foudebassan (foudebassan) wrote in gedichte, @ 2008-04-17 21:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | droste-huelshoff |
Anna Elisabeth Franzisca Adolphina Wilhelmina Ludovica Freiin von Droste zu Hülshoff
(1797-1848)
was born in an aristocratic, Catholic family. Although tutored entirely at home, she was a very bright child (her nickname, aged 7, was “the little Sappho”). Her path in life should have included marriage, but – and this is where she stands out among people of her social standing – she rebelled and just said no. This probably wouldn’t have been possible had her family, chiefly her mother as her father died when she was still young, not supported her literary endeavours and given her talent the regard it deserved.
This doesn’t mean she was absolved of all female duties. All through her life she devoted time that could have been spent writing to nurse various ill family members, as was expected of a spinsterly relative. Her sister married well, and she was always welcome at her brother-in-law’s house by the Lake Constance, in a place that is today known as the Dreiländereck - the place where the borders between Germany, Switzerland and Austria meet. She wrote most of her books and poetry there, in near-total isolation from contemporary writers.
No poet’s life is complete without the compulsory unsuitable romantic attraction, so Droste’s biographers always mention her peculiar attachment to the son of one of her late friends, Levin Schücking, whom she helped find a job as a librarian. It is, however, highly unlikely that she should have felt anything else than maternal about him.
Her health was never very good, and all that nursing business probably didn’t help. She died at her sister’s house, aged 51.
Most of her poems are either about the rustic beauty of living in the countryside or about her peculiar devotion to Jesus Christ. I confess to not having a peculiar liking to either theme so I selected this one instead:
An meine Mutter So gern hätt' ich ein schönes Lied gemacht, Von deiner Liebe, deiner treuen Weise, Die Gabe, die für andre immer wacht, Hätt' ich so gern geweckt zu deinem Preise. Doch wie ich auch gesonnen mehr und mehr, Und wie ich auch die Reime mochte stellen, Des Herzens Fluten rollten drüber her, Zerstörten mir des Liedes zarte Wellen. So nimm die einfach schlichte Gabe hin, Vom einfach ungeschmückten Wort getragen, Und meine ganze Seele nimm darin; Wo man am meisten fühlt, weiß man nicht viel zu sagen. |
To My Mother I wanted so much to make a nice song About your love, your devoted manner, I wanted so much to awake, to your praise The gift that for others never fails. But no matter how often I wished to rhyme Nor how I mused again and again The heart’s surges rolled over my desires And destroyed the tender waves of my love. So take away my simple, frugal gift, Borne on simple, unadorned words, And take my entire soul with it; Where one feels the most, the least one knows to say. |
A ma Mère J’aurais tant aimé faire une belle chanson De ton amour, de tes manières dévouées Le don qui pour les autres est toujours éveillé Je l’aurais tout à tes louanges dévoué. Mais bien que j’aie encore et encore songé Et tenté de faire de la rime un détour, Tous les flots de mon cœur là-dessus ont roulé Et détruit la douce vague de mon amour. Prends ainsi loin de moi ce don simple et frugal, Porté par un verbe simple et peu décoré Prends avec ce présent mon âme toute entière ; C’est quand on sent le plus qu’on ne peut s’exprimer. |