No More Learning

There ought to be at least a dozen of these people if they could
be had, for it is only in society that they are anything; they are


## p. 6438 (#420) ###########################################

6438
GOETHE
society itself; and Shakespeare showed no little wisdom and dis
cernment in bringing in a pair of them. Besides, I need them
as a couple that may be contrasted with the single, noble, excel-
lent Horatio. "
THE INDENTURE
From Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
Α
RT is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity transient.
To act is easy, to think is hard; to act according to our
thought is troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful; the
threshold is the place of expectation. The boy stands astonished,
his impressions guide him; he learns sportfully, seriousness comes
on him by surprise. Imitation is born with us; what should be
imitated is not easy to discover. The excellent is rarely found,
more rarely valued. The height charms us, the steps to it do
not; with the summit in our eye, we love to walk along the
plain. It is but a part of art that can be taught; the artist
needs it all. Who knows it half, speaks much and is always
wrong; who knows it wholly, inclines to act and speaks seldom
or late.
The former have no secrets and no force; the instruc-
tion they can give is like baked bread, savory and satisfying for
a single day; but flour cannot be sown, and seed corn ought not
to be ground. Words are good, but they are not the best. The
best is not to be explained by words. The spirit in which we act
is the highest matter. Action can be understood and again rep-
resented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing
while he acts aright; but of what is wrong we are always con-
scious. Whoever works with symbols only is a pedant, a hypo-
crite, or a bungler. There are many such, and they like to be
together. Their babbling detains the scholar; their obstinate
mediocrity vexes even the best. The instruction which the true
artist gives us opens the mind; for where words fail him, deeds.
speak. The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the
unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master.


## p. 6439 (#421) ###########################################

GOETHE
6439
THE HARPER'S SONGS
From 'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
HAT notes are those without the wall,
"WHAT Across the portal sounding?
Let's have the music in our hall,
Back from its roof rebounding. "
So spoke the king: the henchman flies;
His answer heard, the monarch cries,
«< Bring in that ancient minstrel. »
"Hail, gracious king, each noble knight!
Each lovely dame, I greet you!
What glittering stars salute my sight!
What heart unmoved may meet you!
Such lordly pomp is not for me,
Far other scenes my eyes must see:
Yet deign to list my harping. "
The singer turns him to his art,
A thrilling strain he raises;
Each warrior hears with glowing heart
And on his loved one gazes.
The king, who liked his playing well,
Commands, for such a kindly spell,
A golden chain be given him.
"The golden chain give not to me:
Thy boldest knight may wear it,
Who 'cross the battle's purple sea
On lion breast may bear it;
Or let it be thy chancellor's prize,
Amid his heaps to feast his eyes,-
Its yellow glance will please him.
"I sing but as the linnet sings,
That on the green bough dwelleth;
A rich reward his music brings,
As from his throat it swelleth :
Yet might I ask, I'd ask of thine
One sparkling draught of purest wine
To drink it here before you. "
He viewed the wine, he quaffed it up:
"O draught of sweetest savor!


## p. 6440 (#422) ###########################################

6440
GOETHE
O happy house, where such a cup
Is thought a little favor!
If well you fare, remember me,
And thank kind Heaven, from envy free,
As now for this I thank you. "
WHO never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the darksome hours
Weeping and watching for the morrow,-
He knows ye not, ye gloomy Powers.
To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,
To guilt ye let us heedless go,
Then leave repentance fierce to wring us;
A moment's guilt, an age of woe!
MIGNON'S SONG
From Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
UCH let me seem, till such I be;
SUCH
Take not my snow-white dress away!
Soon from this dusk of earth I flee,
Up to the glittering lands of day.
There first a little space I rest,
Then wake so glad, to scenes so kind;
In earthly robes no longer drest,
This band, this girdle left behind.
And those calm shining sons of morn,
They ask not who is maid or boy;
No robes, no garments there are worn,
Our body pure from sin's alloy.
Through little life not much I toiled,
Yet anguish long this heart has wrung,
Untimely woe my blossoms spoiled:
Make me again forever young!


