Lotte in Weimar Page #8

we must brace ourselves against it with all our strength,

even though our heads quiver with the strain;

for else there is nothing left for us,

but a mound in the Baden county.

With you it was different.

You had something to put to it.

Your reality is magnificent,

not like renunciation, or unfaithfulness;

but like purer fulfillment and a highest faithfulness.

It is so imposing.

I congratulate you.

So perfectly at ease I did not feel in your presence,

in your circle and your museum of a house.

I was oppressed and fearful, I admit.

It smells too much of sacrifice

where you are.

And against human sacrifice

Iphigenie interferes.

Alas, in your circle it looks too much the same;

it is almost like a battlefield,

or the realm of a wicked emperor.

Those Riemers with their mutterings and grumblings

and their manly honour floundering about in the bird-lime;

and your poor son

with his 17 glasses of champagne,

and this little person who will marry him at the New Year

and fly into your upper rooms,

like a moth to the candle.

To say nothing about the girls

who did not know how to stand up as I did,

who married her Hans Christian and gave him 11 children.

So consumption took them off to lie under their mounds -

like the poor Friederike von Sesenheim.

What are they all

but sacrifices to your greatness?

He shall kiss her too.

Dear old child-like soul,

I, first and last, am the sacrifice,

and he that offers it.

Once I burned for you,

and ever I shall burn for you, into spirit and light.

Know that metamorphosis is the dearest and most inward of your friend,

his great hope, his deepest craving,

the play of transformation,

the changing of the human countenance,

youth like a miracle shining out in age, age out of youth.

That why it pleased me, rest reassured,

that you thought it out and came to me,

decking your ancient form with signs of youth.

Let us open wide eyes upon the unity of the world

- eyes wide, serene, and wise.

Don't talk to me of repentance.

I see her ride towards me,

in a grey mantle.

Then once more

the hour of Werther and Tasso will strike,

leave-taking for ever,

death-struggle of feelings,

and frightful pains,

such as probably precede the hour of death.

Death.

Final flight into the flame -

the All-in-One.

Why shouldn't he too be aught but transformation?

Peace to your old age.

The long-familiar accents died away.

Frau Councillor, welcome, as always.

I hope Frau Councillor spent an elevating evening

in our temple of the Muses?

May I offer this arm for your support?

Frau Councillor!

Good heavens, Frau Councillor,

I cannot refrain

- I really must say:

to help Werther's Lotte out of Goethe's carriage,

that is an experience that

- what shall I call it?

It's worthy to be put down in a book.

It's positively worthy to be put down in a book.

(using large parts of H.T. Lowe-Porter's translation)

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