Anna C. Ezekiel's Blog

The notes translated here are taken from Günderrode’s manuscripts held at the Universitätsbibliothek Johann Christian Senckenberg in Frankfurt, which are in the public domain.[1] German transcriptions of these notes can also be found in the critical edition of Günderrode’s works edited by Walter Morgenthaler[2] and in an article published in 1975 by Doris Hopp and Max Preitz.[3] Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation or commentary.

Günderrode’s interest in religions from around the world was part of an accelaration of studies of Indian, Egyptian and Middle Eastern religions and customs that began in Europe around 1800. While a few German (as well as English, Latin and French) resources for the study of Hinduism, Islam and other religions had been available since at least the mid-1600s,[4] these greatly increased in number in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. The availability of texts from outside Europe, including translations, further increased throughout the nineteenth century, beginning shortly after Günderrode’s death. This included significant work on Sanskrit by Friedrich and August Wilhelm Schlegel, published between 1808 and 1830,[5] and Georg Wilhelm Creuzer’s influential Symbolism and Mythology, published 1810–1812.[6]

Despite the relatively limited resources that would have been available to Günderrode, it is not easy to identify the texts from which she drew the information in her notes on the history of religions from around the world. One possibility is that the information came through Creuzer, who Günderrode met in 1804 and with whom she had an affair. We know from their correspondence that Günderrode discussed Creuzer’s research for Symbolism and Mythology with him, and Dagmar von Gersdorff identifies shared phrasing in Günderrode’s notes and Creuzer’s description of Egypt.[7] Creuzer’s massive work includes much or all of the information in Günderrode’s notes, and presumably his research materials were even more substantial. It is likely he shared at least some of this material with Günderrode.

Günderrode’s notes on Hinduism, beginning “Brahm Parabrahma…,” may have been taken near the start of 1805, around the time she wrote her play Udohla,[8] which is set in India.[9] We know from Günderrode’s correspondence that she read Georg Forster’s German translation (via William Jones’ English translation) of Śakuntalā, a play by the fourth- to fifth-century Sanskrit author Kālidāsa,[10] which at that time was taking Germany by storm. Günderrode’s notes may have been influenced by Forster’s introductory materials to the translation.[11] A closer parallel to much of the information in these notes can be found in Johann Friedrich Kleuker’s The Brahminic Religious System, published in 1797.[12] However, Günderrode’s notes include terminology and information not found in either of these sources. In the case of these notes, too, a closer search of Creuzer’s Symbolism and Mythology may yield more information.

A. Leslie Willson suggests that Günderrode may have gleaned information on Hindu and Muslim customs from “The Laws of Manu” and Herder’s Ideas.[13] The former refers to the Manusmṛiti, a collection of ideals for political organization and social behavior that was among the first Indian texts translated into European languages. German translations of the Laws were available at the time Günderrode was writing, but we do not have evidence that Günderrode read them. On the other hand, Günderrode did read Herder’s Ideen, which includes sections on ancient cultures in China, India, North Africa, the Middle East and Central Asia.[14] However, Herder’s text does not especially focus on the religions of these areas and much of the information included in Günderrode’s notes is missing. While it is plausible that Günderrode learned about ancient cultures in part by reading Herder, it does not seem that the notes translated here were taken from the Ideas.

Regardless of their source, Günderrode’s notes on history of religion are interesting for at least two reasons. First, they show what an educated European with good access to available texts about religions and mythologies from the rest of the world (in Günderrode’s case through Creuzer, one of the foremost researchers on the subject) could learn at this time. As such, they contribute to understanding the early reception of Asian and North African thought in Europe. 

Second, the notes tell us something about Günderrode’s thinking itself. In all her comments on the topic, Günderrode consistently maintains that all religions mediate the same truth: that the universe is comprised of one divine essence that generates the changing things of the world, including ourselves, from itself.[15] These notes show that Günderrode did not make this claim in ignorance, but after careful study. She was not just parroting the ideas of other thinkers, for instance the theologian Friedrich Schleiermacher, who similarly claimed that the essence of all religion was intuition of the infinite.[16] Nor did she make this claim on the basis of monotheistic religions alone, such as the different forms of Christianity that were current in Europe in her time. Günderrode was deeply interested in and well informed on many different kinds of religion: her notes include information on polytheistic and animistic religions as well as Buddhism and Manichaeism. The fact that she knew details of these, and found the details important to record, shows that she intended her idea of universal religion to be truly cosmopolitan. The one truth mediated by all religions, as she saw it, had to encompass every possible expression of what Günderrode saw as the essential, spiritual component of human existence, wherever it appeared in the world and in whatever form it did so. 

Whether this is an accurate, nuanced or sensitive way to understand religions is another matter. Schleiermacher, for instance, has been criticized for importing Protestant assumptions into his interpretations of other religions and, by universalizing the experience of religion, ignoring important cultural context that affects the role and meaning of religion and religious experience.[17] Arguably, Günderrode was subject to the same biases.[18] While her notes translated here appear to simply note down facts about the history and practice of religions from across the world, they are not immune to errors, bias and misinterpretation, whether by Günderrode or by her sources.

NOTES ON HISTORY OF RELIGION

Religion of the Egyptians

In the most ancient times they only worshipped physical objects (fetishes). Each province basically had a national fetish. Subsequently, they clothed natural forces in divine images, e.g., Osiris, the sun and effective forces; Isis, the moon and passive natural forces. Sacred oxen were general fetishes. They believed in the transmigration of souls.

The Persians (Magi)

Zeruane Akerene,[19] the primal being, time without limitation: by his word he created two beings, Ormuzd[20] and Ahriman.[21] Ahriman became evil. These two created the whole spiritual and physical world: Ormuzd everything good, Ahriman everything evil. But one day (after the resurrection) everything will be good, even Ahriman. The Persians believed in many evil and good demons, in immortality, and worshipped fire as divine, as the symbol of the good being. Their priests were called magi. Zoroaster founded this religion in 3359.[22] The Zend Avesta is the textbook of the Persian religion.

The Sabaean Religion[23] extended over Phoenicea, Syria, Arabia and Central Asia. It was worship of the active natural forces, and the stars.

Religion of the Indians

Their highest gods are Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, Shiva the destroyer. Apart from these they believe in many subordinate gods, demons, and the transmigration of souls.

Religion of the Chinese

They also worshipped parts of the physical world; they called the whole, or the highest being, Tian. Confucius improved [the religion of the Chinese] in 3500.[24]

Religion of the Fo [25]

Fo founded this religion in the year of our lord 100. It consists in belief in the transmigration of souls, and calls the condition of greatest peace blessedness, which one can achieve through suppressing sensuality.

Shamanistic Religion

It is the mother of most Asian religions. It teaches that good and evil burkhans[26] (spirits) came into being at the same time as the world: they govern the world and occasionally transform themselves into people (Fo was one of these). The number of the good is always increased by pious people dying. It also teaches the transmigration of souls. The Dalai Lama is the immortal priest of this religion,[27] which accepts no highest god.

[Hinduism]

Brahm Parabrahma, the highest divinity, the eternal,[28] spirit, first created Bhavani, productive nature. The latter bore:

Brahma the creator, the earth element

Vishnu the preserver, water

Shiva the destroyer, fire

Then Moisasur[29] came into being, and the multitudes of spirits.

Moisasur rebelled against Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. The eternal thereupon commanded Shiva to throw Moisasurand the spirits that had fallen with him into the abyss. Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva pleaded for the fallen, and the eternal gave them the power to form the universe after 5000 years, which the fallen spirits should wander through in 4 periods of the world (yugas[30]). But anyone who persisted in their evil after this time should be damned forever to the abyss Onderah.[31] Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva pleaded to the eternal for permission to be allowed to appear to the fallen in mortal form for consolation and admonishment, which was granted to them.

Marichi: the light

Aditi: day through sun = Kashyapa: space

Diti: night; Indra: the atmosphere; Kashyapa’s and Aditi’s son

Agni: demon of fire

Saraswati: goddess of wisdom

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

App, Urs. “The Tibet of the Philosophers Kant, Hegel and Schopenhauer.” In Images of Tibet in the 19th and 20thCenturies. Vol. 1. Ed. Monica Esposito, 5–60. Paris: EFEO, 2008. 

Becker-Cantarino, Barbara. “The ‘New Mythology’: Myth and Death in Karoline von Günderrode’s Literary Work.” InWomen and Death 3: Women’s Representations of Death in German Culture since 1500. Ed. Clare Bielby and Anna Richards, 51–70. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2010. 

Creuzer, Friedrich. Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Griechen. 4 vols. Leipzig and Darmstadt: Carl Wilhelm Leske, 1810–1812.

Ezekiel, Anna, ed. and trans. Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings. New York: Oxford University Press, 2026.

Galasso, Stephanie. “Form and Contention: Sati as Custom in Günderrode’s ‘Die Malabarische Witwen.’” Goethe Yearbook 24 (2017): 197–220.

Gersdorff, Dagmar von. “Die Erde ist mir Heimat nicht geworden.” Das Leben der Karoline von Günderrode. Insel: Frankfurt, 2006.

Günderrode, Karoline von. Ms. Ff KvGünderrode Abt. 1, 127–131 and Abt. 1 (from back), 1–3 (Universitätsbibliothek Johann Christian Senckenberg, Frankfurt).

Günderrode, Karoline von. Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe. Ed. Walter Morgenthaler. Basel, Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1990–1991.

Herder, Johann Gottfried. Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit. 4 vols. Riga: Hartknoch, 1784f.

Hopp, Doris, and Max Preitz. “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt III. Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Studienbuch.’“Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts (1975): 223–323.

Kālidāsa. Sakontala oder der entscheidende Ring. ein indisches Schauspiel von Kalidas. Aus den Ursprachen Sanskrit und Prakrit ins Englische und aus diesem ins Deutsche übersetzt mit Erläuterungen von Georg Forster. Trans. Georg Forster. Mainz and Leipzig: Johann Peter Fischer, 1791. Second edition ed. Johann Gottfried Herder. Frankfurt: August Hermann dem Jüngern, 1803.

Kleuker, Johann Friedrich. Das Brahmanische Religionssystem im Zusammenhange dargestellt und aus seinen Grundbegriffen erklärt. Riga: Hartknoch, 1797.

Vial, Theodore. Modern Religion, Modern Race. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016.

Willson, A. Leslie. A Mythical Image: The Ideal of India in German Romanticism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1964.

[1] Ms. Ff KvGünderrode Abt. 1, 127–131 and Abt. 1 (from back), 1–3. 

[2] Karoline von Günderrode, Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe [hereafter “SW”], ed. Walter Morgenthaler (Basel, Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1990–1991), vol. 2: 413–417.

