Volume II Part 12 (1/2)
[68] Lord Lyttelton's Works, 4to.
[69] Born in Dublin, 1679; died 1717.
CHAPTER X.
CONJUGAL POETRY CONTINUED.
KLOPSTOCK AND META.
Then is there not the German Klopstock and his Meta,--his lovely, devoted, angelic Meta? As the subject of some of her husband's most delightful and popular poems, both before and after her marriage,--when living, she formed his happiness on earth; and when, as he tenderly imagined, she watched over his happiness from heaven--how pa.s.s her lightly over in a work like this? Yet how do her justice, but by borrowing her own sweet words? or referring the reader at once to the memoirs and fragments of her letters, which never saw the light till sixty years after her death?--for in her there was no vain-glory, no effort, no display. A feeling so hallowed lingers round the memory of this angelic creature, that it is rather a subject to blend with our most sacred and most serious thoughts,--to muse over in hours when the heart communes with itself and is still, than to dress out in words, and mingle with the ideas of earthly fame and happiness. Other loves might be poetical, but the love of Klopstock and his Meta was in itself _poetry_. They were mutually possessed with the idea, that they had been predestined to each other from the beginning of time, and that their meeting on earth was merely a kind of incidental prelude to an eternal and indivisible union in heaven: and shall we blame their fond faith?
It is a gentle and affectionate thought, That in immeasurable heights above us, Even at our birth, the wreath of love was woven With sparkling stars for flowers![70]
All the sweetest images that ever were grouped together by fancy, dreaming over the golden age; beauty, innocence, and happiness; the fervour of youthful love, the rapture of corresponding affection; undoubting faith and undissembled truth;--these were so bound together, so exalted by the highest and holiest a.s.sociations, so confirmed in the serenity of conscious virtue, so sanctified by religious enthusiasm; and in the midst of all human blessedness, so wrapt up in futurity,--that the grave was not the close, but the completion and the consummation of their happiness. The garland which poesy has suspended on the grave of Meta, was wreathed by no fabled muse; it is not of laurel, ”meed of conqueror and sage;” nor of roses blooming and withering among their thorns; nor of myrtle shrinking and dying away before the blast: but of flowers gathered in Paradise, pure and bright, and breathing of their native Eden; which never caught one blighting stain of earth, and though dewed with tears,--”tears such as angels shed!”
The name of Klopstock forms an epoch in the history of poetry. Gothe, Schiller, Wieland, have since adorned German literature; but Klopstock was the first to impress on the poetry of his country the stamp of nationality. He was a man of great and original genius,--gifted with an extraordinary degree of sensibility and imagination; but these being united to the most enthusiastic religious feeling, elevated and never misled him. His life was devoted to the three n.o.blest sentiments that can fill and animate the human soul,--religion, patriotism and love. To these, from early youth, he devoted his faculties and consecrated his talents. He had, even in his boyhood, resolved to write a poem, ”which should do honour to G.o.d, his country, and himself;” and he produced the Messiah. It would be difficult to describe the enthusiasm this work excited when the first three cantos appeared in 1746. ”If poetry had its saints,” says Madame de Stael, ”then Klopstock would be at the head of the calendar;” and she adds, with a burst of her own eloquence, ”Ah, qu'il est beau le talent, quand on ne l'a jamais profan! quand il n'a servi qu'a revler aux hommes, sous la forme attrayante des beaux arts, les sentiments gnerux, et les esperances rligieuses obscurcies au fond de leur coeur!”
Such was Klopstock as a poet. As a man, he is described as one of the most amiable and affectionate of human beings;--”good in all the foldings of his heart,” as his sweet wife expressed it; free from all petty vanity, egotism, and worldly ambition. He was pleasing, though not handsome in person, with fine blue animated eyes.[71] The tone of his voice was at first low and hesitating, but soft and persuasive; and he always ended by captivating the entire attention of those he addressed.
He was, to his latest moments, fond of the society of women, and an object of their peculiar tenderness and veneration.