## p. 6441 (#423) ###########################################

GOETHE
6441
PHILINA’S SONG
From Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
ST
ING me not with such emotion
How the night so lonesome is;
Pretty maids, I've got a notion
It is the reverse of this.
For as wife and man are plighted,
And the better half the wife,
So is night to day united,-
Night's the better half of life.
Can you joy in bustling daytime,-
Day, when none can get his will?
It is good for work, for haytime;
For much other it is ill.
But when in the nightly glooming,
Social lamp on table glows,
Face for faces dear illuming,
And such jest and joyance goes;
When the fiery pert young fellow,
Wont by day to run or ride,
Whispering now some tale would tell O,—
All so gentle by your side;
When the nightingale to lovers
Lovingly her songlet sings,
Which for exiles and sad rovers
Like mere woe and wailing rings;
With a heart how lightsome-feeling
Do ye count the kindly clock,
Which, twelve times deliberate pealing,
Tells you none to-night shall knock!
Therefore, on all fit occasions,
Mark it, maidens, what I sing:
Every day its own vexations,
And the night its joys will bring.


## p. 6442 (#424) ###########################################

6442
GOETHE
B
PROMETHEUS
LACKEN thy heavens, Jove,
With thunder-clouds,
And exercise thee, like a boy
Who thistles crops,
With smiting oaks and mountain-tops:
Yet must leave me standing
My own firm earth;
Must leave my cottage, which thou didst not build,
And my warm hearth,
Whose cheerful glow
Thou enviest me.
I know naught more pitiful
Under the sun, than you, gods!
Ye nourish scantily
With altar taxes
And with cold lip-service,
This your majesty ;-
Would perish, were not
Children and beggars
Credulous fools.
When I was a child,
And knew not whence or whither,
I would turn my 'wildered eye
To the sun, as if up yonder were
An ear to hear to my complaining —
A heart, like mine,
On the oppressed to feel compassion.
Who helped me
When I braved the Titans' insolence?
Who rescued me from death,
From slavery?
Hast thou not all thyself accomplished,
Holy-glowing heart?
And, glowing, young, and good,
Most ignorantly thanked
The slumberer above there?
I honor thee! For what?
Hast thou the miserie's lightened
Of the down-trodden?


## p. 6443 (#425) ###########################################

GOETHE
6443
Hast thou the tears ever banished
From the afflicted?
Have I not to manhood been molded
By omnipotent Time,
And by Fate everlasting,
My lords and thine?
Dreamedst thou ever
I should grow weary of living,
And fly to the desert,
Since not all our
Pretty dream buds ripen?
Here sit I, fashion men
In mine own image,-
A race to be like me,
To weep and to suffer,
To be happy and enjoy themselves,
To be careless of thee too,
As I!
THOU
WANDERER'S NIGHT SONGS
HOU that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
Translation of John S. Dwight.
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending,
Come, ah come into my breast!
O'ER all the hill-tops
Is quiet now,
In all the tree-tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait; soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.
Longfellow's Translation. Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin &
Co. , publishers, Boston


## p. 6444 (#426) ###########################################

6444
GOETHE
THE ELFIN-KING
WHO
HO rides so late through the midnight blast?
'Tis a father spurs on with his child full fast;
He gathers the boy well into his arm,
He clasps him close and he keeps him warm.
་ My son, why thus to my arm dost cling? "
"Father, dost thou not see the elfin-king?
The elfin-king with his crown and train! »–
"My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain! "
"Come hither, thou darling, come, go with me!
Fine games I know that I'll play with thee;
Flowers many and bright do my kingdoms hold,
My mother has many a robe of gold. »
"O father, dear father, and dost thou not hear
What the elfin-king whispers so low in mine ear? ».
"Calm, calm thee, my boy, it is only the breeze,
As it rustles the withered leaves under the trees. "
"Wilt thou go, benny boy, wilt thou go with me?
My daughters shall wait on thee daintily;
My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep,
And rock thee and kiss thee and sing thee to sleep. "
"O father, dear father, and dost thou not mark
The elf-king's daughters move by in the dark? ».
"I see it, my child; but it is not they,
'Tis the old willow nodding its head so gray. "
"I love thee! thy beauty it charms me so;
And I'll take thee by force, if thou wilt not go! »
"O father, dear father, he's grasping me,-
My heart is as cold as cold can be! "
-
The father rides swiftly,- with terror he gasps,-
The sobbing child in his arms he clasps;
He reaches the castle with spurring and dread;
But alack! in his arms the child lay dead!
Translation of Martin and Aytoun.