[3] Doris Hopp and Max Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt III. Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Studienbuch,’“Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts (1975): 291–292, 306.

[4] E.g., Abraham Roger translated two satakas by the fifth-century Indian author Bhartṛhari into Dutch in 1651; Roger’s translations were translated into German in 1663.

[5] Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und die Weisheit der Indier was published in 1808. In 1818, August Schlegel was made the first Chair of Sanskrit Literature in Bonn; his Indische Bibliothek was published from 1820 to 1830.

[6] Friedrich Creuzer, Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Griechen, 4 vols (Leipzig and Darmstadt: Carl Wilhelm Leske, 1810–1812).

[7] Dagmar von Gersdorff, “Die Erde ist mir Heimat nicht geworden.” Das Leben der Karoline von Günderrode (Insel: Frankfurt, 2006), 227. Gersdorff considers that Creuzer may have copied Günderrode’s phrasing here, rather than the reverse.

[8] For an English translation of this text, along with a commentary on its anti-colonial implications and novel account of human agency, see my Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings, part of the Oxford New Histories of Philosophy series.

[9] SW 3: 348.

[10] E.g., in a letter to Günderrode, Creuzer urges her to write poetry “in the sense of Sakuntala” (SW 3: 144).

[11] Kālidāsa, Sakontala oder der entscheidende Ring. ein indisches Schauspiel von Kalidas. Aus den Ursprachen Sanskrit und Prakrit ins Englische und aus diesem ins Deutsche übersetzt mit Erläuterungen von Georg Forster, trans. Georg Forster (Mainz and Leipzig: Johann Peter Fischer, 1791). Hopp and Preitz suggest that Günderrode’s information may come from Jones’ foreword and Forster’s commentary in the second edition (Frankfurt: August Hermann dem Jüngern, 1803), v–xx, esp. xvii, 199–267 (Hopp and Preitz, “Umwelt. III,” 322; see also SW 3: 348).

[12] Johann Friedrich Kleuker, Das Brahmanische Religionssystem im Zusammenhange dargestellt und aus seinen Grundbegriffen erklärt (Riga: Hartknoch, 1797). Hopp and Preitz suggest this as a source for the information on Moisasur and the short list of deities at the end of Günderrode’s notes (“Umwelt. III,” 323).

[13] A. Leslie Willson, A Mythical Image: The Ideal of India in German Romanticism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1964), 189–190, 193.

[14] Johann Gottfried Herder, Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit (Riga: Hartknoch, 1784f.), vol. 3, books 11–12.

[15] See esp. “Story of a Brahmin” and “Letters of Two Friends” (for English translation of these texts with accompanying commentaries see my Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings).

[16] For example, in “On Religion,” which Günderrode excerpted in her notes (see Ezekiel, ed. Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings).

[17] Theodore Vial, Modern Religion, Modern Race (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 58–59.

[18] See, for example, criticisms of her poem “The Malabarian Widows” by Barbara Becker-Cantarino and Stephanie Galasso (Barbara Becker-Cantarino, “The ‘New Mythology’: Myth and Death in Karoline von Günderrode’s Literary Work,” in Women and Death 3: Women’s Representations of Death in German Culture since 1500, ed. Clare Bielby and Anna Richards (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2010), 51–70; Stephanie Galasso, “Form and Contention: Sati as Custom in Günderrode’s ‘Die Malabarische Witwen,’” Goethe Yearbook 24 [2017]: 197–220).

[19] Zeruane Akarene, also “Zaruana Akarana” or “Zurvan,” is the principle of “uncreated time.” Günderrode seems to be describing a form of Zoroastrianism, now defunct, called Zurvanism, in which an original, morally neutral deity, Zurvan, created opposing principles of good (Ahura Mazda) and evil (Angra Mainyu). In the dominant form of Zoroastrianism today, Ahura Mazda is the original principle and the principle of good.

[20] Also spelled “Ormazd”: an alternative spelling for Ahura Mazda, the benevolent deity in Zoroastrianism.

[21] Ahriman is the later Persian development of the evil principle Angra Mainya. 

[22] Zoroaster, also spelled Zarathustra, is thought to have lived between 1000 and 1500 BCE.

[23] Saba (biblical Sheba) was a pre-Islamic kingdom in Arabia. There is only scattered information available on the Sabaean religion.

[24] Confucius is thought to have lived from around 551 to 479 BCE.

[25] “Fo” is the name for Buddha in some Chinese languages, including modern Mandarin. Buddhism was called “the religion of the Fo” by European historians and philosophers from the sixteenth to at least the nineteenth century (Urs App, “The Tibet of the Philosophers Kant, Hegel and Schopenhauer,” in Images of Tibet in the 19th and 20th Centuries, vol. 1, ed. Monica Esposito [Paris: EFEO, 2008], 7).

[26] A god, spirit or buddha in Mongolian shamanism.

[27] There are many forms of shamanism and only some (in Mongolia and central Asia) have any relationship to Buddhism. It is problematic to describe the Dalai Lama as the head of these religions, since Buddhism often replaced and in some cases outlawed shamanistic religions.

[28] Günderrode originally wrote “the one” or “the one eternal” instead of “the eternal,” but crossed this out (SW 2: 416).

[29] Moisasur (or Mahishasura) is an Asura (a class of powerful beings in Hinduism) who represents chaos and destruction.

[30] The Sanskrit word yuga refers to a long period of time, usually the four ages of the world according to Hinduism.

[31] Kleuker defines “Onderah” as “the abyss of darkness, from which, if they want, all the spirits that have been cast into it can be released before the completion of the last age of the world, on condition of progressive punishment, reformation, and purification” (Das Brahmanische Religionssystem, 353–354).

Δ/* */document.getElementById( "ak_js_1" ).setAttribute( "value", ( new Date() ).getTime() );/* ]]> */

Get new content delivered directly to your inbox. Occasional entries on historical women philosophers, expanding the canon, and related topics in philosophy, literature, and fine arts.

Subscribe

Guest posts on historical German women philosophers at the Genealogies of Modernity project.

This post explores a strong stylistic and thematic influence on Günderrode’s work: the writings of legendary Scottish bard Ossian.

For an English translation of Günderrode’s dramatic fragment “Mora” see Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings (OUP: forthcoming January-March 2026). A translation of the short story “Timur” is included at the end of this post. Versions of the original German texts for “Timur” and “Mora” can be found here and here. Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation or commentary.

The clearest influence of Ossian on Günderrode’s work is to be seen in her first collection, Poems and Fantasies, published in 1804. This volume opens with Günderrode’s 39-verse reworking of Ossian’s “Dar-thula” and includes two other pieces, “Timur” and “Mora,” that are more loosely based on Ossian’s writings. In addition to these three texts, Ossian’s work was a strong influence on other pieces in Poems and Fantasies as well as Günderrode’s later writing. Günderrode’s engagement with Ossian is interesting not only as a record of an important source of inspiration but also as an early attempt to address some of the topics that were to preoccupy her in her later work, including gender, agency, identity and death.

First, a little background on Ossian himself, whose work was first published in English in the 1760s.[1] The stories were purportedly authored by a third-century Celtic bard, but it quickly emerged that their “editor,” James Macpherson, had written much of the work himself on the basis of Irish and Scottish folk tales and oral histories, and that the figure of Ossian was semi-fictional.[2] However, many elements of the stories do have a basis in Celtic oral traditions. In particular, much of “Dar-thula” can be traced to a popular folk tale, “The Deaths of the Sons of Uisneach [also spelled “Usnech”],” the earliest written version of which is found in the fifteenth-century Glenmasan Manuscript, which itself was likely based on an earlier manuscript of 1238.[3] The character Dar-thula corresponds to the legendary figure of Deirdre of the Sorrows, and the other characters in the piece to Deirdre’s beloved Naoise (Nathos, in Macpherson’s spelling) and his brothers Ardan and Ainnle (Althos) – i.e., the three sons of Uisneach (Usnoth) – and their enemy Conchobar (Cairbar).

Macpherson’s publications were immediately popular and German translations appeared as early as 1762.[4] The pieces were an influence on a great number of writers in Germany, including Herder, Hölderlin, Klopstock, Karl Philipp Moritz, Jean Paul, Schiller, and Romantic authors such as Novalis, Tieck and Kleist.[5] Goethe included extensive translations from Ossian’s “Songs of Selma” and “Berrathon” in his Sorrows of Young Werther (1774),[6] which itself was hugely influential. Ossianic depictions of nature as wild, sublime and invested with emotional weight helped shape the Sturm und Drang movement and Romanticism in Germany,[7] and it has been claimed that Macpherson’s use of fragments and the mixing of genres and of prose and verse is also reflected in Romanticism.[8]

We know from Günderrode’s letters and notes that she read Ossian’s work at least by 1800.[9] More specifically, Walter Morgenthaler, the editor of her collected works, claims that her German sources for “Darthula” were Edmund von Harold’s Die Gedichte Ossians eines alten celtischen Helden und Barden (1775), extracts of which appear in Günderrode’s notebooks,[10] and Michael Denis’ Ossians und Sineds Lieder (1784).[11] Günderrode’s “Darthula” is thus a product of multiple textual reinterpretations: a reworking of German translations of English re-imaginings of original Gaelic elements. The two other Ossianic pieces in Poems and Fantasies, “Timur” and “Mora,” are original to Günderrode, though based heavily on the themes, characters, places and language of Ossian’s writings. 

As several commentators have noted, Günderrode adopts numerous themes and tropes from Ossian, which appear not only in the three Ossianic pieces of Poems and Fantasies but throughout this collection and her later work. These include the use of bards as a poetic device, laments for the fallen, men fighting over women and kingdoms, and women disguising themselves as male warriors, especially in order to defend loved ones or their honour.[12]

In terms of content, Ruth Christmann and Wolfgang Westphal argue that Günderrode’s interest in death, especially the connection of death and love, is in part a product of her engagement with Ossian, as is her frequent characterisation of nature as reflecting the experiences and emotions of her protagonists.[13] The trope of the virgin at arms, or woman warrior, is another popular theme that Günderrode developed in original ways, using this motif as part of her critique of traditional gender roles. For details on how she does this, see the introduction to my translation of “Mora” in the forthcoming Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings, and the section on “Gender” in the general introduction to the same volume. See also the papers by Liesl Allingham and Elizabeth Krimmer listed in the bibliography at the end of this post.

