Beautiful Chaos: German Romantic Tales 1797-1819

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BEAUTIFUL CHAOS

BY NOVALIS AND OTHERS

AN EBOOK

ISBN 978-1-908694-77-5

PUBLISHED BY ELEKTRON EBOOKS

COPYRIGHT 2012 ELEKTRON EBOOKS

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contents

THE NAKED SAINT by Wilhelm Wackenroder

METAMORPHOSES by Friedrich Schlegel

KLINGSOHR'S TALE by Novalis

RUNE MOUNTAIN by Ludwig Tieck

THE BEGGAR-WOMAN OF LOCARNO by Heinrich von Kleist

ON THE MARIONETTE THEATRE by Heinrich von Kleist

THE SICKLY MADMAN OF FORT RATONNEAU by Achim von Arnim

THE MARBLE STATUE by Joseph von Eichendorff

THE NAKED SAINT

Wilhelm Wackenroder

(1797)

The Orient is the source of all fabled things. Stories of childhood and antiquity from this continent are replete with bizarre signs and enigmas that the mind, however sophisticated, has yet to fathom. There are also strange entities that are frequently found in the wilderness of this region. We would call them insane, but they are revered there as supernatural creatures. Indeed, Oriental wisdom regards these naked saints as the wondrous recipients of a higher genius who have assumed human form after drifting from the celestial realm, and consequently do not know how to act like human beings. Everything depends on your point of view, for the human mind is a mutable marvel whose philosophical palette colours everything as its whims dictate.

At one time there was a naked saint who lived in a remote cave near a river. He had first been detected some years before. A passing caravan had discovered him and, from then on, there had been frequent pilgrimages to his lonely dwelling. But this remarkable creature never had a moment of peace in his existence; it always seemed to him that he could hear the turning wheel of time grating and grinding in his ears. Because of the noise, there was nothing he could do, no task he could undertake. A great fear, which perpetually preyed upon him and deranged his nerves, prevented him from seeing or hearing anything except the terrifying wheel. It turned and turned in an apoplexy and with an infernal roar of the hurrricane, reverberating away into the stars and beyond. Like a waterfall with thousands and thousands of converging streams that cascaded from heaven and crashed eternally, eternally without surcease, without a second’s pause – this was how it sounded in his ears, and all his senses were attuned to this cacophony. His fear increasingly debilitated him, and he became ever more trapped and enmeshed in the vortex of his profound confusion. The monolithic noise grew more and more violent.

It became impossible for him to rest. He was seen day and night, moving strenuously and frenetically, like a man trying to spin a gigantic carousel. His wild, garbled speeches revealed that he felt himself inexorably drawn by the wheel, that he wanted to bring all the energy of his body to bear on its blistering impetus, so that time would never be in danger of slowing to a halt. When asked what he was doing, he would bellow words in an epileptic frenzy: "You wretches!

Can’t you hear the annihilating wheel of time?" Then he would turn and continue to work even more violently than before. His sweat would drench the ground, and he would plunge into contortions, placing his hand on his pounding heart as if to feel whether the great mechanism of the wheel itself was still functioning. He became enraged when he saw that the pilgrims who journeyed to visit him just stood there in complete silence and watched him, or wandered about in conversation with one another. He shuddered uncontrollably as he showed them the irresistible thrust of the eternal wheel, the monomaniacal, rhythmic advance of time. He would gnash his teeth, gibbering so that the pilgrims, too, might become absorbed and transported, losing their indifference.

But if they came too close to him in his delirium, he would smash them aside. They had to imitate his exhausting movements to the point of collapse if they wanted to remain safe.

He became even more fierce and dangerous when someone chanced to do some physical work in his proximity, or when a person who was not acquainted with him began collecting weeds or timber near his cave. On these occasions he would break out in hysterical, lunatic laughter and mock those people who could still think of such mundane matters when time was careering forwards with its terrifying brutality. He was like a tiger then, leaping in one bound from his cave. If he caught the unfortunate person, he could kill him with one bite. After that he would retreat quickly into his lair and drive forward the wheel even more violently than before, gripped by a furious dementia, raving in garbled paroxysms about the pitiful and futile gestures of mankind.

The naked saint could not extend his arm for any kind of object, nor could he grasp something with his hand. It was also impossible for him to take a step with his feet the way other people did. If ever he tried to slow the vertiginous advance of the wheel, his nerves fulminated with fear. Only sometimes, when the night was beautiful and the moon suddenly unveiled itself before the entrance of his dark cave, would he pause, sink to the ground, writhe spasmodically, and whimper in despair. He would even cry bitterly like a child, because the constant sonic assault of the wheel of time would never allow him to rest or to do anything else on this earth.

Yet in these moments, he also felt a desperate yearning for intangible, beautiful things. Then he would endeavour to stand erect and move his hands and feet gracefully, peacefully. But it was to no avail! He needed something finite, something as yet unknown to him, that he could grasp, something to which he could attach himself. He had to save himself from himself, by turning either inward or outward. But always it was to no avail! His wailing and misery would reach a climax, then he would jump up from the ground with a shriek and continue to turn the remorseless, on-rushing wheel.

This lasted for many years, night and day, until one scintillant, moonlit summer’s evening. The saint was prostrate once more on the ground in his cave, crying and wringing his hands; the night outside was captivating; the stars glittered in the dark-blue firmament like golden filigree on an all-engulfing cloak. The moon radiated a soft light from the luminescent dunes of its countenance, suffusing the thirsting earth in its emissions. Branches hung from their trees in the elemental glitter like drifting cumuli. The homes of men were transformed into the dark shapes of crags or crepuscular, supernatural palaces. The people, no longer blinded by sunlight, lived with their eyes fixed on the heavens, and their souls were mirrored beautifully in the evanescence of the star-dusted night.