## p. 6445 (#427) ###########################################

GOETHE
6445
FROM THE WANDERER'S STORM SONG>
WH
HOм thou desertest not, O Genius.
Neither blinding rain nor storm
Breathes upon his heart a chill.
Whom thou desertest not, O Genius,
To the lowering clouds,
To the beating hail,
He will sing cheerly,
As the lark there,
Thou that soarest.
Whom thou desertest not, O Genius,
Him thou'lt lift o'er miry places
On thy flaming pinions:
He will traverse
As on feet of flowers
Slime of Deucalion's deluge;
Slaying Python, strong, great,
Pythius Apollo!
Whom thou desertest not, O Genius,
Thou wilt spread thy downy wings beneath him,
When he sleeps upon the crags;
Thou wilt cover him with guardian pinions
In the midnight forest depths.
Whom thou desertest not, O Genius,
Thou wilt in whirling snow-storm
Warmly wrap him round;
To the warmth fly the Muses,
To the warmth fly the Graces.
Around me float, ye Muses,
And float, ye Graces!
This is water, this is earth
And the son of water and of earth,
Over whom I wander
Like the gods.
You are pure like the heart of water,
You are pure like the core of earth,
You float around me, and I float
Over water, over earth,
Like the gods.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.


## p. 6446 (#428) ###########################################

6446
GOETHE
THE GODLIKE
OBLE be Man,
N°
N Helpful and good!
For that alone
Doth distinguish him.
From all the beings
Which we know.
Hail to the Unknown, the
Higher Beings
Felt within us!
His pattern teach us
Faith in them!
For unfeeling
Is Nature:
Still shineth the sun
Over good and evil;
And to the sinner
Smile, as to the best,
The moon and the stars.
Wind and waters,
Thunder and hailstones,
Rustle on their way,
Smiting down as
They dash along,
One for another.
Just so does Fate
Grope round in the crowd,
Seize now the innocent,
Curly-haired boy,
Now on the old, bald
Crown of the villain.
By great adamantine
Laws everlasting,
Here we must all our
Round of existence
Faithfully finish.
There can none but Man
Perform the Impossible.
He understandeth,


## p. 6447 (#429) ###########################################

GOETHE
6447
O
Chooseth, and judgeth;
He can impart to the
Moment duration.
He alone may
The Good reward,
The Guilty punish,
Mend and deliver;
All the wayward, anomalous
Bind in the Useful.
And the Immortals -
Them we reverence,
As if they were men, and
Did, on a grand scale,
What the best man in little
Does, or fain would do.
Let noble Man
Be helpful and good!
Ever creating
The Right and the Useful-
Type of those loftier
Beings of whom the heart whispers!
Translation of John S. Dwight.
SOLITUDE
YE kindly nymphs, who dwell 'mongst the rocks and the
thickets,
Grant unto each whatsoever he may in silence desire!
Comfort impart to the mourner, and give to the doubter instruction,
And let the lover rejoice, finding the bliss that he craves.
For from the gods ye received what they ever denied unto mortals,
Power to comfort and aid all who in you may confide.
Translation of E. A. Bowring.


## p. 6448 (#430) ###########################################

6448
GOETHE
ERGO BIBAMUS!
F
OR a praiseworthy object we're now gathered here,
So, brethren, sing Ergo bibamus!
Though talk may be hushed, yet the glasses ring clear:
Remember then, Ergo bibamus!
In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word;
With its sound so befitting each bosom is stirred,
And an echo the festal hall filling is heard,
A glorious Ergo bibamus!
I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare,
And bethought me of Ergo bibamus;
So I gently approached, and she let me stand there,
While I helped myself, thinking, Bibamus!
And when she's appeared, and will clasp you and kiss,
Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss,
Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss,
In the comforting Ergo bibamus!
I am called by my fate far away from each friend;
Ye loved ones, then, Ergo bibamus!
With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend,
So double our Ergo bibamus!
Whate'er to his treasure the niggard may add,
Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had,
For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad,
So, brethren, sing: Ergo bibamus!
And what shall we say of to-day as it flies?
I thought but of Ergo bibamus!
'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise,
So again and again sing Bibamus!
For joy through a wide-open portal it guides,
Bright glitter the clouds as the curtain divides,
And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides,
While we thunder our Ergo bibamus.
Translation of E. A. Bowring.