Stylistically, Gerald Bär and Howard Gaskill note the Ossianic overtones of Günderrode’s depictions of nature as turbulent and emotionally weighted.[14] Ossianic elements in Günderrode’s depictions of nature include her descriptions of storms, surging waves, rasping ravens, howling winds, ghosts, graves, cliffs and heaving oceans. Several apparently idiosyncratic phrases in Poems and Fantasies are also derived from Ossian. For example, in “Timur,” Günderrode writes that Ermar’s “blood smoked down to the sea” after he is thrown from a cliff. This reflects the language Ossian uses in “Temora” to describe the stabbing of his character Cormac, whose blood, Ossian writes, “is smoking round.”[15] In “Mora,” a bard sings about a “hall of shells,” referring to drinking shells like those Ossian describes being served during feasts.[16] Günderrode’s characterisation of Mora’s beloved Frothal as “king of spears” uses a term deployed by Ossian to describe heroes, including Fingal and Ossian himself.[17] In addition, the names of the characters in Günderrode’s “Mora” and “Timur,” including Frothal, Torlat, Karmor, Karul, Thormod and Mora, are identical or similar to names appearing in Ossian’s work.[18]

While much of Ossian’s influence on Günderrode takes the form of shared plots, themes and language, Günderrode’s “Darthula” follows Ossian’s version closely, repeating most of the plot points in the same order and in many places reflecting Ossian’s language and imagery. Some of Günderrode’s omissions, additions, and alterations are significant, however, as has been explored by Allingham and Krimmer.[19] Most importantly, Günderrode cuts several passages recounting the activities of characters that occur while Darthula is absent, for example the gathering of the old heroes of Selama and Nathos’ return to Tara.[20] Where Günderrode adds lines that are not taken directly or almost directly from the original, they tend to emphasise (1) Darthula’s feelings and motivations, in particular in ways that characterise her as sorrowful and lonely;[21] (2) the tragedy of Darthula’s death;[22] or (3) Darthula’s beauty.[23] The result of these modifications is to focus the piece more closely on Darthula’s perspective, sidelining Ossian’s hero Nathos. This focus contributes to Darthula appearing as a more active agent in Günderrode’s version of this story than she does in Ossian’s: a fleshed-out heroine, with a history, feelings and motivations, who is the centre of the action.

This kind of retelling of legends, myths, histories and tropes to focus on the experiences of female characters, in the process emphasising the agency of these women, can be seen in other works by Günderrode, including “Ariadne on Naxos” and “The Frank in Egypt” and later works such as the plays Hildgund and Udohla. In Hildgund, in particular, we can see a longer, more detailed and more original version of what Günderrode attempts in “Darthula”: Günderrode tells the stories of the famous historical figures Attila the Hun and Walther of Aquitaine from the perspective of Hildgund, who she develops as a three-dimensional character with feelings and motives for her decisions. Like Darthula, Günderrode shows Hildgund participating actively in a political and military arena for the sake of honour and at the risk of her life.[24]

The plots of both “Timur” and “Mora” are also strongly influenced by Ossian, although unlike “Darthula” they do not follow the storyline of any one specific work. In “Mora,” the titular heroine puts on her lover’s armour to defend his life and her right to marry whom she chooses; she is killed in the ensuing battle. This plot has correspondences with Books 1 and 5 of Ossian’s “Fingal” and his story “Oithona,” which, like the other pieces discussed in this post, were available in German translation by the time Günderrode was writing. Jointly, these stories provide many elements of Günderrode’s “Mora,” including the setting by a cave, the love triangle, the use of a weapon by the heroine, and her death at the hands of her unwanted suitor.[25] In the case of Book 1 of “Fingal,” the name “Morna” is also similar to “Mora.” 

Günderrode’s character Mora’s use of a disguise to enter battle also resembles plots and characters in other of Ossian’s stories, where women often conceal themselves in armour to go into battle, in particular in order to protect a loved one. Examples of this in Ossian’s work include Dar-thula, Colmal in “Calthon and Colmal,” Sul-malla in “Temora,”[26] Comala in “Comala: A Dramatic Poem,”[27] and Utha and Crimora in “Carric-thura.”[28]

All three of the Ossian-inspired pieces in Poems and Fantasies focus on women who take an active role in obtaining their goals and participate in battles or, in the case of “Timur,” in murder. In all three cases, the motivations for these activities are to protect or avenge loved ones and to uphold individual and family honour. This common motivation connects Günderrode’s Ossian reception to her later investigations of gender and gender roles, which emerged in more detailed form in her later works, including the plays Hildgund and Udohla.

Let us turn now to the short story, “Timur,” which I have translated at the end of this post. Jeannine Blackwell has argued for providing the English title “Temora” instead of “Timur” on the grounds that (she suggests) the story is based on Ossian’s Temora, An Ancient Epic Poem in Eight Books.[29] There is indeed a close resemblance between the opening lines of Günderrode’s “Timur” and Macpherson’s summary of the plot of Book 1 of Ossian’s “Temora”; however, in other respects the pieces are not similar. Ossian’s “Temora” tells the story of the Fir-bolg chief Cairbar’s usurping of the Irish throne from Cormac and its restoration by Cormac’s distant (male) relative Fingal. Günderrode’s story has a background of the usurping of a throne and the eventual death of the usurper, but is focused on a tragic love affair between the son of the murdered king and the daughter of the usurper, which has no parallel in Ossian’s “Temora.” 

In fact, the plot of Günderrode’s “Timur” is closer to that of Ossian’s “Calthon and Colmal,” which was available to Günderrode in translations by Harold and Denis.[30] This story by Ossian begins with the murder of Rathmor, a chief of Clutha, by Dunthalmo, Lord of Teutha. Dunthalmo raises Rathmor’s sons Calthon and Colmar, but later, fearing they will avenge their father’s murder, he imprisons them in two caves. Dunthalmo’s daughter Colmal, who is in love with Calthon, disguises herself as a warrior and helps Calthon escape. Meanwhile, Dunthalmo kills Colmar. Calthon and Colmal appeal for aid to Ossian, who in addition to being a bard is handy with a weapon. Ossian kills Dunthalmo, and Calthon and Colmal marry.[31]

Many elements from this story appear in Günderrode’s “Timur,” including the imprisonment of the son of a murdered ruler by his murderer, the love of the murderer’s daughter for the imprisoned youth, her aiding the prisoner to escape, and the revenge murder of the original murderer, although in Ossian’s story this is done by a third party (Ossian) instead of by the wronged son of the dead ruler, as in Günderrode’s “Timur.” As an aside, in light of these resemblances it seems likely that, in Günderrode’s story, the young warrior who helps Timur escape is meant to be Thia, the daughter of the usurper Ermar, in disguise, although Günderrode does not make this explicit. In addition, Günderrode adds various characters and events to the plot, taking the story beyond a retelling of Ossian’s original work. These include all the tragic events after the murder of the usurper, which follow the fatal unfolding of the conflict between Thia’s filial duty and devotion and her love for Timur.

Another point against equating the terms “Timur” and “Temora” is that Ossian’s Temora is a place – the seat of kings of Ireland – while Günderrode’s Timur is a person – the son of the murdered ruler. In addition, there is the question why Günderrode would change the spelling to “Timur” when she must have been aware that, for her readers, “Timur” would signify the fourteenth-century Turko-Mongol conqueror Timur, or Tamerlane.[32] Lucia Maria Licher even claims that, rather than representing an Ossianic character, Günderrode’s Timur is based on the historical figure Timur/Tamerlane.[33] Supporting Licher’s suggestion is Günderrode’s use of imagery of the east in this piece, such as the women breathing “Arabia’s balsam” and wearing “Persian silk.” Günderrode was interested in Middle Eastern history and mythology, and in the stories of great conquerors like Tamerlane and Attila, so it is plausible that she wished to write a story featuring the former, as she did for the latter in Hildgund.

In light of the above considerations, it seems likely that “Timur” is a synthesis of more than one story from more than one region: Northern European, Ossianic elements meet elements from the Persian and Middle Eastern stories that also interested Günderrode and that are represented elsewhere in Poems and Fantasies, such as in “Musa,”[34] “The Apparition”[35] and “The Frank in Egypt.”[36] And, in the absence of decisive evidence for changing the title of Günderrode’s piece to “Temora,” I have left her original spelling, “Timur,” for both the title and the character.

TIMUR

Ermar had thrown the house of Parimor from the throne, Parimor himself, his wife and his friends had fallen under the sword of the overthrower, only Timur, his only son, fell living into Ermar’s hands. Reluctantly the land submitted to the victor, who obtained the castle of the unfortunate Parimor on the north coast of the island; and shared the highest power with his brother, the wild Konnar.

None of all the friends of the toppled royal house knew where Timur was, or whether he lived? only the prophetess knew it, the silent seer, who lived in a cave at the entrance of the earth, she saw the coming destinies, the depths of the human breast, and the unhappy Timur’s chains. The prophetess lived alone and performed secretive works, and of all mortals only Thia, the beautiful daughter of Ermar, knew her habitation. The prophetess loved the girl, she taught her various secrets, and often disclosed to her the events of the future.

Once the prophetess spoke to the daughter of Ermar: Girl! fear the fate of your father: his misdeed has awoken the spirit of vengeance; look here! And she showed the terrified girl in a mirror a deep prison of the castle, and in the prison lay, on mouldy straw, a youth with burning eyes and dense brown locks; Thia could not sate her eyes on the sight of the prisoner; but the seeress spoke: this is the king of this land, he languishes in chains, and your father wears the crown that is due to him.

Full of thought Thia hurried back to her father’s castle, and sought everywhere for a door that might lead to Timur’s dungeon. In the north the castle was surrounded by rough cliffs, that reached down to the ocean, in these cliffs Thia discovered, tucked away between shrubs and nettles, a grille that barred a dark deep; this grille she had seen in the magic mirror; and each morning before the inhabitants of the castle awoke, and each evening when the mild twilight concealed the deeds of love in its veil, she went there, sat sorrowingly beside the grille, and sighed: Timur! Timur! and it seemed to her as if dear, invisible arms came up out of the grille and held her entwined, so that she could not leave the place, and did not heed that the raw night wind blew around her and the dew of heaven dampened her.

Two years had Timur languished in the dungeon, already vengeance’s wild thoughts had become pale and powerless, and the dreams of salvation and liberation had been dreamt away; he already believed himself forgotten by all people, when it seemed to him he heard a sweet voice whisper his name, and each morning and each evening he heard the same voice call: Timur! Timur! and when he slumbered on his bed, it seemed to him an angel with gleaming locks and rosy cheeks bent over him, pressed soft kisses on his lips and sighed: Timur! But when he awoke the rosy cheeks vanished in the dungeon night, the bright locks paled, the kisses burned up, yet the sweet voice whispered on, and he did not know whether the dream was real, or the really apparent a dream.