Klopstock's first serious attachment was to his cousin, the beautiful f.a.n.n.y Schmidt, the sister of his intimate friend and brother poet, Schmidt. He loved her constantly for several years. His correspondence with Bodmer gives us an interesting picture of a fine mind struggling with native timidity, and of the absolute terror with which this gentle and beautiful girl could inspire him, till his heart seemed to wither and sicken within him from her supposed indifference. The uncertainty of his future prospects, and his sublime idea of the merits and beauties of her he loved, kept him silent; nor did he ever venture to declare his pa.s.sion, except in the beautiful odes and songs which she inspired.
Speaking of one of those to his friend Bodmer, he says, ”She who could best reward it, has not seen it; so timid does her apparent insensibility make me.”
Whether this insensibility was more than apparent is not perfectly clear: the memoirs of Klopstock are not quite accurate or satisfactory in this part of his history. It should seem from the published correspondence, that his love was distinctly avowed, though he never had courage to make a direct offer of himself. f.a.n.n.y Schmidt appears to have been a superior woman in point of mind, and full of admiration for his genius. She writes to him in terms of friends.h.i.+p and kindness, but she leaves him, after three years' attachment on his part, still in doubt whether her heart remain untouched,--and even whether she _had_ a heart to be touched. He intimates, but with a tender and guarded delicacy, that he had reason to complain of her coquetry;[72] and, with the sensibility of a proud but wounded heart, he was anxious to prove to himself that his romantic tenderness had not been unworthily bestowed.
”All the peace and consolation of my after life depends on knowing whether f.a.n.n.y _really_ has a heart?--a heart that _could_ have sympathised with mine?”[73] He had commissioned his friend Gleim to plead his cause, to sound her heart in its inmost depths; and in return, received the intelligence of her approaching union with another. ”When (as he expresses it) not a hope was left to be destroyed,” he became calm; but he suffered at first acutely; and this ill-fated attachment tinged with a deep gloom nearly four years of his life. While in suspense, he continually repeats his conviction that he can never love again. ”Had I never seen her, I might have attached myself to another object, and perhaps have known the felicity of mutual love! But now it is impossible; my heart is steeled to every tender impression.” The sentiment was natural; but, fortunately for himself, he was deceived.
In pa.s.sing through Hamburgh, in April 1751, and while he was still under the influence of this heart-wearing attachment to f.a.n.n.y, he was introduced to Meta Mller. The impression she made on him is thus described, in a letter to his friend and confidant, Gleim.
”You may perhaps have heard Gisecke mention Margaret Mller of Hamburgh.
I was lately introduced to this girl, and pa.s.sed in her society most of the time I lately spent at Hamburgh. I found her, in every sense of the word, so lovely, so amiable, so full of attractions, that I could at times scarcely forbear to give her the name which is to me the dearest in existence. I was often with her alone; and in those moments of unreserved intercourse, was insensibly led to communicate my melancholy story. Could you have seen her in those moments, my Gleim! how she looked and listened,--and how often she interrupted me, and how tenderly she wept! and if you knew how much she is my friend; and yet it was not for _her_ that I had so long suffered. What a heart must she possess to be thus touched for a stranger! At this thought I am almost tempted to make a comparison; but then does a mist gather before mine eyes, and if I probe my heart, I feel that I am more unhappy than ever.” Again he writes from Copenhagen, ”I have reread the little Mller's letters; sweet artless creature she is! She has already written to me four times, and writes in a style so exquisitely natural! Were you to see this lovely girl, and read her letters, you would scarce conceive it possible that she should be mistress of the French, English, and Italian languages, and even conversant with Greek and Italian literature.” But it were wronging both, to give the history and result of this attachment to Meta in any language but her own. Since the publication of Richardson's correspondence, the letters addressed to him, in English, by Meta Klopstock, have become generally known; but this account would be incomplete were they wholly omitted; and those who have read them before, will not be displeased at the opportunity of re-perusing them: her sweet lisping English is worth volumes of eloquence.
