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The Southern Israelite
The Poet of Mockery
A Contemporary Writes of Heine’s Home Life
By ALFRED MEISSNER
The 75th anniversary of
the death of Ifeinrtch Heine,
great German Jewish poet, is
being commemorated these
days without much ado.
Duesseldorf, his native city,
which is erecting a monument
to its illustrious son, is being
made the target of attacks by
German anti-Semites for this
gesture of homage. I he re
miniscences of Heine by Al
fred Meissner, contemporary
of the poet and one of his
intimate friends, have not as
yet l>ecn published in English.
They give a more intimate
glimpse of Heine the man
than has ever been presented
in any formal biography.
—The Editor
When first I made the acquaintance
of Heine—it was in February, 1847—
he was by far not the invalid whom we
knew a few years later. His right eye
was closed, but the paralytic stroke he
had suffered had left hardly any other
trace on his face. It was a peculiarly
forehead, a delicate and aristocratic
beautiful face, with a high and broad
nose; his gracefully formed mouth lay
in the shadow of a beard which also
covered his entire chin. The beard was
already interspersed with white. Imt his
brown mane, hanging luxuriantly far
down his neck, betrayed no signs of
approaching age. The general effect of
his face was that of dreamy melan
choly ; yet when he spoke or moved an
unsuspected vitality, an amazing, al
most demoniac smile broke through.
He was still able to walk fairly well
at that time, and could, even if only
for the sake of a newspaper article,
cover on foot the long distance from
the Faubourg Poissoniere to the read
ing room of the Palais Royal.
Heine was then in his forty-eighth
year; because lie had been born on
January 1, 1800, he called himself one
of the first men of the century. (This
birthdate was accepted during Heine’s
lifetime, as he never pointed out the
error; now, however, that date is vari
ously given, by different authorities, as
December 12, 1799, or December Id.
1797.—Ed.) His illness, which later
brought him such terrible suffering,
had had its origin in an apparently in
significant cause: This fighter whom a
hundred furious assaults had left un
scathed had suffered a stroke as a re
sult of a minor family dispute. Rut
even then his body seemed to let him
know that sooner or later his condition
would end in death. The year before he
had failed to find relief in the baths
of Bagneres, in the Pyrenees, and the
various physicians he had consulted in
Paris were equally unable to help him.
Despite this he was still sociable,
loved to have friends about him, could
jest, laugh and mock with exuberant
gaiety. His mind was totally unaffected
by his physical affliction and continued
working with its old, inexhaustible en
ergy in its collapsing abode, uncon
cerned about the imminence of ultimate
bodily decay.
The dismal prospect that lay before
him was cheered somewhat by the fact
that his financial status, while not very
splendid, still was fairly good, and that
a loving and sympathetic wife stood at
bis side.
Mathilde still showed traces of
beauty, but had become quite stout.
The life-size oil painting that hung in
her room no longer was her replica.
Her character was of a childlike inno
cence and naivete, and had remained
so despite her years and all the expe
rience of her life in Paris. This quality
was revealed in her lightning changes
of mood, from laughter to weeping,
from persiflage to pity. She frequently
shed tears at the thought of the gloomy
fate that lay before her husband, but
some minor incident could quickly dry
those tears.
The marriage of these two was child
less.
I do not know to what chance or
trait I should attribute the circum
stances that very shortly I came to be
on terms of intimacy with Heine and
soon was one of that small group he
loved to see. During my four stays at
Paris—one a sojourn of almost a year—
it rarely happened that I came to this
house less often than every day or two.
Thus I gradually became accustomed
to his constantly aggravated illness,
whose manifestations frequently were
a painful shock to his visitors and in
later years discouraged many a one
from paying further calls. But for me
to sit beside his bed and talk with him
soon became more pleasant than walk
ing along the smiling boulevards or as
sociating with the average healthy per
son. Conversations with this wizard, old
and ill though he was, made me forget
the sick-room. The fascination which
his books had for me emanated from
him also, and I felt as if I were read
ing chapters of which the rest <>f the
world would never know. But 1 came
to love the man for himself also; his
innate goodness of heart, doubted by
every one, became a certainty for me
When I visited the great metropolis of
which Heine had, for me, became an
integral part, I considered the journey
not merely a pleasure trip, but a pil
grimage to the house of Heine.
The dwelling-place of this, one of
the greatest poets Germany ever pro
duced, was far inferior to the resi
dence of any third-rate French author
Three tiny rooms, three flights up,
were furnished with modest comfort;
the view—if we may call it that—gave
out on a narrow and not particularly
bright courtyard. The fire-place was
covered with the usual white marble.
Over it hung a wide mirror. A porce
lain clock, standing between the two
vases of artificial flow’ers, inevitable in
France, ticked audibly; this was the
most striking ornament. There was
nothing especially noteworthy about
this simple apartment, except for an
old, pock-marked Moorish maid, wear
ing a multicolored kerchief on her
head, who opened the door for callers,
or the shrill cry of a parrot that from
time to time sounded from out of the
room of Madame Heine.
In 1850 there was much talk to the
effect that Heine was growing reli
gious. Some believed that his spirit
was turning to Christianity, others,
more quixotic still, declared that he was
returning to Judaism. Such rumors
were based on a few passages in his
prefaces to new editions of his books,
and on the circumstance that the Bible
often lay on his table.
We spoke rarely of such matters, but
I also felt that Heine was much occu
pied with religious thoughts. It could
not have been otherwise with a mind
like his. When the sun of poetry and
the joy of life begin to sink beyond the
horizon of a life in which they were the
only positive element, the moonlight of
faith in another world rises to illumi
nate the dreary ruins with its trem
bling, uncertain rays.
At times we discussed his Jewishness,
and on one such occasion he said t<
me: “I enter completely into no party,
republican or patriotic, Christian or
Jewish. This I have in common with
all artists who write not for the enthu
siasm of the moment, but for centuries-
not for one country, but for the work-
not for one race, but for all m
It would be absurd and petty I- J
some have said, had ever been a ■
of being a Jew, but it would
as ridiculous if I should cla:: 0 *
one. If you will look carefully :. ^
my writings you will find man a e
/distinguished Tisitor
Rabbi Chaim Judah I.cib Auerbach, head of the Cabbalistic Yeshiva of Jerusalem
being welcomed by Acting Mayor McKee of New York City on his arrival in
this country. The learned rabbi from Palestine is regarded as the world’s out
standing authority on the Cabbala. His spiritual world and that of the American
metropolis arc much further apart than Jerusalem and New York.