven, cried:—)
The stars, the stars! When nature made Leo, Vinci, Pergo-
lese, Duni, she wore a smile; her face was solemn and com-
manding when she created my dear uncle Rameau, who for ten
years has been called the great Rameau, and who will soon be
named no more. But when she scraped his nephew together,
she made a face and a face and a face. (And as he spoke he
made grimaces, one of contempt, one of irony, one of scorn.
He went through the motions of kneading dough, and smiled
at the ludicrous forms he gave it.
Then he threw the strange
pagoda from him. ) So she made me and threw me down among
other pagodas, some with portly well-filled paunches, short necks,
-
-


## p. 4703 (#497) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4703
protruding goggle eyes, and an apoplectic appearance; others
with lank and crooked necks and emaciated forms, with animated
eyes and hawks' noses. These all felt like laughing themselves
to death when they saw me, and when I saw them I set my
arms akimbo and felt like laughing myself to death, for fools
and clowns take pleasure in one another; seek one another out,
attract one another. Had I not found upon my arrival in this
world the proverb ready-made, that the money of fools is the
inheritance of the clever, the world would have owed it to me.
I felt that nature had put my inheritance into the purse of the
pagodas, and I tried in a thousand ways to recover it.
I-I know these ways. You have told me of them. I have
admired them. But with so many capabilities, why do you not
try to accomplish something great?
He-That is exactly what a man of the world said to the
Abbé Le Blanc. The abbé replied: "The Marquise de Pompa
dour takes me in hand and brings me to the door of the
Academy; then she withdraws her hand; I fall and break both
legs. " "You ought to pull yourself together," rejoined the man
of the world, "and break the door in with your head. ” — “I
have just tried that," answered the abbé, "and do you know
what I got for it? A bump on the head. "
(Then he
turned to
drank a swallow from what remained in the bottle and
his neighbor. ) Sir, I beg you for a pinch of snuff. That's a
fine snuff-box you have there. You are a musician? No! All
the better for you. They are a lot of poor deplorable wretches.
Fate made me one of them, me! Meanwhile at Montmartre
there is a mill, and in the mill there is perhaps a miller or a
miller's lad, who will never hear anything but the roaring of the
mill, and who might have composed the most beautiful of songs.
Rameau, get you to the mill, to the mill; it's there you belong.
But it is half-past five. I hear the vesper bell which
summons me too. Farewell. It's true, is it not, philosopher, I
am always the same Rameau ?
I-Yes, indeed. Unfortunately.
He-Let me enjoy my misfortune forty years longer. He
laughs best who laughs last.
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature. '
-
•
·


## p. 4704 (#498) ###########################################

4704
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
(1814-1881)
RANZ VON DINGELSTEDT was born at Halsdorf, Hessen, Ger-
many, June 30th, 1814. He attained eminence as a poet
and dramatist, but his best powers were devoted to his
principal calling as theatre director.
His boyhood's education was received at Rinteln. At the Univer-
sity of Marburg he applied himself to theology and philology, but
more especially to modern languages and literature. After leaving
the university he became instructor at Ricklingen, near Hanover.
He was characterized, even as a young
man, by his political freedom and inde-
pendence of thought; and at Cassel, where
in 1836 he was teacher in the Lyceum, he
was on this account looked upon so much
askance that it was found expedient to
transfer him to the gymnasium at Fulda
(1838). He resigned this position, however,
in order to devote himself to writing. A
collection of his poems appeared in 1838-45,
and of these, 'Lieder eines Kosmopoli-
tischen Nachtwächters' (Songs of a Cosmo-
politan Night-Watchman: 1841) may be
said to have produced a genuine agitation.
These were not only important as literature,
but as political promulgations, boldly embodying the radical senti-
ments of freethinking Germany.