”You will know all what concerns me. Love, dear Sir, is all what me concerns, and love shall be all what I will tell you in this letter. In one happy night I read my husband's poem--the Messiah. I was extremely touched with it. The next day I asked one of his friends who was the author of this poem? and this was the first time I heard Klopstock's name. I believe I fell immediately in love with him; at the least, my thoughts were ever with him filled, especially because his friend told me very much of his character. But I had no hopes ever to see him, when quite unexpectedly I heard that he should pa.s.s through Hamburgh. I wrote immediately to the same friend, for procuring by his means that I might see the author of the Messiah, when in Hamburg. He told him that a certain girl in Hamburg wished to see him, and, for all recommendation, showed him some letters in which I made bold to criticize Klopstock's verses. Klopstock came, and came to me. I must confess, that, though greatly prepossessed of his qualities, I never thought him the amiable youth that I found him. This made its effect. After having seen him two hours, I was obliged to pa.s.s the evening in company, which never had been so wearisome to me. I could not speak; I could not play; I thought I saw nothing but Klopstock. I saw him the next day, and the following, and we were very seriously friends; on the fourth day he departed. It was a strong hour, the hour of his departure. He wrote soon after, and from that time our correspondence began to be a very diligent one. I sincerely believed my love to be friends.h.i.+p. I spoke with my friends of nothing but Klopstock, and showed his letters. They rallied me, and said I was in love. I rallied them again, and said they must have a very friends.h.i.+p-less heart, if they had no idea of friends.h.i.+p to a man as well as a woman. Thus it continued eight months, in which time my friends found as much love in Klopstock's letters as in me. I perceived it likewise, but I would not believe it. At the last, Klopstock said plainly that he loved; and I startled as for a wrong thing. I answered that it was no love, but friends.h.i.+p, as it was what I felt for him; we had not seen one another enough to love; as if love must have more time than friends.h.i.+p! This was sincerely my meaning; and I had this meaning till Klopstock came again to Hamburg. This he did a year after we had seen one another the first time. We saw, we were friends; we loved, and we believed that we loved; and a short time after I could even tell Klopstock that I loved. But we were obliged to part again, and wait two years for our wedding. My mother would not let me marry a stranger. I could marry without her consentment, as by the death of my father my fortune depended not on her; but this was an horrible idea for me; and thank Heaven that I have prevailed by prayers! At this time, knowing Klopstock, she loves him as her son, and thanks G.o.d that she has not persisted. We married, and I am the happiest wife in the world. In some few months it will be four years that I am so happy; and still I dote upon Klopstock as if he was my bridegroom. If you knew my husband, you would not wonder. If you knew his poem, I could describe him very briefly, in saying he is in all respects what he is as a poet. This I can say with all wifely modesty; I am all raptures when I do it. And as happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friends.h.i.+p;--in my mother, two elder sisters, and five other women. How rich I am! Sir, you have willed that I should speak of myself, but I fear that I have done it too much.
Yet you see how it interests me.”
I have somewhere seen or heard it observed, that there is nothing in the Romeo and Juliet more finely imagined or more true to nature than Romeo's previous love for another. It is while writhing under the coldness and scorn of his proud, inaccessible Rosaline, she who had ”forsworn to love,” that he meets the soft glances of Juliet, whose eyes ”do comfort, and not burn;” and he takes refuge in her bosom, for she
Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow; The other did not so.
With such a grateful and gratified feeling must Klopstock have gathered to his arms the devoted Meta, who came, with healing on her lips, to suck forth the venom of a recent wound. He has himself beautifully expressed this in one of the poems addressed to her, and which he has ent.i.tled the Recantation. He describes the anguish he had suffered from an unrequited affection, and the day-spring of renovated hope and rapture which now dawned in his heart.
At length, beyond my hope the night retires, 'Tis past, and all my long lost joys awake, Smiling they wake, my long forgotten joys, O, how I wonder at my altered fate! &c.
and exults in the charms and tenderness of her who had wiped away his tears, and whom he had first ”taught to love.”
I taught thee first to love, and seeking thee, I learned what true love was; it raised my heart From earth to heaven, and now, through Eden's groves, With thee it leads me on in endless joy.