Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
Magdalena von Dobeneck's Letters from Ireland to Paul Johann Anselm von Feuerbach (Author: Magdalena von Dobeneck née Feuerbach)
Chapter 9
XV
Dungannon, 15 August.
Just now, as every morning, my dear shepherd's flute, with its longing song ‘I give thee all, I can no more’, sounds across the lake. I listen with bated breath, and move closer to the window. ‘I give thee all’ — so it echoes in me on and on. Though I do not have an idyllic bent, I think that a touching truth speaks through the sounds of such a simple Irish tin whistle.
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Away with the brilliant Parisian soirées musicales! —
Musing about Irish folk music inevitably takes me to the area of art itself, and hence to that of its favourites, and I praise the creative power and kindness of God, which endows a poor human being so abundantly already in this world. But there are also false artists and there is a touchstone for both kinds. Whoever can endure in distress, without hope, and in unselfish love of art, is arguably a true artist. He is creative because he must be; like Gomis and many others who, despite all the obstacles which prevented them from practising their art, finally managed to break through. This creative power reacts to create a satisfaction that cannot be compared to anything. The true artist gives and takes. The praise he receives is properly due to the victory of truth. He is also above the everyday praise of the self-congratulatory crowd. He does not aspire to figure as a golden calf which serves the great crowd for their sinful worship. The false artist, on the other hand, has sought to sneak into the realm of art without consecration or inner vocation; he is a hireling or a glorified craftsman. Drawing up the water from an unclean well, like a puddle or cistern, he brings up all kinds of vermin with it. No matter how much he may struggle with theory — while a will-o'-the-wisp will glitter, his element remains the swamp. What he produces is distorted and deceptive imagery. Lying means murdering the truth,
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and can only have the appearance of winning. Such a would-be artist knows no other spur than ambition and praise. No praise, and there is no more art for him — no more champagne, and behold! it's over with enthusiasm. I would like to say more about the inner life of the true artist, if I only knew how to express my thoughts well! In any case it is difficult to fathom his mystical nature and to assess something that far surpasses the ordinary. But this remains true: as far as their outer life is concerned, the artists all agree in being whimsical. Yes, musicians, painters, and incidentally poets and scholars have to join hands unanimously, being brothers and sisters in this. I think it is natural, too. What are the conveniences of the outer life but shadow images to someone in whose mind a creative power has awoken, and now erupts into a thousand beautiful flowers! Be it fugue or brushstroke, verse or model, — spirit, truth and power bring them about, and therefore they do not belong to these spaces, but to eternity. — Nothing opens up the inner life of the true artist more to me than that scene, where the noble seascape painter Joseph Verney28, bound to the ship's mast during a storm, sits down comfortably in the great workshop of nature, as it were, all eyes and ears, while the crew is wrestling with death, and the ship with the waves, threatening to sink into the abyss as a large coffin.
Together with this letter, beloved father, you will receive
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some of my favourite Irish melodies. I suspect that the lyrics of one or the other song have been written by Thomas Moore; in any case he has done a splendid job. His poems are melodious in themselves. Let my sisters sing them to you, but please a mezza voce, bringing you to me, to Erin's shores, where the waves are breaking.