Two lovers yearning to immerse themselves in the wonders of nocturnal solitude travelled up the river on a barque this night, drifting in the direction of the saint’s cave.

The penetrating rays of the moon had illuminated and unraveled the dark depths of their souls for each other. Their most tender feelings flowed together and formed tidal streams that no bank could contain. An ethereal music flowed from the barque, up into the heavenly realm. Dulcet horns and countless other magical instruments enticed a whirling world of notes to ring forth, and a song arose from the undulating music.

Sweet are the showers of premonition, gliding over field and stream. Gracious are the moonlight rays, preparing arbours steeped in love. Oh, how the waves whisper and flex, mirroring heaven’s rippling arch!

From the firmament in a shining flood, love streaks to us and sets afire the glowing stars that lacked courage till they felt the flames of ardour. Water, earth, and sky bestow benificence as we are fanned by divine breath.

Moonlight gilds the flowers, all the trees are now a-dream.

Holding sway in that sacred forest, love’s sweet tone resounds and, with every note, lulls its sweet beauty to the sleeping branches and blossoms.

As soon as the naked saint heard the first notes of rhapsody, the thunderous wheel of time disappeared. This was the first music that had ever sounded in that remote place. Suddenly, his unknown yearning was fulfilled. The malign spell was broken. The genius who had drifted from cosmic shores was freed from his human form; the mortal casing of the saint evaporated. A spirit as beautiful as an angel and woven from a soft mist swirled from the cave, stretched its delicate arms longingly toward heaven, and raised itself in a dancing motion from the ground toward the tones of the music. The effulgent, ethereal figure soared higher and higher in the air, buoyed by the soft crescendo of music and melody. He cavorted with unearthly delight, back and forth upon the white clouds that swam in untramelled space. With his dancing feet he swung himself ever higher in the sky, and finally, twisting like a serpent, he flew away between the stars. All the planets resounded and unleashed a shimmering harmonic tirade throughout the cosmosphere, until the genius lost himself in the very eye of infinity. Travelling caravans watched this nocturnal wonder with astonishment, while the lovers embraced in the certainty that they had glimpsed the divine epitome of music and love.

METAMORPHOSES

Friedrich Schlegel

(1799)

The childlike spirit slumbers in sweet repose, and the kiss of the loving goddess arouses in him only light dreams. The rose of shame tinges his cheek; he smiles and seems to open his lips, but he does not awaken and he knows not what is going on within him. Not until after the charm of the external world, multiplied and reinforced by an inner echo, has completely permeated his entire being, does he open his eyes, reveling in the sun, and recall to mind the magic world which he saw in the gleam of the pale moonlight. The wondrous voice that awakened him is still audible, but instead of answering him it echoes back from external objects. And if in childish timidity he tries to escape from the mystery of his existence, seeking the unknown with beautiful curiosity, he hears everywhere only the echo of his own longing.

Thus the eye sees in the mirror of the river only the reflection of the blue sky, the green banks, the waving trees, and the form of the absorbed gazer. When a heart, full of unconscious love, finds itself where it hoped to find love in return, it is struck with amazement. But we soon allow ourselves to be lured and deceived by the charm of the view into loving our own reflection. Then has the moment of winsomeness come, the soul fashions its envelop again, and breathes the final breath of perfection through form. The spirit loses itself in its clear depth and finds itself again, like Narcissus, as a flower.

Love is higher than winsomeness, and how soon would the flower of Beauty wither without the complementary birth of requited love. This moment the kiss of Amor and Psyche is the rose of life. The inspired Diotima revealed to Socrates only a half of love. Love is not merely a quiet longing for the infinite; it is also the holy enjoyment of a beautiful present. It is not merely a mixture, a transition from the mortal to the immortal, but it is a complete union of both. There is a pure love, an indivisible and simple feeling, without the slightest interference of restless striving. Every one gives the same as he takes, one just like the other, all is balanced and completed in itself, like the everlasting kiss of the divine children.

By the magic of joy the grand chaos of struggling forms dissolves into a harmonious sea of oblivion. When the ray of happiness breaks in the last tear of longing, Iris is already adorning the eternal brow of heaven with the delicate tints of her many-colored rainbow. Sweet dreams come true, and the pure forms of a new generation rise up out of Lethe's waves, beautiful as Anadyomene, and exhibit their limbs in the place of the vanished darkness. In golden youth and innocence time and man change in the divine peace of nature, and evermore Aurora comes back more beautiful than before.

Not hate, as the wise say, but love, separates people and fashions the world; and only in its light can we find this and observe it. Only in the answer of its Thou can every I completely feel its endless unity. Then the understanding tries to unfold the inner germ of godlikeness, presses closer and closer to the goal, is full of eagerness to fashion the soul, as an artist fashions his one beloved masterpiece. In the mysteries of culture the spirit sees the play and the laws of caprice and of life. The statue of Pygmalion moves; a joyous shudder comes over the astonished artist in the consciousness of his own immortality, and, as the eagle bore Ganymede, a divine hope bears him on its mighty pinion up to Olympus.

KLINGSOHR’S TALE

Novalis

(1799)

I

The long night had just descended. The ancient hero struck upon his shield so that it resounded far and wide throughout the empty streets of the city. Thrice he repeated the