## p. 6449 (#431) ###########################################

GOETHE
6449
ALEXIS AND DORA
F
ARTHER and farther away, alas! at each moment the vessel
Hastens, as onward it glides, cleaving the foam-covered flood!
Long is the track plowed up by the keel where dolphins are
sporting,
Following fast in its rear, while it seems flying pursuit.
All forebodes a prosperous voyage; the sailor with calmness
Leans 'gainst the sail, which alone all that is needed performs.
Forward presses the heart of each seaman, like colors and streamers;
Backward one only is seen, mournfully fixed near the mast,
While on the blue-tinged mountains, which fast are receding, he
gazeth,
And as they sink in the sea, joy from his bosom departs.
Vanished from thee, too, O Dora, is now the vessel that robs thee
Of thine Alexis, thy friend,-ah, thy betrothed as well!
Thou, too, art after me gazing in vain. Our hearts are still throb-
bing,
Though for each other, yet ah! 'gainst one another no more.
O thou single moment, wherein I found life! thou outweighest
Every day which had else coldly from memory fled.
'Twas in that moment alone, the last, that upon me descended
Life such as deities grant, though thou perceivèdst it not.
Phœbus, in vain with thy rays dost thou clothe the ether in glory:
Thine all-brightening day hateful alone is to me.
Into myself I retreat for shelter, and there in the silence
Strive to recover the time when she appeared with each day.
Was it possible beauty like this to see, and not feel it?
Worked not those heavenly charms e'en on a mind dull as thine?
Blame not thyself, unhappy one! Oft doth the bard an enigma
Thus propose to the throng, skillfully hidden in words;
Each one enjoys the strange commingling of images graceful,
Yet still is wanting the word which will discover the sense.
When at length it is found, the heart of each hearer is gladdened,
And in the poem he sees meaning of twofold delight.
Wherefore so late didst thou remove the bandage, O Amor,
Which thou hadst placed o'er mine eyes, wherefore remove it so
late?
Long did the vessel, when laden, lie waiting for favoring breezes,
Till in kindness the wind blew from the land o'er the sea.
Vacant times of youth! and vacant dreams of the future!
Ye all vanish, and naught, saving the moment, remains.
Yes! it remains,-my joy still remains! I hold thee, my Dora,
And thine image alone, Dora, by hope is disclosed.
--
XI-404


## p. 6450 (#432) ###########################################

6450
GOETHE
Oft have I seen thee go, with modesty clad, to the temple,
While thy mother so dear solemnly went by thy side.
Eager and nimble thou wert, in bearing thy fruit to the market,
Boldly the pail from the well didst thou sustain on thy head.
Then was revealed thy neck, then seen thy shoulders so beauteous,
Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen.
Oft have I feared that the pitcher perchance was in danger of
falling,
Yet it ever remained firm on the circular cloth.
Thus, fair neighbor, yes, thus I oft was won to observe thee,
As on the stars I might gaze, as I might gaze on the moon;
Glad indeed at the sight, yet feeling within my calm bosom
Not the remotest desire ever to call them mine own.
Years thus fleeted away! Although our houses were only
Twenty paces apart, yet I thy threshold ne'er crossed.
Now by the fearful flood are we parted! Thou liest to Heaven,
Billow! thy beautiful blue seems to me dark as the night.
All were now in movement: a boy to the house of my father
Ran at full speed and exclaimed, "Hasten thee quick to the strand!
Hoisted the sail is already, e'en now in the wind it is fluttering,
While the anchor they weigh, heaving it up from the sand;
Come, Alexis, oh come! "- My worthy stout-hearted father
Pressed, with a blessing, his hand down on my curly-locked head,
While my mother carefully reached me a newly made bundle;
"Happy mayst thou return! " cried they-"both happy and rich! "
Then I sprang away, and under my arm held the bundle,
Running along by the wall.
Standing I found thee hard by,
At the door of thy garden. Thou smilingly saidst then, "Alexis!
Say, are yon boisterous crew going thy comrades to be?
Foreign coasts wilt thou visit, and precious merchandise purchase,
Ornaments meet for the rich matrons who dwell in the town;
Bring me also, I pray thee, a light chain; gladly I'll pay thee,
Oft have I wished to possess some such a trinket as that. "
There I remained, and asked, as merchants are wont, with precision
After the form and the weight which thy commission should have.
Modest indeed was the price thou didst name! I meanwhile was
gazing
On thy neck, which deserved ornaments worn but by queens.
Loudly now rose the cry from the ship; then kindly thou spakest:-
"Take, I entreat thee, some fruit out of the garden, my friend!
Take the ripest oranges, figs of the whitest; the ocean
Beareth no fruit, and in truth, 'tis not produced by each land. "
So I entered in. Thou pluckedst the fruit from the branches,
And the burden of gold was in thine apron upheld.
-