Days and weeks had thus passed, when the girl spoke to Ermar: “Father! the mouth of the prophetess proclaims harm and ruin to you, because of the son of Parimor, who innocently languishes in your chains, your injustice will awaken the spirit of vengeance, fear it!” Timur’s power is fettered, replied Ermar: where is the arm that will lend itself to revenge? Fear, spoke Thia, the future and the seeress’ unerring words; I saw Timur, I love him, give him freedom, give him to me, fetter him to you with a holy bond, or fear also your daughter. But Ermar remained unrelenting until his only daughter threw herself at his feet, and swore to him to make her beloved into his true son and friend, or to betray him, if he were ungrateful, and in the middle of their embrace drive a dagger into his breast.

Timur lay in heavy dreams, the spirit of his father appeared to him wrapped in bloody grave clothes, and spoke, avenge me! the time has come. Timur awoke, but still he heard the words, the time has come! he was still contemplating this when the grille opened; a warrior stepped within and bade him follow. Silently, full of strange sentiments Timur walked along behind his guide. Now they had arrived at the cliffs, the warrior removed himself, and Ermar approached the youth. The time has come, avenge me, whispered a voice in Timur’s soul: an invisible power drove him; before Ermar had spoken, the youth seized him, and hurled him down from the cliffs, so that his blood smoked down to the sea.

The inhabitants of the castle gathered, they recognized the son of their Kings, and gladly named him lord, and ruler. But when it was night, and the King was alone, Thia came to him, and spoke: “I loved you, I watched at the door of your dungeon, and confided your name to the night, and the stars; your freedom is my work, but you murdered my father, you placed a heavy blood debt upon my soul, therefore away from you!”

And the girl went, and did not turn back. Then the King became very sad, the clamourous hunt did not gladden him, nor the cup, alone he stood on his cliffs, and saw, and heard nothing but the terror of the coming winter. The sky was covered with heavy clouds, icy rain fell, the north wind raked the forest and drove the dun leaves around in wild eddies, the surf boomed on the coast, and the rasping raven conversed with its echo. Moons went by thus, and always cold rain and snow fell and the sky remained dark like the soul of Timur; then his friends gathered around him and spoke: it is not good oh King! that you grieve so lonely, come! let us do deeds; beyond the mountains Konnar still rules over the people with an iron sceptre, come! conquer your inheritance, overthrow the betrayers! The youth obeyed, he tore himself from his dreaming and plunged into the crush of battle to deeds and glory.

Uncertain, fortune swung between Konnar and Timur, Timur was valiant, Konnar firm and clever. A battle decided for Konnar, Timur had to withdraw into the mountains. The day passed by in the turmoil of combat, in attack and defence, but when the night sank down, and the war-god was lulled into slumber, the companions gathered around Timur, and in the gullies of lonely mountains, in the night of dense forests, where the scouting enemy did not suspect them, they erected a cheerful tent, a hundred torches illuminated the wilderness, the cup of joy went around, a sweet music resounded accompanied by the voices of brown-haired maidens, and Timur revelled in glory and delight and love, and his companions cheered in wild joy.

But once Timur was alone on his bed, and sleep fled him, it seemed to him he heard the rustle of quiet steps, and as he listened, he felt himself suddenly entwined by tender arms, and hot longing kisses covered his lips; but when he awoke in the morning his bed was deserted. For three nights the unknown lover had already visited the King’s bed, but when she came for the fourth time, he locked her in his arms and swore not to leave her, until she had revealed herself to him, so that he could share his throne and his majesty with her. “Only let me go unknown from you this time” spoke the maiden, “when the night returns and the stars gleam again, a black steed will stand before you, trust yourself to it, it will carry you there where all will be revealed to you.” The King let the maiden go from him. But when it was night he found the steed; a peculiar shudder ran through his bones, but he swung himself upon the animal’s back, and it carried him through unknown tangled paths, through chasms and forests, and stopped before a magnificent illuminated palace. The gates opened, two boys stepped out, held his reins and led him to a hall. A mild twilight ruled, for only a half moon over a basin into which perfumed balmy water rushed illuminated the room with a changing shimmer, now the moon shone in dark purple, then in pale roseate, then again blue like the arc of heaven, then finally like the green glaze of meadows.

Astounded, for a while Timur watched the changing play of colours; then the doors opened and many beautiful maidens came in in various strange and peculiar costumes; a floral wreath wound around the blonde hair of one, a delicate white dress flowed around her. Another breathed Arabia’s balsam, the exquisite dew of the east surrounded her dark locks in shining rows, and gold wrought in Persian silk enveloped her ample round limbs. A third in light silver gauze resembled the air’s aetherial beauties; and the fairest of all the regions seemed gathered around the youth. Suddenly the water shone like the sun and poured wide streams of light through the hall; a music, like organ tones, was heard, a lovely voice accompanied the soughing harmonies and hovered over them, like a light spring breeze hovers over the booming ocean, but the tones became stronger and stronger, and engulfed the voice in waves of melody. The maidens surrounded the youth, spoke kindly to him, and each sent him hot glances, as if each had been the lover of the night. Searchingly the King considered them, each seemed to him fair and lovely, but his heart was moved by none, she whom I seek is not here, spoke his deepest soul.

Now two double doors swept open, a splendid hall showed itself illuminated by many torches, that reflected against the marble walls; in the middle stood a table. They sat, the wine sparkled in gold, the maidens sipped with rosy lips at the cups, and then passed them to the King; but Timur’s soul was sorrowful, he lowered his gaze, and all the grandeur, and all the beauty was lost on him. But when he opened his eyes he saw a figure at the corner of the hall opposite him, standing leaning on a pillar, she was all black and thickly covered, and remained always immobile. Timur observed her long and often, a deep longing drew him to her; the meal seemed to him unendingly long, and it was a relief to him when they rose.

The maidens left the hall, but each still sent him inviting looks, he followed none, and found himself at last alone with the black figure, the torches extinguished, only a single pale light glimmered through the hall. The black figure neared him, and spoke: “Follow me!” he obeyed; and she led him through strange underground corridors, to a cliff. The moon shone evenly in full light, and Timur recognized shuddering the cliff and the ocean down into which he had hurled Ermar. His guide threw back the veil. It was Thia. Spirit of my father! she cried, let this sacrifice appease you. She flung her arm around the King, and plunged with him down from the cliffs, so that their blood mixed, and smoked down to the heaving sea.

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

Allingham, Liesl. “Countermemory in Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Darthula nach Ossian’: A Female Warrior, Her Unruly Breast, and the Construction of Her Myth.” Goethe Yearbook 21 (July 2014): 39–56. 

Barnaby, Paul . “Timeline of Ossian’s European Reception.” In The Reception of Ossian in Europe. Ed. Howard Gaskill, xxi–lxvii. London: Thoemes Continuum, 2004.

Bahr, Ehrhard. “‘Homer des Nordens’ und ‘Mutter der Romantik.’ James Macphersons Ossian und seine Rezeption in der deutschsprachigen Literature (review).” Goethe Yearbook 14 (2006): 250–251. 

Bahr, Ehrhard. “Ossian-Rezeption von Michael Denis bis Goethe: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Primitivismus in Deutschland.” Goethe Yearbook 12 (2005): 1–15.

Bär, Gerald. “Ossian by Werther; Or, the ‘Respect for this Author.’” Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 39.2 (2016): 223–224.

Bär, Gerald. “‘Ossian fürs Frauenzimmer’? Lengefeld, Günderrode, and the Portuguese Translations of ‘Alcipe’ and Adelaide Prata.” Translation and Literature 22.3 (2013): 343–360.

Christmann, Ruth. Zwischen Identitätsgewinn und Bewußtseinsverlust. Das philosophisch-literarische Werk der Karoline von Günderrode (1780–1806). Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2005.

Denis, Michael. Ossians und Sineds Lieder. Vol. 3. Vienna: Christian Friedrich Wappler, 1784. 

Ezekiel, Anna C. Introduction to Hildgund. In Poetic Fragments, by Karoline von Günderrode. 39–57. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2016.

Ezekiel, Anna, ed. and trans. Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings. New York: Oxford University Press, forthcoming January-March 2026.

Gaskill, Howard. “Introduction: ‘Genuine Poetry… Like Gold.’” In The Reception of Ossian in Europe. Ed. Howard Gaskill, 1–20. London: Thoemes Continuum, 2004.

Günderrode, Karoline von. “Karoline von Günderrode, ‘The Apparition,’” trans. Anna Ezekiel. Trail of Crumbs. November 2020.

Günderrode, Karoline von. “Karoline von Günderrode, ‘Musa,’” trans. Anna Ezekiel. Trail of Crumbs. January 2021.

Günderrode, Karoline von. Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe. Ed. Walter Morgenthaler. 3 Vols. Basel, Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1990–1991.

Günderrode, Karoline von. “Temora (1804),” trans. Jeannine Blackwell. In The Queen’s Mirror: Fairy Tales by German Women, 1780–1900. Ed. Shawn C. Jarvis and Jeannine Blackwell. Lincoln, London: University of Nebraska Press, 2001.

Harold, Edmund von. Die Gedichte Ossians eines alten celtischen Helden und Barden. Vol. 2. Düsseldorf: 1775.

Jung, Sandro. “The Reception and Reworking of Ossian in Klopstock’s Hermanns Schlacht.” In The Reception of Ossian in Europe. Ed. Howard Gaskill, 143–155. London: Thoemes Continuum, 2004.

Krimmer, Elizabeth. “Karoline von Günderrode’s Mora and Darthula According to Ossian and Other Excerpts.” In The Company of Men: Cross-Dressed Women Around 1800. Ed. Elizabeth Krimmer, 130–139. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2004. 

Lamport, F. J. “The Reception of Ossian in Europe (Review).” Comparative Critical Studies 3.3 (2006): 202–240.

Licher, Lucia Maria. Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen. Umrisse einer Ästhetik im Werk Karoline von Günderrodes (1780–1806). Heidelberg: Winter, 1996.

Mackinnon, Donald. “The Glenmasan Manuscript (with Translation).” The Celtic Review 1.1 (1904): 4, 6.

Macpherson, James. Morison’s Edition of the Poems of Ossian, the Son of Fingal, Translated by James Macpherson, Esq., Carefully Corrected, and Greatly Improved. Vol 1. Perth: R. Morison Jr, for R. Morison & Son, 1795.

Macpherson, James. Morison’s Edition of the Poems of Ossian, the Son of Fingal, Translated by James Macpherson, Esq., Carefully Corrected, and Greatly Improved. Vol 2. Perth: R. Morison Jr, for R. Morison & Son, 1795.

