"Have you seen him in person?" he asked Eva, and, as she replied in the negative, he continued, "I was present when the students greeted him; I was present at the entertainment in the Kneiphöf Junkerhof, when he declaimed his marvellously beautiful poem--
'Die Lerche war's nicht die Nachtigall,
Erhebt euch vom Schlumnur der Sünden;
Schon wollen die Feuer sich überall,
Die heiligen Feuer, entzunden.'[[3]]
And the old Justizrath, with his long, thin arms patted Herwegh on his shoulders, and addressed a warm speech to him, and any one who could saddle a Pegasus, mounted his poetical steed, in order to do honour to the poet. A new epoch has dawned for poetry. I know your charming book-shelves, Eva; there they stand in delicate bindings--the romancists, Uhland, Platen, and Rückert, and whatever their names may be; the later born masters of song, who followed our classical writers, but where the mere empty appearance of cultivation is not in question, there the reverence of quiet natures buries itself in the solitary enjoyment of the poets, and they are mostly women and girls who give themselves up to such enjoyment. How totally different it has become now! Not only youths, but grown-up men are enthusiastic about Herwegh's poetry, as it does not find its echo alone in the students' drinking parties, but also in official bureaux and counting-houses. Herwegh's journey through Germany was a regular triumphant course; he was fêted everywhere; the King granted him an audience, and treated him as an intellectual Great Power. Poetry is becoming a national affair again; the beautiful times of Greece are returning once more."
"And do you not fear," said Blanden, "that this infatuation will be followed by a long reaction? that poetry, by these strong measures which it must employ to act upon the masses, will dull its power, and a time of universal indifference to it ensue?"
"I do not fear that," replied Schöner, "the last poet will only depart from the world with the last man, as Anastasius Grün has sung so beautifully."
"Oh, yes, singers will not fail," interposed Blanden, "but the public! The gentlemen of the profession will not give way, but I can well imagine a time when political poetry will be followed by political prose, when the ideals are attained which the poet's enthusiasm has lauded. That which, until now, has been the home of poetry, the kingdom of silent feelings, will be more forsaken than ever now, because, in the noise of public life, people have become unaccustomed to it. Then the poets will only sing of politics; yet these will need no more poetry; they would treat of more tender subjects, yet these retreat before politics. All poetry will then appear to be materials for use in sickness, which, in the present critical period, we have cast off from us."
"I cannot take so black a view," replied Schöner. "I believe in the everlasting youth of the mind, in the immortality of the beautiful, of poetry, even though the poets die. Who could subscribe to a monumentum aere perennius? I even doubt if Herwegh will produce anything great; he is only a man of the Awakening, of the lyrical Initiative. There is no versatile productive nature in him; a dull fanaticism lies in him, which has been able to give utterance to the cry of distress of the people and time, but hardly commands a wealthier spiritual life, and no varied forms of art. One single enchanting poetical blossom, like the torch-thistle, and then the busy, creative power is exhausted. His dreamy brow, his dark eye promise much, and if genius did not live in him, how could he have composed such entrancing poetry? But a heavy spell, as it were, rests upon him, and too early fame is poison."
"You speak your own condemnation," said Eva, with cold flattery.
"Oh, no, my Fräulein! I rejoice that my poems have found some little echo; yet this modest recognition is far removed from the noisy, clamorous path of triumph of those happy ones, upon whose brows fresh laurels have been lowered. Lasting fame can only be won by serious work, and the glorious aim of a maturer life."
Eva was astonished at this modest confession, which made a favourable impression upon Blanden. The self-satisfaction of the young poet, who was a spoiled favourite in certain circles of society, certainly drew pleasant nourishment from the frequently extravagant recognition with which he met; but the inmost kernel of his nature was not absorbed by it; the impetus to future greater performances remained alive.