## p. 6451 (#433) ###########################################

GOETHE
6451
Oft did I cry, Enough! But fairer fruits were still falling
Into thy hand as I spake, ever obeying thy touch.
Presently didst thou reach the arbor; there lay there a basket,
Sweet blooming myrtle-trees waved, as we drew nigh, o'er our
heads.
Then thou began'st to arrange the fruit with skill and in silence:
First the orange, which heavy as though 'twere of gold,
Then the yielding fig, by the slightest pressure disfigured,
And with myrtle, the gift soon was both covered and graced.
But I raised it not up. I stood. Our eyes met together,
And my eyesight grew dim, seeming obscured by a film.
Soon I felt thy bosom on mine! Mine arm was soon twining
Round thy beautiful form; thousand times kissed I thy neck.
On my shoulder sank thy head; thy fair arms, encircling,
Soon rendered perfect the ring knitting a rapturous pair.
Amor's hands I felt; he pressed us together with ardor,
And from the firmament clear, thrice did it thunder; then tears
Streamed from mine eyes in torrents, thou weptest, I wept, both
were weeping,
And 'mid our sorrow and bliss, even the world seemed to die.
Louder and louder they called from the strand; my feet would no
longer
Bear my weight, and I cried:- "Dora! and art thou not mine? »
"Thine forever! " thou gently didst say. Then the tears we were
shedding
Seemed to be wiped from our eyes, as by the breath of a god.
Nearer was heard the cry "Alexis! " The stripling who sought me
Suddenly peeped through the door. How he the basket snatched
up!
How he urged me away! how pressed I thy hand! Dost thou ask
me
How the vessel I reached? Drunken I seemed, well I know,
Drunken my shipmates believed me, and so had pity upon me;
And as the breeze drove us on, distance the town soon obscured.
"Thine forever! " thou, Dora, didst murmur; it fell on my senses
With the thunder of Zeus! while by the thunderer's throne
Stood his daughter, the goddess of Love; the Graces were standing
Close by her side! so the bond beareth an impress divine!
Oh then hasten, thou ship, with every favoring zephyr!
Onward, thou powerful keel, cleaving the waves as they foam!
Bring me unto the foreign harbor, so that the goldsmith
May in his workshop prepare straightway the heavenly pledge!
Ay, of a truth, the chain shall indeed be a chain, O my Dora!
Nine times encircling thy neck, loosely around it entwined.


## p. 6452 (#434) ###########################################

6452
GOETHE
Other and manifold trinkets I'll buy thee; gold-mounted bracelets,
Richly and skillfully wrought, also shall grace thy fair hand.
There shall the ruby and emerald vie, the sapphire so lovely
Be to the jacinth opposed, seeming its foil; while the gold
Holds all the jewels together, in beauteous union commingled.
Oh, how the bridegroom exults, when he adorns his betrothed!
Pearls if I see, of thee they remind me; each ring that is shown me
Brings to my mind thy fair hand's graceful and tapering form.
I will barter and buy; the fairest of all shalt thou choose thee;
Joyously would I devote all of the cargo to thee.
Yet not trinkets and jewels alone is thy loved one procuring;
With them he brings thee whate'er gives to a housewife delight:
Fine and woolen coverlets, wrought with an edging of purple,
Fit for a couch where we both, lovingly, gently may rest;
Costly pieces of linen. Thou sittest and sewest, and clothest
Me, and thyself, and perchance even a third with it too.
Visions of hope, deceive ye my heart! Ye kindly immortals,
Soften this fierce-raging flame, wildly pervading my breast!
Yet how I long to feel them again, those rapturous torments,
When in their stead, Care draws nigh, coldly and fearfully calm.
Neither the Furies' torch, nor the hounds of hell with their barking,
Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair,
As by the motionless spectre I'm awed, that shows me the fair one
Far away: of a truth, open the garden door stands!
And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling,
And for him also the fig strengthening honey doth yield!
Doth she entice him as well to the arbor? He follows? Oh, make
me
Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind!
Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly
Yield, to another erelong, doubtless, will turn herself round.
Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
Thunder more fearfully! Strike! Stay-thy fierce lightnings
withhold!
Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight
Strike with hy lightning this mast, make it a pitiful wreck!
Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows
All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey! —
Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture
How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss.
Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted;
Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.
Translation of E. A. Bowring.