Macpherson, James. The Poems of Ossian: A New Edition, Carefully Corrected, and Greatly Improved. 2 Vols. London: W. Strahand and T. Becket, 1773.

Mulholland, James . “James Macpherson’s Ossian Poems, Oral Traditions, and the Invention of Voice.” Oral Tradition 24.2 (2009): 393–414.

Schmidt, Wolf Gerhard. “‘Menschlichschön’ und ‘Kolossalisch’: The Discursive Function of Ossian in Schiller’s Poetry and Aesthetics.” In The Reception of Ossian in Europe. Ed. Howard Gaskill, 176–198. London: Thoemes Continuum, 2004.

Westphal, Wolfgang. Karoline von Günderrode und “Naturdenken um 1800.” Essen: Die Blaue Eule, 1993. 

[1] In 1773 Macpherson published a revised, complete edition of his works as The Poems of Ossian: A New Edition, Carefully Corrected, and Greatly Improved, 2 vols (London: W. Strahand and T. Becket, 1773), and references in this chapter are to a 1795 edition of this collection: Morison’s Edition of the Poems of Ossian, the Son of Fingal, Translated by James Macpherson, Esq., Carefully Corrected, and Greatly Improved, 2 vols (Perth: R. Morison Jr, for R. Morison & Son, 1795).

[2] The degree to which the poems are Macpherson’s creations vs. authentic folk tales is still controversial. See James Mulholland, “James Macpherson’s Ossian Poems, Oral Traditions, and the Invention of Voice,” Oral Tradition 24.2 (2009): 393–414; F. J. Lamport, “The Reception of Ossian in Europe (Review),” Comparative Critical Studies 3.3 (2006): 202–240.

[3] Donald Mackinnon, “The Glenmasan Manuscript (with Translation),” The Celtic Review 1.1 (1904): 4, 6.

[4] Paul Barnaby, “Timeline of Ossian’s European Reception,” in The Reception of Ossian in Europe, ed. Howard Gaskill (London: Thoemes Continuum, 2004), xxii.

[5] Ehrhard Bahr, “‘Homer des Nordens’ und ‘Mutter der Romantik.’ James Macphersons Ossian und seine Rezeption in der deutschsprachigen Literature (review),” Goethe Yearbook 14 (2006): 250; Bahr, “Ossian-Rezeption von Michael Denis bis Goethe: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Primitivismus in Deutschland,” Goethe Yearbook 12 (2005): 1–15; Gerald Bär, “‘Ossian fürs Frauenzimmer’? Lengefeld, Günderrode, and the Portuguese Translations of ‘Alcipe’ and Adelaide Prata,” Translation and Literature 22.3 (2013): 343–360; Sandro Jung, “The Reception and Reworking of Ossian in Klopstock’s Hermanns Schlacht,” in Gaskill, ed., Reception of Ossian, 143–155.

[6] Bahr, “Ossian-Rezeption”; Gerald Bär, “Ossian by Werther; Or, the ‘Respect for this Author,’” Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 39.2 (2016): 223–224; Howard Gaskill, “Introduction: ‘Genuine Poetry… Like Gold,’” in Reception of Ossian, 19; Wolf Gerhard Schmidt, “‘Menschlichschön’ und ‘Kolossalisch’: The Discursive Function of Ossian in Schiller’s Poetry and Aesthetics,” in Gaskill, ed., Reception of Ossian in Europe, 176.

[7] Bär, “Ossian fürs Frauenzimmer?”; Gaskill, Introduction, 5–7.

[8] Gaskill, Introduction, 4–5.

[9] Karoline von Günderrode, Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe, ed. Walter Morgenthaler (Basel, Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1990–1991), vol. 3, 69.

[10] Günderrode, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 3, 72–73.

[11] Michael Denis, Ossians und Sineds Lieder, vol. 3 (Vienna: Christian Friedrich Wappler, 1784), 49–68; Edmund von Harold, Die Gedichte Ossians eines alten celtischen Helden und Barden, vol. 2 (Düsseldorf, 1775), 180–201; see Günderrode, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 3, 69–70. However, Gerald Bär argues that, other than Harold’s text, the evidence for which translations Günderrode used is inconclusive, although she clearly used more than one (Bär, “Ossian fürs Frauenzimmer?”).

[12] Liesl Allingham and Elizabeth Krimmer, among others, have explored Günderrode’s use of Ossian’s trope of the female warrior to challenge gender boundaries. Allingham, “Countermemory in Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Darthula nach Ossian’: A Female Warrior, Her Unruly Breast, and the Construction of Her Myth,” Goethe Yearbook 21 (July 2014): 39–56; Krimmer, “Karoline von Günderrode’s Mora and Darthula According to Ossian and Other Excerpts,” in The Company of Men: Cross-Dressed Women Around 1800 (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2004), 130–139.

[13] Ruth Christmann, Zwischen Identitätsgewinn und Bewußtseinsverlust. Das philosophisch-literarische Werk der Karoline von Günderrode (1780–1806) (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2005), 122, 135; Wolfgang Westphal, Karoline von Günderrode und “Naturdenken um 1800” (Essen: Die Blaue Eule, 1993), 25, 45.

[14] Bär, “Ossian fürs Frauenzimmer?”; Gaskill, Introduction.

[15] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 2, 18.

[16] E.g., Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 218; Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 31.

[17] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 180, 267, 307.

[18] Ossian’s characters include Frothal (King of Scandinavia), Torlath, Carmor, and Morna, as well as a bard called Carril, who may correspond to Günderrode’s Karul in “Mora.” Ossian also mentions a chief, Car-ul. Another chief, Ton-thormod, may have inspired the name of Günderrode’s bard Thormod.

[19] See Allingham, “Countermemory”; Krimmer, “Mora and Darthula,” 135.

[20] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 212–213, 216–220.

[21] Additions by Günderrode that do this include: “Ah! and fear is watchful of my love”; “But Cairbar’s love will not let me”; “Darthula has no one except you,” “There shadows of sorrow surrounded me. / The figures of my friends went, / Sadly, like spirits, from me”; “Thus Colla; his words fanned / Higher still in me the battle’s courage”; “Where Darthula! where is rest for you? / Spirits of the fallen! spoke Darthula: / Truthil! Colla! Leaders of Selma! / Beckon to me from your clouds!”; “Father! I will be worthy of you.”

[22] Additions of this kind include: “Now the waves have you”; “around Darthula’s gravemound / Their harps rustled around the hill, / And song’s wing swung[.]”

[23] Additions of this kind include: “Beautiful above all was Colla’s daughter”; “Night surrounds your beautiful face”; “You lovely, you beautiful light”; “For the maiden, Erin’s most beautiful! you!”; “Beautiful-haired! will you rest long?”

[24] For a more detailed discussion of Günderrode’s “Hildgund,” see Anna C. Ezekiel, Introduction to Hildgund, in Poetic Fragments, by Karoline von Günderrode (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2016), 39–57.

[25] E.g., “Fingal, ein Heldengedicht in sechs Büchern,” in Denis, Ossians und Sineds Lieder, vol. 1, 5–116; “Ithona,” in Denis, Ossians und Sineds Lieder, vol. 3, 111–118. In the first book of “Fingal,” Morna, daughter of Cormac, is in love with the warrior Cathbat, who has been killed in battle by Duchomar. Duchomar finds Morna where she is resting in a cave and professes his love for her, but also boasts of having killed Cathbat. Morna asks Duchomar for his sword and uses it to kill him; before dying, he asks her to pull out the cold sword, after which he takes it and kills her (Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 1–22). Somewhat similarly, in Book 5 of “Fingal,” Gelchossa, daughter of Tuathal, falls in love with the chief Lamderg but is carried off by the fierce Ullin. Lamderg pursues them and he and Ullin kill each other, after which Gelchossa also dies, presumably of grief (Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 64–87). Lastly, in “Oithona,” the title character is carried off by the chief Dunrommath, who hides her in a cave. Oithona’s betrothed, Gaul, finds them, attacks Dunrommath and his men, and kills him. Oithona, who wants to die because of her loss of honour, secretly arms herself and is killed in the battle (Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 291–300).

[26] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 2, 55–56.

[27] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 124–32.

[28] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 240–41, 243–46.

[29] Macpherson, Temora; Jeannine Blackwell, trans., “Temora (1804),” in The Queen’s Mirror: Fairy Tales by German Women, 1780–1900, ed. Shawn C. Jarvis and Jeannine Blackwell (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 103.

[30] “Calthon und Colmala,” in Denis, Ossians und Sineds Lieder, vol. 2, 196–204; “Calthon und Comal. Ein Gedicht,” in Harold, Die Gedichte Ossians, vol. 1, 1–18.

[31] Macpherson, Morison’s Edition, vol. 1, 5, 38.

[32] For example, this was how Goethe rendered the spelling in his “Book of Timur” in West-östlicher Divan, published in 1819.

[33] Licher, Lucia Maria, Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen. Umrisse einer Ästhetik im Werk Karoline von Günderrodes (1780–1806) (Heidelberg: Winter, 1996), 191.

[34] For a translation of and commentary on “Musa,” see Karoline von Günderrode, “Karoline von Günderrode, ‘Musa,’” trans. Anna Ezekiel, Trail of Crumbs (January 2021).

[35] For a translation of and commentary on “The Apparition,” see Karoline von Günderrode, “Karoline von Günderrode, ‘The Apparition,’” trans. Anna Ezekiel, Trail of Crumbs (November 2020).

[36] For a translation of and commentary on “The Frank in Egypt,” see Anna Ezekiel, ed. and trans., Karoline von Günderrode: Philosophical Writings (New York: Oxford University Press, forthcoming January-March 2026).

Δdocument.getElementById( "ak_js_1" ).setAttribute( "value", ( new Date() ).getTime() );

Get new content delivered directly to your inbox. Occasional entries on historical women philosophers, expanding the canon, and related topics in philosophy, literature, and fine arts.

Subscribe

Guest posts on historical German women philosophers at the Genealogies of Modernity project.

A version of the original German text can be found here. Rather than providing a new translation of the poem, I’ll send you to an existing one here.

“The Prisoner and the Singer” was written in 1805 or 1806 and included in Günderrode’s third collection, Melete. The verses describe a singer who grants a prisoner’s request to alleviate his loneliness, only to become trapped due to falling in love with the prisoner. The singer feels unable to leave the prisoner and remains stuck beside his dungeon.

This poem has been read as describing Günderrode’s relationship with her married lover, as expressing a Romantic longing to escape social conventions, and as portraying the perspective of a woman attempting to realize her artistic potential in the restrictive atmosphere of early nineteenth-century Germany. 

