HEINRICH HEINE - Repositories
HEINRICH HEINE - Repositories HEINRICH HEINE - Repositories
Heinrich Heine poetry, preferred to read Heine in the French proseversion approved by the German poet than in the English verse-translations available to him. The Irish writer Coulson Kernahan remained loyal to Heine for more than half a century. A gap of fifty-four years separated his first article, which appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine of September, 1886, under the title "Some Aspects of Heine," and his second article, which appeared in the Dublin Review of January, 1940, under the title "Wilde and Heine." Kernahan's approach was at first that of the Victorians. He followed in the footsteps of Matthew Arnold, George Eliot, and Emma Lazarus. As a friend of Oscar Wilde, he found much similarity between the life and ideas of the German exile who died in Paris in the year Wilde was born and the no less tempestuous life and no less iconoclastic ideas of this Irish poet who also ended his days as a Parisian exile. If Wilde was a creature of moods and moments, delighting and outraging readers because of his paradoxical behavior and utterances, Heine, his Continental predecessor, mirrored to an even greater extent the antithetical crosscurrents that swept through the modern soul. "He is by turns a Greek and a Jew, a German and a Frenchman, a moralist and a libertine, a poet and [150]
Bard of Democracy a politician, a sentimentalist and a satirist. He is tossed hither and thither by his passing moods, as withered leaves are tossed by autumn winds. In his gayest mirth we catch the glitter of tear-drops, in his loudest laughter we hear a wail of despair . . . The lines seem to drip blood as we read them, and a strange awe holds us spellbound — when, suddenly, there flashesacross the page, like a gleam of purple lightning, one of those deadly coruscations of wit with which Heine struck and stabbed at many a reputation. Hardly has the deep thunder-roll of savage laughter died away, before there rises again the wail and cry as of the death-agony of a lost soul; and then there is a sudden change in the music, and the lines skip and leap, ripple and run as if to the accompaniment of dancing feet. Now he holds us in awe solemn and silent as when we stand at twilight in the cool recesses of some dim-aisled minster, and listen to the dying cadences of the organ song; now there rises in the silence which he himself has created a wild burst of mocking and ribald laughter." ^^ Maurice Hewlett looked up to Heine as the best lyric poet in the world's history. This successful English novelist, who was less successful in his striving for the poetic laurel, wrote towards the end of his life, in January, 1919: "I think that if I could be [151]
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Bard of Democracy<br />
a politician, a sentimentalist and a satirist. He is<br />
tossed hither and thither by his passing moods, as<br />
withered leaves are tossed by autumn winds. In his<br />
gayest mirth we catch the glitter of tear-drops, in<br />
his loudest laughter we hear a wail of despair . . .<br />
The lines seem to drip blood as we read them, and a<br />
strange awe holds us spellbound — when, suddenly,<br />
there flashesacross the page, like a gleam of purple<br />
lightning, one of those deadly coruscations of wit<br />
with which Heine struck and stabbed at many a<br />
reputation. Hardly has the deep thunder-roll of savage<br />
laughter died away, before there rises again the<br />
wail and cry as of the death-agony of a lost soul; and<br />
then there is a sudden change in the music, and the<br />
lines skip and leap, ripple and run as if to the accompaniment<br />
of dancing feet. Now he holds us in awe<br />
solemn and silent as when we stand at twilight in the<br />
cool recesses of some dim-aisled minster, and listen<br />
to the dying cadences of the organ song; now there<br />
rises in the silence which he himself has created a<br />
wild burst of mocking and ribald laughter." ^^<br />
Maurice Hewlett looked up to Heine as the best<br />
lyric poet in the world's history. This successful<br />
English novelist, who was less successful in his striving<br />
for the poetic laurel, wrote towards the end of<br />
his life, in January, 1919: "I think that if I could be<br />
[151]