## p. 6453 (#435) ###########################################

GOETHE
6453
MAXIMS AND REFLECTIONS
From Maxims and Reflections of Goethe. > Translation of Bailey Saunders.
Copyright 1892, by Macmillan & Co.
I
T is not always needful for truth to take a definite shape: it is
enough if it hovers about us like a spirit and produces har-
mony; if it is wafted through the air like the sound of a
bell, grave and kindly.
I must hold it for the greatest calamity of our time, which
lets nothing come to maturity, that one moment is consumed by
the next, and the day spent in the day; so that a man is always
living from hand to mouth, without having anything to show for
it. Have we not already newspapers for every hour of the day?
A good head could assuredly intercalate one or other of them.
They publish abroad everything that every one does, or is busy
with or meditating; nay, his very designs are thereby dragged
into publicity. No one can rejoice or be sorry, but as a pastime.
for others; and so it goes on from house to house, from city to
city, from kingdom to kingdom, and at last from one hemisphere
to the other,- all in post-haste.
During a prolonged study of the lives of various men both
great and small, I came upon this thought: In the web of the
world the one may well be regarded as the warp, the other as
the woof. It is the little men, after all, who give breadth to the
web, and the great men firmness and solidity; perhaps also the
addition of some sort of pattern. But the scissors of the Fates
determine its length, and to that all the rest must join in submit-
ting itself.
There is nothing more odious than the majority: it consists
of a few powerful men to lead the way; of accommodating ras-
cals and submissive weaklings; and of a mass of men who trot
after them without in the least knowing their own mind.
Translators are like busy match-makers: they sing the praises
of some half-veiled beauty, and extol her charms, and arouse an
irresistible longing for the original.


## p. 6454 (#436) ###########################################

6454
GOETHE
NATURE
We are surrounded her and locked in her
Npowerless to leave her, and powerless to come closer to
her. Unasked and unwarned she takes us up into the
whirl of her dance, and hurries on with us till we are weary
and fall from her arms.
There is constant life in her, motion and development; and
yet she remains where she was. She is eternally changing, nor
for a moment does she stand still. Of rest she knows nothing,
and to all stagnation she has affixed her curse. She is steadfast;
her step is measured, her exceptions rare, her laws immutable.
She loves herself, and clings eternally to herself with eyes
and hearts innumerable. She has divided herself that she may
be her own delight. She is ever making new creatures spring
up to delight in her, and imparts herself insatiably.
She rejoices in illusion. If a man destroys this in himself
and others, she punishes him like the hardest tyrant. If he fol-
lows her in confidence, she presses him to her heart as it were
her child.
She spurts forth her creatures out of nothing, and tells them
not whence they come and whither they go. They have only to
go their way: she knows the path.
Her crown is Love. Only through Love can we come near
her. She puts gulfs between all things, and all things strive to
be interfused. She isolates everything, that she may draw every-
thing together. With a few draughts from the cup of Love she
repays for a life full of trouble.
She is all things. She rewards herself and punishes herself,
and in herself rejoices and is distressed. She is rough and gen-
tle, loving and terrible, powerless and almighty.
In her every-
Past or Future she knows not. The
thing is always present.
Present is her Eternity. She is kind. I praise her with all her
works. She is wise and still. No one can force her to explain
herself, or frighten her into a gift that she does not give will-
ingly. She is crafty, but for a good end; and it is best not to
notice her cunning.


## p. 6455 (#437) ###########################################

6455
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
(1809-1852)
BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD
OGOL has been called the "father of modern Russian realism,"
and he has been credited with the creation of all the types
which we meet in the great novelists who followed him.
This is in great measure true, especially so far as the male char-
acters are concerned. The germs at least, if not the condensed char-
acterization in full, are recognizable in Gogol's famous novel 'Dead
Souls, his Little-Russian stories Tales from a Farm-House near
Dikanka' and 'Mirgorod,' and his comedy 'The Inspector,' which
still holds the stage.
It was precisely because of his genius
in seizing the national types that the poet
Pushkin, one of Gogol's earliest and warm-
est admirers, gave to him the plans of
'Dead Souls' and 'The Inspector,' which
he had intended to make use of himself.
That he became the "father of Russian
realism" was due not only to his own gen-
ius, but to the epoch in which he lived,
though he solved the problem for himself
quite independently of the Continental lit-
eratures which were undergoing the same
process of transformation from romanticism
to realism. For, nearly a hundred years
before Gogol and his foreign contemporaries of the forties - the pio-
neers, in their respective countries, of the new literature won the
public, Europe had been living a sort of modern epic. In imitation
of the ancient epics, writers portrayed heroes of gigantic powers in
every direction, and set them in a framework of exceptional crises
which aroused their powerful emotions in the cause of right, or their
superhuman conflict with masterful persons or overwhelming woes.
But the daily experience of those who suffered from the manifold
miseries of battle and invasion in this modern epic epoch, made it
impossible for them to disregard longer the claim on their sympa-
thies of the common things and people of their world, though these
can very easily be ignored when one reads the ancient epics. Thus
did realism have its dawn in many lands when the era of peace gave