DINGELSTEDT
In 1841 he went to Augsburg, connected himself with the Allge-
meine Zeitung, and traveled as newspaper correspondent in France,
Holland, Belgium, and England. 'Das Wanderbuch' (The Wander-
Book), and 'Jusqu'à la Mer - Erinnerungen aus Holland' (As Far as
the Sea- Remembrances of Holland: 1847), were the fruits of these
journeys. He had in contemplation a voyage to the Orient, and pre-
paratory to this he settled for a short time in Vienna; but the jour-
ney was not undertaken, for just at this time he was appointed
librarian of the Royal Library of Stuttgart, and reader to the king,
with the title of Court Councilor. Here in 1844 he married the cele-
brated singer Jenny Lutzer. He returned to Vienna, where in 1850
his drama 'Das Haus der Barneveldt' (The House of the Barneveldts)


## p. 4705 (#499) ###########################################

FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4705
was produced with such brilliant success that he was thereupon
To
appointed stage manager of the National Theatre at Munich.
this for six years he devoted his best efforts, presenting in the
most admirable manner the finest of the German classics. The merit
of his work was recognized by the king, who ennobled him in 1857.
He was pre-eminently a theatrical manager, and served successively
at Weimar (1857) and at Vienna, where he was appointed director of
the Court Opera House in 1867, and of the Burg Theatre in 1870.
He brought the classic plays of other lands upon the stage, and
his revivals of Shakespeare's historical plays and the Winter's Tale,'
and of Molière's 'L'Avare' (The Miser), were brilliant events in the
theatrical annals of Vienna. He was made Imperial Councilor by the
Emperor, and raised in 1876 to the rank of baron. In 1875 he took
the position of general director of both court theatres of Vienna. He
died at Vienna, May 15th, 1881.
The novels 'Licht und Schatten der Liebe' (The Light and
Shadow of Love: 1838); 'Heptameron,' 1841; and 'Novellenbuch,'
1855, were not wholly successful; but in contrast to these, Unter
der Erde' (Under the Earth: 1840); 'Sieben Friedliche Erzählungen'
(Seven Peaceful Tales: 1844), and 'Die Amazone' (The Amazon:
1868), are admirable.
Regarded purely as literature, Dingelstedt's best productions are
his early poems, although his commentaries upon Shakespeare and
Goethe are wholly praiseworthy. He was successful chiefly as a
political poet, but his muse sings also the joys of domestic life.
'Hauslieder' (Household Songs: 1844), and his poems upon Chamisso
and Uhland, are among the most beautiful personal poems in German
literature.
A MAN OF BUSINESS
From The Amazon': copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons
HⓇ
ERR KRAFFT was about to reply, but was prevented by the
hasty appearance of Herr Heyboldt, the first procurist, who
entered the apartment; not an antiquated comedy figure in
shoe-buckles, coarse woolen socks, velvet pantaloons, and a long-
tailed coat, his vest full of tobacco, and a goose-quill back of his
comically flexible ear; no, but a fine-looking man, dressed in
the latest style and in black, with a medal in his button-hole,
and having an earnest, expressive countenance. He was house-
holder, member of the City Council, and militia captain; the
gold medal and colored ribbon on his left breast told of his
VIII-295


## p. 4706 (#500) ###########################################

4706
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
having saved, at the risk of his own life, a Leander who had
been carried away by the current in the swimming-baths.
-
His announcement, urgent as it was, was made without haste,
deliberate and cool, somewhat as the mate informs the captain.
that an ugly wind has sprung up. "Herr Principal," he said,
"the crowd has broken in the barriers and one wing of the gate-
way; they are attacking the counting-house.
"Who breaks,
pays," said Krafft, with a joke; "we will charge the sport to their
account. " — "The police are not strong enough; they have sent to
the Royal Watch for military. "-"That is right, Heyboldt. No
accident, no arms or legs broken? "—"Not that I know of. ” –
"Pity for Meyer Hirsch; he would have thundered magnificently
in the official Morning News against the excesses of the rage for
speculation. Nor any one wounded by the police? "-"Not any,
so far. " "Pity for Hirsch Meyer. The oppositional Evening
Journal has missed a capital opportunity of weeping over the
barbarity of the soldateska. At all events, the two papers must
continue to write one for, the other against us. Keep Hirsch
Meyer and Meyer Hirsch going. "-"All right, Herr Prin-
cipal. " "Send each of them a polite line, to the effect that
we have taken the liberty of keeping a few shares for him, to
sell them at the most favorable moment, and pay him over the
difference. " — "It shall be attended to, Herr Principal. ” — “So our
Southwestern Railway goes well, Heyboldt ? "-"By steam, Herr
Principal. " The sober man smiled at his daring joke, and Herr
Krafft smiled affably with him. "The amount that we have left
to furnish will be exhausted before one has time to turn around.
The people throw money, bank-notes, government bonds, at our
cashiers, who cannot fill up the receipts fast enough. On the
Bourse they fought for the blanks. " "For the next four weeks
we will run the stock up, Heyboldt; after that it can fall, but
slowly, with decorum. "-"I understand, Herr Principal. "
A cashier came rushing in without knocking. "Herr Princi-
pal," he stammered in his panic, "we have not another blank,
and the people are pouring in upon us more and more vio-
lently. Wild shouts call for you. " "To your place, sir," thun-
dered Krafft at him. "I shall come when I think it time. In
no case," he added more quietly, "before the military arrive.
We need an interference, for the sake of the market. " The mes-
senger disappeared; but pale, bewildered countenances were to
be seen in the doorways of the comptoir; the house called for
―――――


