Chapter 6 Revolution and Romanticism

=> in replacement of the course of 1 May, you can read Chapter 13: Europe’s revolutions from the book

Europe. A Cultural History (see pdf file uploaded at Desiderius). This text covers the content of 6.1 to 6.2

of the syllabus.

6.1 Two revolutions

6.1.1 French Revolution

6.1.1.2 States-General (4 May 1789) and Bastille (14 July 1789)

6.1.I.3 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen

6.1.2 Industrial Revolution

6.2 Nationalism

6.3 The Romantic artist

- Weltschmerz (pessimism, imperfect world)

- Sehnsucht (longing for something out of reach)

- personal suffering/longing/happiness

- purity, nature (pastoral)

- idealised past (medievalism)

- idealised childly innocence, folk culture, mystery (night)

- feeling of national identity

- literature & poetry

+ England: Lord Byron (1782-1824), William Blake (1757-1827, John Keats (1795-1821)

+ Germany: Heinrich Heine, Friedrich Hölderlin, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

- text: Friedrich Rückert, Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen, Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben, Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen, Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!

I am lost to the world with which I used to waste so much time, It has heard nothing from me for so long that it may very well believe that I am dead!

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Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen, Ob sie mich für gestorben hält, Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen, Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt. Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel, Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet! Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel, In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!

It is of no consequence to me Whether it thinks me dead; I cannot deny it, for I really am dead to the world. I am dead to the world’s tumult, And I rest in a quiet realm! I live alone in my heaven, In my love and in my song!

- text, John Keats, beginning of Endymion

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, They always must be with us, or we die. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din;

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Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold, Be all about me when I make an end! And now at once, adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

- painting Caspar David Friedrich Abtei in Eichenhain

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Cross in the Mountains (altarpiece)

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