Interestingly, all these interpretations assume that the gender of the singer is female, even though Günderrode uses the male “der Sänger.” Günderrode sometimes referred to herself in letters with the masculine “der Freund,” which adds plausibility to these interpretations. But the poem could also be read as having homoerotic overtones.

The most common interpretation of the poem is biographical. On this view, the singer and the prisoner represent, respectively, Günderrode and her married lover Georg Friedrich Creuzer. By the time Günderrode wrote this poem, Creuzer had made and broken several promises to leave his wife for Günderrode or arrange some sort of ménage à trois with them, and wrote often that he felt trapped by his marriage and life circumstances. The self pitying language of the prisoner in the poem echoes Creuzer’s letters. For example, Creuzer writes to Günderrode that he is “very sad. It is the sadness of a prisoner who may not escape his position and the prison to which the State has banished him [i.e., his job as a university professor] in order to live his life for himself.“[1]

On this interpretation, the poem depicts the consequences faced by Günderrode due to becoming attaching to someone who could not or would not change his situation. The singer’s happy wandering is curtailed; she has lost the freedom to pursue her own life course and develop her creative expression through her singing, and is likely to fade away in useless longing for the prisoner. 

Karen Daubert reads an additional layer of meaning into the poem. As Daubert points out, Günderrode’s work was often inspired by the Early German Romantics, who thought self-realization and artistic creativity could be stifled by social conventions.[2] Early German Romantic writers such as Novalis and Friedrich Schlegel saw poets as exemplifying the quest of the individual to find and express their authentic self, and often contrasted this lifestyle with the social expectations of the time, e.g., to work a paying job and support a family. They saw these kinds of conventions as restrictive and as dampening creativity. 

On Daubert’s reading, the prisoner of Günderrode’s poem represents someone trapped in a position that has been imposed on them by society, longing for the free life of creative expression represented by the singer. Creuzer seems to have seen himself in just such a role: in the letter quoted above, he contrasts remaining in his marriage and job with leaving them to follow his own wishes, adding that living life for himself would mean “the undisturbed, free holy remembrance of Poesie.”[3] And Günderrode, of course, was a poet who Creuzer claimed to long to be with.

“The Prisoner and the Singer” can also be read as a commentary on the extreme difficulty of realizing one’s poetic talent as a woman of Günderrode’s time. On this reading, the prisoner represents Günderrode herself, restricted by the ideologies and institutions of early nineteenth century Europe, which limited the role of the artist to men while relegating women to the household. The female poet is a prisoner trapped in her own life, longing for the freedom and creativity represented by the singer. Alternatively, one could see the singer as trapped by the expectations that were held of women once they became attached to a man. After marriage, women would have been expected to focus exclusively on the wellbeing of their husband, family and household and give up any creative enterprises they had been engaged in.

Daubert relates the above points to what she calls the “double restriction” faced by creative and intellectual women of Günderrode’s time. They were subjected both to the social and cultural limitations bemoaned by the Early German Romantics (which affected both men and women) and to the much tighter restrictions for women. Daubert argues that Günderrode’s poem provides the beginnings of an answer to the question: “How would a female Romantic poet have used the language of boundaries, limits, and Sehnsucht [longing] to express the inevitable frustration of the movement toward cultural transcendence?”[4]

Why didn’t I provide my own translation of this poem like usual? Well, it’s for a very subjective reason: I hate it. It annoys me that the topic and vocabulary are sorrowful but the meter trucks along merrily and boisterously. Sometimes that can work but I don’t think it works here. I appreciate that Günderrode is communicating the serious problems that can happen if you fall for someone who is willing to drag you down with them, but I’m irritated by the self pity of the prisoner. In an actual prisoner this would be fair enough, but I can’t help but read it as Creuzer whining to the much less fortunate Günderrode. Overall, the poem just makes me want to travel back to 1805 and give Creuzer a smack. But it’s an interesting piece and I hope you enjoy it more than I do – follow the links at the top of this page for the original German and an English translation.

[1] Creuzer, Letter to Günderrode, 23 July 1805, in Karl Preisendanz, ed., Die Liebe der Günderode. Friedrich Creuzers Briefe an Caroline von Günderode (Bern: Peter Lang, 1975 [1912]), 135.

[2] Karen F. Daubert, “Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Der Gefangene und der Sänger’: New Voices in Romanticism’s Desire for Cultural Transcendence,” New German Review 8 (1992): 4.

[3] Creuzer, Letter to Günderrode, 23 July 1805, in Preisendanz, Die Liebe der Günderode, 135.

[4] Daubert, “Der Gefangene und der Sänger,” 3.

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

Christmann, Ruth. Zwischen Identitätsgewinn und Bewußtseinsverlust. Das philosophisch-literarische Werk der Karoline von Günderrode (1780-1806). Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2005. p.251ff.

Daubert, Karen F. “Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Der Gefangene und der Sänger’: New Voices in Romanticism’s Desire for Cultural Transcendence.” New German Review 8 (1992): 1–17.

Preisendanz, Karl, ed. Die Liebe der Günderode. Friedrich Creuzers Briefe an Caroline von Günderode. Bern: Peter Lang, 1975 [1912]. 

Günderrode published the short play Immortalita in 1804 in her first collection of poetry, dramas, dialogues and short stories, Poems and Fantasies. It is translated here, along with a short introduction. The original German text can be found here. Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation or my comments.

The play Immortalita features the successful journey of the hero, Erodion, to find a goddess—the titular Immortalita—who has been revealed to him in dreams and a sense of longing. Erodion is driven to enter the underworld in search of his beloved; when he finds her, she urges him to tear down the partition between the worlds of the living and the dead, allowing lovers to be reunited beyond the barriers of death and transforming the shadowland that Immortalita inhabits into a paradise.

The setting for the play is largely inspired by Greek mythology, with a little Roman mythology thrown in. The action is set in Erebus: a place of darkness between the land of the living and the land of the dead; Immortalita also mentions that she has influence over the “residents of Orcus” (i.e., the dead), who are kept alive—though only in the underworld—by her “breath.” At the end of the play, the setting transforms into the Elysian gardens.

As secondary characters we have Charon, the ferryman of the dead; Hekate, goddess of magic, witchcraft, ghosts, necromancy and the night; and Aphrodite, goddess of love. There are also references to Hebe, goddess of youth; Helios, god of the sun; and Pluto, ruler of the underworld. The Muses also feature briefly. From the Roman pantheon we have Jupiter, god of thunder and king of the gods; Minerva, goddess of wisdom, art, justice and war; and Vesta, goddess of the hearth, home, and family.

Immortalita is a made-up goddess who (at the risk of stating the obvious) represents the idea of immortality. Günderrode presents her as banished to the underworld, constrained by a circle formed from a snake biting its tail. Presumably, the snake is Ourobouros, representing the eternal cycle of life, death and rebirth. With the appearance of Erodion, representing love and beauty, Immortalita is able to step out of this circle and together she and Erodion transform this cycle into into a paradise in which the dead and the living are no longer separated.

Erodion states that he is the son of Aphrodite and Aphrodite’s son Eros, the god of love, and that this parentage left him with a “double union of love and beauty.” It is this heritage that drives him to search for Immortalita, imbuing him with the sense for “a pleasure which I could find nowhere, but which I intuited and searched for everywhere.” Günderrode seems to have invented the name Erodion, likely deriving it from “Eros.” Another suggestion is that the name derives from Günderrode: GündERODION.[1]

Erodion’s search for the goddess he intuited and the necessity of travelling into the land of the dead in order to find her place the play in the context of Günderrode’s concern with the nature and sources of knowledge, including knowledge of the absolute or of the things that lie behind everyday appearances. In Immortalita, Günderrode references work on this topic by Plato and the Early German Romantics, particularly Novalis. 

Erodion tells Immortalita: “This idea, this reflection of you, led me everywhere, and everywhere I pursued this beloved apparition. Even when it submerged me in the land of dreams I followed it, and so I appeared before the outermost gates of the underworld.”

In this passage, Günderrode is working with Early German Romantic views on love and longing, drawing especially on Novalis. In “Hymns to the Night” (published in 1800), Novalis describes a vision of a dead loved one as allowing the living narrator to glimpse the union with the divine that, he claims, occurs after death. Such visions, he writes, are also available in dreams and drunken or opioid-induced stupor; however, real union with lost loved ones and the divine will have to wait until after death.[2] In Immortalita, Erodion similarly notes that he was able to glimpse Immortalita in dreams but had to travel to the land of the dead to really find her. 

Interestingly, Günderrode collapses Novalis’ figures of the dead loved one and the infinite, eternal divine into one beloved, eternal figure: Immortalita. Having glimpsed her in dreams and intuitions, Erodion finally finds her in the underworld, and overthrows the division between life and death. This contrasts with Novalis’ “Hymns,” at the end of which the narrator remains alienated from the loved one and the divine, longing for them but separated by the barrier between life and death.

Erodion’s statement quoted above may also include reference to Plato’s teachings of the forms or ideas, which are only imperfectly represented, but can be glimpsed, in the things of the world.[3] In Immortalita, Günderrode blends these concepts into the claim that it is not knowledge, but love, that provides access to the hidden things of the universe.[4] For Erodion, it was not study or learning that led him to the underworld and to Immortalita, but the “double union of love and beauty” that he inherited from his parents, which left him with intuitions and a longing to escape the “shadow goods” of the everyday world in search of something eternal.[5]

In addition to the above interpretation, Immortalita can also be read at other levels. Dagmar von Hoff has argued that Immortalita forms part of Günderrode’s critique of the gender roles of her time, contrasting “the limited female destiny” of Immortalita with the “masculine activity” of Erodion.[6] Immortalita inhabits a silent shadow-world, constrained within strict borders, until Erodion appears and, at her urging, throws down a partition that, on Hoff’s reading, represents not only the boundary between life and death but also that between the male and female spheres.[7]

The play may also function in the context of Günderrode’s metaphysics and ideas about human history and development. Günderrode presents Immortalita’s banishment to the shadow realm as part of a broader fall of the ancient gods from their thrones. Near the start of the play, Immortalita recollects that, after a “blessed distant past, where I dwelt with gods in eternal clarity,” there came “a dark age” in which “the blessed gods were thrust from their thrones” and she “was separated from them.” 

As Helene Kastinger Riley points out, this picks up on the Early German Romantic idea of a golden age.[8] For instance, in “Die Lehrlinge zu Saïs” (published in 1802), Novalis similarly describes a past “golden age” imagined in terms drawn from Greek and Roman imagery, from which we have fallen.[9] Where Novalis describes the present, fallen state of human beings in terms of scientific advancement and alienation from nature, in Immortalita the gods retreat or are banished into the realm of metaphor, as part of a similar process of disenchantment: 

“Their life was past, and they went back into the life-elements out of which they had sprung, before my breath had lent them permanence. Jupiter retreated into the forces of the sky, Eros into human hearts, Minerva into the thoughts of the wise, the Muses into the songs of the poets.”