NIKOLAI GOGOL
—


## p. 6456 (#438) ###########################################

6456
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
men time to define their position, and when pseudo-classicism had
at last palled on their taste, which had begun to recognize its cold-
ness and inherent falsity.
<
Naturally, in this new quest of Truth, romanticism and realism
were mingled at first. This was the case with Gogol-Yanovsky, to
give him his full name. But he soon struck out in the right path.
He was born and reared in Little Russia, at Sorotchinsky, govern-
ment of Poltava. He was separated by only two generations from
the epoch of the Zaporozhian Kazak army, whose life he has recorded
in his famous historical novel Taras Bulba,' his grandfather having
been regimental scribe of the Kazaks, an office of honor. The spirit
of the Zaporozhian Kazaks still lingered over the land, which was
overflowing with legends, and with fervent, childlike piety of the
superstitious order. At least one half of the Little-Russian stories
which made Gogol's fame he owes to his grandfather, who appears
as Rudiy Panko the Bee-Farmer, in the 'Tales from a Farm-House
near Dikanka. ' His father, who represented the modern spirit, was
an inimitable narrator of comic stories, and the talents of this father
and grandfather rendered their house the social centre of a very
wide neighborhood.
At school Gogol did not distinguish himself in his studies, but
wrote a great deal, all of an imitative character, and got up school
plays in emulation of those which he had seen at his own home.
His lack of scholarship made it impossible for him to pursue the
learned career of professor of history, on which he embarked after
he had with labor obtained, and shortly renounced, the career of
copying-clerk in St. Petersburg. His vast but dimly defined ambition
to accomplish great things for his fatherland in some mysterious
way, and fame for himself, equally suffered shipwreck to his mind;
though if we consider the part which the realistic literature he
founded has played on the world's stage, we may count his apparent
defeat a solid victory. His brief career as professor of history at the
university was brought about by his ambition, and through the influ-
ence of the literary men whose friendship he had won by his first
'Little-Russian Tales. ' They recognized his genius, and at last he
himself recognized that the new style of writing which he had cre-
ated was his vocation, and devoted himself wholly to literature. At
the close of 1831 the first volume of 'Tales from a Farm-House
appeared, and had an immense success. The second volume, 'Mirgo-
rod,' followed, with equal success. It contained a new element: the
merriment of the first volume had been pure, unmixed; in the second
volume he had developed not only the realism but that special trait
of his genius, "laughter piercing through a mist of tears," of which
'Old-Fashioned Gentry' and 'How the Two Ivans Quarreled' offer
>


## p. 6457 (#439) ###########################################

NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
6457
celebrated examples. But success always flew to Gogol's head: he
immediately began to despise these products of his true vocation, and
to plan grandiose projects far beyond his powers of education and
entirely outside the range of his talent. Now, for instance, he under-
took a colossal work in nine volumes on the history of the Middle
Ages. Happily, he abandoned that, after his studies of Little-Russian
history incidental thereto had resulted in his epic of the highest art,
'Taras Bulba. '
The first outcome of his recognition that literary work was his
moral duty, not a mere pastime, was his great play The Inspector. >
It was produced in April, 1836. The authorities steadfastly opposed
its production; but the Emperor Nicholas I. heard of it, read it,
ordered it produced, and upheld Gogol in enthusiastic delight. Offi-
cials, merchants, police, literary people, everybody, attacked the
They had laughed at his pathos; now they raged at his
comedy, refused to recognize their own portraits, and still tried to
have the play prohibited. Gogol's health and spirits were profoundly
affected by this unexpected enmity. He fled abroad, and returned to
Russia thereafter only at intervals for brief visits, and chiefly to Mos-
cow, where most of his faithful friends lived. He traveled much, but
spent most of his time in Rome, where his lavish charities kept him
always poor, even after the complete success of 'The Inspector' and
of the first part of Dead Souls' would have enabled him to exist in
comfort. He was accustomed to say that he could only see Russia
clearly when he was far from her, and in a measure he proved this
by his inimitable first volume of 'Dead Souls. ' Herein he justified
Pushkin's expectations in giving him that subject which would enable
him to paint, in types, the classes and localities of his fatherland.
But this long residence in Rome was fatal to his mind and health, and
eventually extinguished the last sparks of genius. The Russian mind.
is peculiarly inclined to mysticism, and Russian writers of eminence
seem to be even more susceptible in that direction than ordinary men.
Of the noted writers in this century, Pushkin and Lermontoff had
leaned decidedly in that direction towards the end of their careers,
brief as their lives were. Gogol was their intimate friend in Russia,
and after he went abroad he was the intimate friend of the aged
poet Zhukovsky, who became a mystic in his declining years.
Even in his school days Gogol had shown, in his letters to his
mother, a marked tendency to religious exaltation. Now, under the
combined pressure of his personal inclinations, friendships, and the
clerical atmosphere of Rome, he developed into a mystic and ascetic
of the most pronounced type. In this frame of mind, he looked upon
all his earlier writings as sins which must be atoned for; and yet
his immense self-esteem was so flattered by the tremendous success