## p. 4707 (#501) ###########################################

FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4707
its master: the trembling daughter sent again and again for her
father.
"Let us bring the play to a close," said Herr Krafft, after
brief deliberation; he stepped into the middle office, flung open a
window, and raising his harsh voice to its loudest tones, cried to
the throng below, "You are looking for me, folks. Here I am.
What do you want of me? " "Shares, subscriptions," was the
noisy answer. "You claim without any right or any manners.
This is my house, a peaceable citizen's house. You are breaking
in as though it were a dungeon, an arsenal, a tax-office,-as
though we were in the midst of a revolution. Are you not
ashamed of yourselves? " A confused murmur rang through the
astonished ranks. "If you wish to do business with me,"
‚» con-
tinued the merchant, << you must first learn manners and disci-
pline. Have I invited your visit? Do I need your money, or do
you need my shares? Send up some deputies to convey your
requests. I shall have nothing to do with a turbulent mob. " So
saying, he closed the window with such violence that the panes
cracked, and the fragments fell down on the heads of the assail-
ants.
-
-
"The Principal knows how to talk to the people," said Hey-
boldt with pride to Roland, the mute witness of this strange
scene. "He speaks their own language. He replies to a broken
door with a broken window. "
Meantime a company of soldiers had arrived on double-quick,
with a flourish of drums. The officer's word of command rang
through the crowd, now grown suddenly quiet: "Fix bayonets!
form line! march! " Yard and passages were cleared, the doors
guarded; in the street the low muttering tide, forced back, made
a sort of dam. Three deputies, abashed and confused, appeared
at Krafft's door and craved audience. The merchant received
them like a prince surrounded by his court, in the midst of his
clerks, in the large counting-room. The spokesman commenced:
"We ask your pardon, Herr Krafft, for what has happened. "
"For shame, that you should drag in soldiers as witnesses and
peacemakers in a quiet little business affair among order-loving
citizens. " "It was reported that we had been fooled with these
subscriptions, and that the entire sum had been already disposed
of on the Bourse. " "And even if that were so, am I to be
blamed for it? The Southwestern Railway must raise thirty
millions. Double, treble that amount is offered it. Can I prevent


## p. 4708 (#502) ###########################################

4708
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
the necessity of reducing the subscriptions? " "No; but they
say that we poor folks shall not get a cent's worth; the big men
of the Bourse have gobbled up the best bits right before our
noses. " "They say so? Who says so? Court Cooper Täubert,
I ask you who says so? "-"Gracious Herr Court Banker - "
<< Don't Court or Gracious me. My name is Krafft, Herr Hans
Heinrich Krafft. I think we know each other, Master Täubert.
It is not the first time that we have done business together.
You have a very snug little share in
little share in my workingmen's
bank. Grain-broker Wüst, you have bought one of the houses in
my street.
Do I ever dun you for the installments of purchase
money? " "No indeed, Herr Krafft; you are a good man, a
public-spirited man, no money-maker, no leech, no Jew! " cried
the triumvirate of deputies in chorus. "I am nothing more than
you are: a man of business, who works for his living, the son of
a peasant, a plain simple citizen. I began in a smaller way
than any of you; but I shall never forget that I am flesh of your
flesh, blood of your blood.