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Page 12 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.