## p. 6458 (#440) ###########################################

6458
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
of 'The Inspector' and of the first part of 'Dead Souls,' that he
began to regard himself as a kind of divinely commissioned prophet,
whose duty it was to exhort his fellow-men. The extract from these
hortatory letters to his friends which he published convinced his
countrymen that nothing more was to be expected from him. The
failure of this volume only helped to plunge him into deeper depths of
self-torture. In the few remaining lucid moments of his genius he
worked at the second part of 'Dead Souls,' but destroyed what he
had written in the moments of ecstatic remorse which followed.
Thus the greatest work of his mature genius remains uncompleted.
In 1848 he made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and returned through
Odessa to Moscow, where he lived until his death, growing constantly
more mystical, more ascetic. Sleepless nights spent in prayer, fast-
ing to the extent of trying to nourish himself (as it is affirmed that
practiced ascetics successfully can) for a week on one of the tiny
double loaves which are used in the Holy Communion, completed the
ravages of his long-endured maladies.
It was for publishing in a Moscow paper an enthusiastic obituary
of the dead genius, which he had been forbidden to publish in St.
Petersburg, that Turgénieff was sent into residence on his estate, and
enriched the world with the first work of the rising genius, The
Diary of a Sportsman. ' Acuteness of observation; natural, infectious,
genuine humor; vivid realism; and an inimitable power of depicting
national types, are Gogol's distinguishing characteristics: and these
in varying degrees are precisely the ingredients which have entered
into the works of his successors and rendered Russian literature
famous as a school.
In reviewing Gogol's work, we may set aside with but cursory
mention his youthful idyl, written while still in the gymnasium, pub-
lished anonymously and overwhelmed with ridicule, Hans Kuchel-
garten'; his 'Arabesques,' which are useful chiefly as a contribution
to the study of the man and his opinions, not as permanent additions
to literature; his 'Extracts from Correspondence with Friends,' which
belong to the sermonizing, clouded period of his life's close; and the
divers 'Fragments,' both of prose and dramatic writing, all of which
are conscientiously included in the complete editions of his writings.
The only complete play which he wrote except 'The Inspector'
is the comedy Marriage,' which is still acted, though very seldom.
It is full of naturalness and his own peculiar humor, but its subject
does not appeal to the universal public of all lands as nearly as does
the plan of The Inspector. ' The plot, in brief, is founded on a
young girl's meditations on marriage, and her actions which lead up
to and follow those meditations. The Heroine, desirous of marrying,
invokes the aid of the Match-maker, the old-time matrimonial agent


## p. 6459 (#441) ###########################################

NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
6459
in the Russian merchant and peasant classes by conventional eti-
quette. The Match-maker offers for her consideration several suitable
men, all strangers; the Heroine makes her choice, and is very well
content with her suitor. But she begins to meditate on the future,
becomes moved to tears by the thought of her daughter's possible
unhappiness in a hypothetical wretched marriage in the dim future,
and at last, unable to endure this painful prospect, she evades her
betrothed and breaks off the match. While the characteristic and
national touches are keen and true,-precursors of the vein which
Ostrovsky so happily developed later, the play must remain a mat-
ter of greater interest to Russians than to foreigners.
The interest of The Inspector,' on the other hand, is universal:
official negligence and corruption, bribery, masculine boastfulness and
vanity, and feminine qualities to correspond, are the private preroga-
tives of no one nation, of no one epoch. The comedy possesses all
the elements of social portraiture and satire without caricature: con-
centration of time, place, action, language, and a tremendous condens-
ation of character traits which are not only truly, typically national,
but which come within the ken of all fair-minded persons in other
countries.
-
The volume with which he scored his first success, and which
must remain a classic, is 'Evenings at a Farm-House near Dikanka. '
As the second volume, 'Mirgorod,' and his volume of 'St. Petersburg
Tales,' all combine essentially the same ingredients, though in vary-
ing measure, we may consider them together. All the tales in the
first two volumes are from his beloved birthplace, Little Russia.
Some of them are simply the artistic and literary rendering of popu-
lar legends, whose counterparts may be found in the folk literature
of other lands.