Günderrode’s reference to “life-elements” here also raises the question whether she meant to integrate this statement with her metaphysics, according to which the universe is comprised of living elements. There isn’t space to consider this question here, but it is a particularly interesting question given the relatively early date of Immortalita, which Günderrode wrote before her detailed engagement with the work of Schelling and before working out her clearest formulations of her metaphysics, including the nature and role of the “elements” (e.g. in “Idea of the Earth”).

Relatively little has been written about Immortalita, but from the brief investigations outlined above we can see that the play can contribute to our understanding of several different areas of Günderrode’s thought, including her reception of Novalis and her ideas about love, death, beauty, knowledge, and gender. It’s also a fun read with fast action, magic, romance and a happy ending! Enjoy.

[1] Berwald 2000, 92.

[2] Novalis, 1960f., 1:130f.

[3] Günderrode more clearly references Plato’s doctrine of the forms, and relates them to both love and knowledge, in “Love and Beauty,” “Tendency of the Artist,” “Change and Constancy” and “Only One and to Serve One.”

[4] See Christmann 2005, 122.

[5] The replacement of knowledge by love as a means of accessing the world behind everyday appearances is also a theme in Günderrode’s poem “The Frank in Egypt,” published in the same collection as Immortalita.

[6] Hoff 1989, 100.

[7] Hoff 1989, 100–101.

[8] Riley 1986, 158.

[9] Novalis, 1960f. 1:82f.

Immortalita. A dramolet

Characters
Immortalita, a goddess
Erodion
Charon
Hekate

First Scene

An open, black cavern at the entrance to the underworld. In the background of the cavern we can see the Styx and Charon’s barque, which moves back and forth; in the foreground of the cavern a black altar upon which a fire burns. The trees and plants at the entrance to the cavern are all flame-colored and black, like all the scenery. Hekate and Charon are black and flame-colored, the shadows light grey, Immortalita white, Erodion clothed like a Roman youth. A great fiery snake, biting itself in the tail, forms a great circle, whose space Immortalita never oversteps.

Immortalita [as if awakening from a daze]: Charon! Charon.

Charon [pausing within his barge]: Why are you calling me?

Immortalita: When will the time come?

Charon: Look at the snake at your feet: it is still closed tight. The spell lasts as long as this circle surrounds you. You know that—why ask me? 

Immortalita: Ungracious old man, if it would console me to hear once more the promise of a better future, why deny me a kind word?

Charon: We are in the land of silence.

Immortalita: Prophesy to me again.

Charon: Interpret my gestures; I hate speaking.

Immortalita: Speak! Speak!

Charon: Ask Hekate. [He leaves.]

Immortalita [strews incense on the altar]: Hekate! Goddess of midnight! Unveiler of the future that sleeps in the dark womb of nonbeing! Mysterious Hekate! Hekate, appear!

Hekate: Mighty conjurer! [She half emerges from behind the altar.] Why do you call me from the caverns of eternal midnight? This shore is hateful to me, its darkness too bright—yes, it seems that a base glow from the land of the living has strayed here.

Immortalita: Oh, forgive me, Hekate! And hear my plea.

Hekate: Do not plead; you are queen here. You rule here and do not know it.

Immortalita: I do not know it! Why do I not know myself?

Hekate: Because you cannot see yourself.

Immortalita: Who will show me a mirror, that I may behold myself in it?

Hekate: Love.

Immortalita: Why love?

Hekate: Because only its endlessness is a measure for yours. 

Immortalita: How far does my realm extend?

Hekate. Over the beyond; one day, over everything. 

Immortalita: What? One day this impenetrable partition will crumble, which separates my realm from the world of the living?

Hekate: It will crumble, you will dwell in the light, and everyone will find you.

Immortalita: Oh, when will this happen?

Hekate: When faithful love steals you from the night.

Immortalita: When? In hours? Years?

Hekate: Do not count the hours: for you, there is no time. Look to the earth! The snake writhes fearfully, it bites itself harder; in vain it wants to hold you imprisoned in its narrow circle. Your realm expands, its resistence is in vain: the reign of unbelief, barbarism and the night sinks away.

[She disappears.]

Immortalita: Oh, future, you will be like the past! That blessed distant past, where I dwelt with gods in eternal clarity. I smiled at them all, and on their brows my smile was transfigured into a luster that no nectar could have given them: Hebe owed me her youth, Aphrodite her ever-blooming charms. But a dark age came: the blessed gods were thrust from their thrones; I was separated from them. Their life was past, and they went back into the life-elements out of which they had sprung, before my breath had lent them permanence. Jupiter retreated into the forces of the sky, Eros into human hearts, Minerva into the thoughts of the wise, the Muses into the songs of the poets. And I, unhappiest of all—I wound no more unwithering laurels for heroes and poets, banished to this realm of night! This land of shadows! This dismal beyond! I must live only for the future.

Charon [passing by with shadows]: Bow, you shadows, this is the queen of Erebus! That you still live after your lives are over is her work. 

[Chorus of shadows.]

Silent the barque leads us
Towards the unknown land,
Where the sun will never dawn
On the ever gloomy strand. –
Anxiously we see it hurry,
For our gaze would like to tarry
At life’s brightly colored end.

[They leave.]

The Previous Scene

Charon’s barque about to land. Erodion springs from the barque. Immortalita is in the background.

Erodion: Back, Charon, from this shore where no shadow dare tread! Why are you looking at me? I am no shadow like you; a glad hope, a dreamy faith have blown my life’s spark to flame. 

Charon [to himself]: This is surely the young man who bears the golden future within him. [He departs with his barge.]

Immortalita [steps forward]: Yes, you are the youth whom Hekate prophesied to me. At the sight of you it seems as if a beam of daylight breaks in through these old halls, through this Erebeian night.

Erodion: If I am the man of your prophecies, maiden or goddess—whatever I should call you—then believe me, you are the deepest intuition of my heart.

Immortalita: Tell me: Who are you? What are you are called? And where did you find the way to this pathless shore, where neither shadows nor people may wander, but only the gods of the underground?

Erodion: Unwillingly will I speak to you of anything other than my love—but if I relate to you my life, I will speak of my love. Hear me, then: I am the son of Eros and his mother Aphrodite. This double union of love and beauty laid in my being the idea of a pleasure which I could find nowhere, but which I intuited and searched for everywhere. For a long time I was a stranger on earth, and wanted to enjoy nothing of its shadow goods, until, through a dream or inspiration, a dark idea of you entered my soul. This idea, this reflection of you, led me everywhere, and everywhere I pursued this beloved apparition. Even when it submerged me in the land of dreams I followed it, and so I appeared before the outermost gates of the underworld. But I could never penetrate to you; an ill-fated destiny always called me back to the world above.

Immortalita: What, youth—did you love me so much that you would rather never see Helios and the dawn again than not find me?

Erodion: I loved you that much, and without you the earth could no longer delight me: not the flowery spring, not the sunlit day[1]: beauties that Pluto would gladly have exchanged his sombre scepter to possess. But, just as a greater love was combined in the embrace of my parents than all other love, for they were love itself, so the longing that drove me to you was also the most powerful, and my faith that I would find you triumphed over all obstacles. For my parents, who knew that someone who sprung from love and beauty would find nothing higher on earth than himself, gave me this faith, so that my strength would not tire of striving for something higher outside me.

Immortalita: But how did you finally come to me? Charon takes the living unwillingly in his ramshackle vessel, built only for shadows.

Erodion: My longing to see you became so great that everything humanity had conceived to make you seem uncertain became small and trifling, and an ecstatic courage filled my whole being. I want nothing, nothing but to possess her, I thought, and boldly I threw all the goods of this earth away from me, and steered my vessel to the dangerous cliffs where everything earthly should be wrecked. Once more I thought: what if you lose everything to find nothing? But high confidence suppressed the doubt, and gladly I said my last goodbyes to the world above. The night engulfed me—a ghastly pause! and I found myself with you.—The torch of my life still burns beyond the water of the Styx.

Immortalita: The heroes of antiquity have trod this path; courage dared quarrels in this region; but it was reserved for love alone to found an enduring realm here. The residents of Orcus say my being breathes an immortal life into them; so may you also be immortal, for you have brought about something unnameable in me. I lived a mummy’s life, but you have breathed a soul into me. Yes, dear youth! In your love I behold myself transfigured; I know now who I am; I know that a sunny day will illumine these old halls.

Hekate emerges behind the altar.

Hekate: Erodion! Step into the circle of the snake. [He does so: the snake disappears.] Too long, Immortalita, through the power of unbelief and barbarism, have you been known by few, doubted by many, banished to this narrow circle. An oracle as old as the world said that faithful love would succeed in finding you in the Erebeian darkness, in pulling you out and founding your throne in eternal clarity, accessible to all. This time has now come. Only for you, Erodion, there remains something more to do.

The scene transforms into part of the Elysian gardens. The scene is faintly lit; one sees shadows straying here and there. To the side is a cliff; in the background the Styx and Charon’s barque.

The Previous [Characters]

Hekate: See, Erodion, this cliff threatening collapse: it is the insurmountable partition that separates the realm of mortal life from that of your mistress. It prevents the sunlight from sending its beams here, and divided love from meeting again. Erodion! Try to bring down this cliff, so that your beloved may climb up on its ruins from the narrow underworld, and so that nothing insurmountable should divide the land of the dead from that of the living.

Erodion strikes the cliff. It collapses. It suddenly becomes bright.

Immortalita: Triumph! The cliff has fallen. From now on may it be granted to the thoughts of love, the dreams of longing, the inspiration of the poets, to descend from the land of the living to the shadow-realm and go back again.

Hekate: Hail! Threefold, immortal life will ensoul this pale shadow-realm. Now your realm is founded.

Immortalita: Come, Erodion, ascend with me in eternal clarity, and all love and every excellence shall partake of my realm. And you, Charon, uncrease your brow—be a friendlier escort to those who want to enter my realm. 

Erodion: Good that I remained true to the holy intuition of my heart, like Vesta’s fire; good that I had the courage to die to mortality and live for immortality, to sacrifice the visible to the invisible.

[1] The critical edition of Günderrode’s work adds here “not the dewy night” (Günderrode 1990–1991, 1:45).

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

Berwald, Olaf (2000). Visuelle Gewalt und Selbstverlust bei Günderrode, Hölderlin und Fichte. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI.

