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"I'll go. I've said my say for the moment. But we'll meet again, never fear. You're one of us now one of us. Good-night." He passed through the door, and the dusky room was still again as though no one had been there.... There is an old German tale, by De la Motte Fouque, I fancy, of a young traveller who asks his way to a certain castle, his destination.
In the second year of the war he writes to La Motte Fouqué, "Owing to the great losses sustained, our infantry is very much degenerated from what it formerly was, and must not be employed on difficult undertakings." In the third year he says to the same, "Care must be taken not to render our people timid; they are too much so by nature already."
He published, among other things, a Life of Schiller, a translation of Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, and two volumes of translations from the German romancers Tieck, Hoffmann, Richter, and Fouqué and contributed to the Edinburgh and Foreign Review articles on Goethe, Werner, Novalis, Richter, German playwrights, the Nibelungen Lied, etc. His own diction became more and more tinctured with Germanisms.
It jarred upon her when, as the gentlemen loitered about, waiting for the evening meal, they came and looked at the titles, with careless remarks that the superintendent was a youth of taste, and a laugh at the odd medley Spenser, Shakspeare, 'Don Quixote, Calderon, Fouque, and selections from Jeremy Taylor, &c. Mary would hear no more comments.
La Motte Fouqué, Tieck, Wieland's "Oberon," Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister," were my principal studies; soon to be followed by the sort of foretaste of Jean Paul Richter that Mr.
Tieck and the Schlegels were a few years older, Fouqué was of the same age as he, and Arnim and Brentano somewhat younger. His acquaintance was largely with the authors who represented this tendency. In his own works, however, Kleist was singularly independent of the romantic influence.
This strange story recalls the Undine of La Motte Fouque. There is in it an element of mystery and destiny, equal in every way to anything in German literature. The family secret, touched on but never explained, which ends in such a death, is, speaking from an artistic point of view, very skillfully managed.
Five generations were there present the Rougons and the Macquarts, Adelaide Fouque at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Felicite occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; the chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken.
The author of these tales, as well as of many more, was Friedrich, Baron de la Motte Fouque, one of the foremost of the minstrels or tale-tellers of the realm of spiritual chivalry the realm whither Arthur's knights departed when they "took the Sancgreal's holy quest," whence Spenser's Red Cross knight and his fellows came forth on their adventures, and in which the Knight of la Mancha believed, and endeavoured to exist.
From the same source Pope drew the airy tenants of Belinda's dressing-room, in his charming "Rape of the Lock;" and La Motte Fouque, the beautiful and capricious water-nymph, Undine, around whom he has thrown more grace and loveliness, and for whose imaginary woes he has excited more sympathy, than ever were bestowed on a supernatural being.
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