MEMOIRS

OF

HEINRICH HEINE

I HAVE actually tried, dear Madam, to write down as exactly as possible what I remember of my own time, in so far as my person came in contact with it, either as a spectator or as a victim.

Of these notes, to which I have given selfconceitedly the title of "Memoirs," I have been obliged, however, to destroy almost one-half, partly on account of petty family considerations, partly also on account of religious scruples.

I have since tried to fill up as well as I could the void occurring from this, but I fear that posthumous duties will force me before my death to submit my memoirs to another auto-da-fé, and

what then shall be spared from the flames will perhaps never see daylight.

I shall be careful about naming the friends to whom I entrust the keeping of my manuscript, and the execution of my last will in regard to it; I shall not expose them after my death to the importunities of an idle public, and thereby make them liable to become untrue to their mandate.

Such a breach of trust I have never been able to excuse; it is an unpardonable and immoral act to publish even one line of an author which he himself has not intended for the public at large. This refers especially to letters which are addressed to private persons. He who gets such printed or published commits a despicable act of felony.

After these confessions, dear Madam, you will easily perceive that I cannot grant you, as you desire, the reading of my memoirs and my correspondence.

As a courtier of your Amiableness, however, as I have always been, I cannot absolutely refuse your request; and in order to show you my good will, I shall in another manner try to satisfy the sweet curiosity which is the consequence of a loving sympathy with my fate.

With this intention I have written the following pages, and you will find in rich abundance those biographical notes which may be interesting to you. All that is important and characteristic is honestly communicated here, and the combined effect of exterior events and of occurrences in the inner life of my soul will reveal to you the stamp of my being and myself. The veil has fallen from my soul, and thou mayest look at it in its beautiful nakedness. There are no blemishes, only wounds. And, alas! wounds made not by the hands of enemies but by those of friends.

The night is silent. Outside only the rain beats upon the roof, and mournfully moans the autumn wind.

The cheerless sick-room at this moment is almost luxuriously home-like, and I sit without pain in the large arm-chair.

All at once, without the handle of the door moving, thy beautiful image enters, and thou liest down upon the cushion at my feet. beautiful head on my knees and, without looking up, listen.

I will tell thee the tale of my life.

Rest thy

If occasionally heavy drops should fall upon

thy locks, do not be disturbed; it is not the rain that leaks through the roof.. Do not cry, but silently press my hand.*

What a sublime feeling must stir the heart of such a Prince of the Church when he surveys the crowded market-place, where thousands with uncovered heads are kneeling before him expecting his blessing.

In a book of Italian travel, by Hofrath

*The text of the "Memoirs" is interrupted here on account of the fact that Heine's brother, Maximilian, one day, when visiting Heinrich Heine's widow, burned pages 6-31 of the manuscript which Madam Heine unfortunately had permitted him to look at. The reason for this act of barbarism was evidently the desire to destroy a passage referring to the humble origin of the Heine family, regarding which almost all the members, except the poet himself, were sensitive.

Heine probably spoke, in the pages which have been destroyed, of the intention of his mother to make him a Catholic priest, a fact to which he also alludes elsewhere; and then he perhaps described, in his humoristic poetical manner, the advantages and attractions offered by a high position amongst the clergy.