Christmann, Ruth (2005). Zwischen Identitätsgewinn und Bewußtseinsverlust. Das philosophisch-literarische Werk der Karoline von Günderrode (1780–1806).Frankfurt: Lang.

Günderrode, Karoline von (1990–1991). Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe. 3 vols. Ed. Walter Morgenthaler. Basel, Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern.

Hoff, Dagmer von (1989). “Dramatisch Weiblichkeitsmuster zur Zeit der Französischen Revolution: Dramen von deutschsprachigen Autorinnen um 1800.” In Die Marseillaise der Weiber. Frauen, die Französische Revolution und ihre Rezeption. Ed. Inge Stephan and Sigrid Weigel, 74-88. Hamburg: Argument.

Novalis (1960f). Schriften. Zweite, nach den Handschriften ergänzte, erweiterte und verbesserte Auflage in vier Bänden. Ed. Paul Kluckhohn and Richard Samuel. 4 Vols. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer.

Riley, Helene M. Kastinger (1986). “Zwischen den Welten. Ambivalenz und Existentialproblematik im Werk Caroline von Günderrodes.” In Die weiblich Muse. Sechs Essays über künstlerisch schaffende Frauen der Goethezeit, 91–119. Columbia: Camden House.

Δdocument.getElementById( "ak_js_1" ).setAttribute( "value", ( new Date() ).getTime() );

In which I explain a mystery in Günderrode scholarship. Please cite me if you quote or share information from this post.

In 1975, Doris Hopp and Max Preitz published a selection of notes from Günderrode’s notebooks, including a set of quotations by Kant, Spinoza, Locke, Fichte, Rousseau, Herder and other philosophers and writers. Günderrode grouped some of the quotations under headings such as “Law of Morality,” “Moral Freedom,” “God” and “Virtue,” while others (such as a selection from Jean Paul’s 1795 novel Hesperus) are uncategorised.

The presence of these quotes in Günderrode’s notebooks is sometimes thought to indicate that Günderrode studied or at least had access to the texts from which the quotes were taken. In some cases, such as Günderrode’s notes on Hesperus, this is probably the case. However, Günderrode likely culled many of the quotes, not from the originals, but from a collection of uplifting philosophical quotations. 

This collection, published in 1797 by “two friends,” J. A. Neurohr and Johann Hugo Wyttenbach, was titled Aussprüche der philosophierende Vernunft und des reinen Herzens über die der Menschheit wichtigsten Gegenstände mit besonderer Rücksicht auf die kritische Philosophie zusammengetragen aus den Schriften älterer und neuerer Denker (Sayings of Philosophical Reason and of a Pure Heart on the Subjects Most Important to Humanity, with Particular Consideration of the Critical Philosophy, Collected from the Writings of Ancient and Modern Thinkers). Compilations of such edifying sayings by famous minds were common and the text by Neurohr and Wyttenbach was popular: throughout the nineteenth century their selection and organisation of quotations crop up again and again in other such popularising collections, and a reprint was issued as recently as 2011.

Volume 1 of Neurohr and Wyttenbach’s collection is organized according to the same headings used by Günderrode in her notes: “Law of Morality,” “Freedom (Moral),” “Highest Good,” “God,” “Reason,” “Virtue,” “The Human Being,” and “The Vocation of Humankind.” All the quotations noted by Günderrode under these categories are found under the same categories in Neurohr and Wyttenbach 1797. The exception is those quotations in Günderrode’s notes under the title “death” and some uncategorized quotations that appear slightly later in her notebooks. I haven’t yet tracked down the sources for this group of quotations. 

Günderrode’s notes often deviate from the text from which she was quoting. Perhaps it was only that the notes were taken in haste or with a desire to abbreviate and simplify, or she may have altered the texts deliberately, for philosophical or aesthetic reasons. I cross-referenced Günderrode’s notes with both Neurohr and Wyttenbach’s collection and the original sources and found that Neurohr and Wyttenbach were fairly careful, with errors or deviations from the original in only two of the quotations used by Günderrode. Therefore, in most cases, differences from the original text are introduced by Günderrode herself.

If you want to know where each of the quotes originally came from before they showed up in Neurohr and Wyttenbach’s book, take a look below. I’ve been helped in this by the previous efforts of Hopp and Preitz 1975, but I supplement and in a few places correct their work.

Because I haven’t obtained the permissions to duplicate or translate the full quotes here, I indicate each quotation using the first few words and the pagination in Hopp and Preitz 1975. The English translations will be published in my forthcoming collection of translations of Günderrode’s philosophical work, Philosophical Fragments. In the meantime, if you want to see a draft of any of the translations, hit me up at anna.c.ezekiel@gmail.com.

THE NOTES

Law of Morality (Gesetz der Sittlichkeit)

Der Mensch hat einen Willen… Attributed to “Herder.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 264–65. Original in: Herder 1794, 24. Günderrode makes minor changes to the wording.

Im Innern der Seele… Attributed to “Rousseau.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original (in French) in: Rousseau 1762b, vol. 3, book 4, 107. The German translation used by Neurohr and Wyttenbach is true to the original French, in my opinion, but Günderrode makes some changes to the German wording.

Handle so, daß die Maxime… Attributed to “Kant” (grouped erroneously with the subsequent quote). Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original in: Kant AA 1, V:30. Günderrode makes minor changes to Kant’s wording.

Ein jeder betrachte nicht nur… Attributed to “Kant” (grouped erroneously with the previous quote). Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. This quotation is not, in fact, by Kant, although Neurohr and Wyttenbach (1797, 1) attribute it to Kant; this misattribution is repeated in later anthologies. The quote is from Schmid 1790, 262.

Handle so daß du die Maxime… Attributed to “Fichte.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 267. Original in: Fichte 1794, 12.

Moral Freedom (Moralische Freiheit)

Die Nature befiehlt dem Thiere… Attributed to “Rousseau.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original (in French) in: Rousseau 1755, 35. The German given by Neurohr and Wyttenbach deviates slightly from the French original, in my opinion, and Günderrode makes further changes to the German wording.

Der blose Wille erhebt den Menschen… Attributed to “Schiller.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original in: Schiller 1905 [1793], 225. Günderrode only makes one small change at the start of the quotation; otherwise, her transcription is faithful.

Die einzige Art seine Freiheit zu behaupten… Unattributed. Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original in: Mutschelle 1793, 38.

Die moralische Freiheit macht allein den Menschen… Attributed to “Rousseau.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. Original (in French) in: Rousseau 1762a, vol. 1, ch. 8, 29. There are minor differences between Günderrode’s note and the translation given by Neurohr and Wyttenbach.

Moralität der Handlungen… Attributed to “Schmidt.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265. I have been unable to get hold of the original. Günderrode likely misspelled the name “Schmidt”: Neurohr and Wyttenbach attribute this quote to the philosopher and theologian Carl Christian Erhard Schmid (1761–1812). Günderrode makes minor changes to Neurohr and Wyttenbach’s phrasing.

The Highest Good (Das höchste Gut)

Die vollkomne Übereinstimmung des Menschen… Attributed to “Fichte.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 265–66. Original in: Fichte 1794, 16. Günderrode omits some words and phrases towards the end of this quote.

God (Gott)

Gott kann nicht demonstrirt werden… Attributed to “Vogt.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. A version of the original can be found in: Dietler 1789, 57.

Der Erkenntnißgrund den das Sittengesetz für… Attributed to “Reinhold.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Original in: Reinhold 1790, 174. Neurohr and Wyttenbach adapted Reinhold’s text in order to abbreviate it.

Reason (Vernunft)

Vernunft ist das Vermögen… Attributed to “Kant.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Günderrode follows Neurohr and Wyttenbach (1797, 74) closely and it is the latter who have taken liberties with Kant’s text. The first sentence seems to be a free formulation of a definition of Kant’s account of reason (Vernunft), while the rest of the passage quotes opening lines from the Introduction to Critique of Practical Reason (AA 1, V:15).

Nichts muß mehr unangefochten bleiben als… Attributed to “P.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Original in: Pörschke 1795, xx. Günderrode omits the phrase “the most ancient” from Pörschke’s original and adds “most sacred.”

Virtue (Tugend)

Tugend ist die Befolgung der erkanten Vernunftgesetze… Unattributed. Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Original in: Demme 1793, 94.

Der Lohn der Tugend ist die Tugend selbst… Attributed to “Spinoza.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. From Spinoza’s Letter 43, to Jacob Ostens, written in 1671. Spinoza’s letters were written in Dutch and Latin, and the source of the German translation used by Neurohr and Wyttenbach is unknown.

Die Grundlage aller Tugend besteht… Attributed to “Locke.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Original (in English) in: Locke 1693, 40. As Hopp and Preitz note (1975, 313), the German translation given by Neurohr and Wyttenbach is by Rudolphi (Locke 1787 [1693], 38; see also Neurohr and Wyttenbach 1797, Index: Locke).

The Human Being (Mensch)

In der ganzen Schöpfung kann alles als Mittel… Attributed to “Kant.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266. Quoted loosely from the Critique of Practical Reason (AA 1, V:87).

Vocation of Humankind (Bestimmung des Menschen)

Nent man eine völlige Übereinstimmung mit sich selbts… Attributed to “Fichte.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 266–67. Original in: Fichte 1794, 18. Günderrode omits a short phrase and makes a few other minor changes.

Jeder Mensch, kann man sagen, trägt der Anglage und Bestimmung nach… Attributed to “Schiller.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 267. Original in: Schiller 1860 [1795], 8. Günderrode makes minor changes to the text.

Death (Tod)

—ich werde, wenn ich iene erhabne Aufgabe übernehme… Attributed to “Fichte.” Hopp & Preitz 1975, 267. Original in: Fichte 1794, 69–70.

REFERENCES

Demme, Hermann Christoph Gottfried (1793). Sechs Jahre aus Carl Burgfeld’s Leben. Freundschaft, Liebe und Orden. Leipzig: C. J. Göschen.

Dietler, Wilhelm, ed. (1789). Johann Heinrich Vogt. Ein Denkmal, Nebst Fragmenten des Verstorbenen. Mainz: Kupferberg.

Ezekiel, Anna (forthcoming). Philosophical Fragments. Oxford University Press.

Fichte, J. G. (1794). Einige Vorlesungen über die Bestimmung des Gelehrten. Jena and Leipzig: Christian Ernst Gabler.

Herder J. G. (1794). Briefe zur Beförderung der Humanität. 3rd collection. Riga.

Hopp, Doris, and Max Preitz (1975). “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt III. Karoline von Günderrode’s ‘Studienbuch.’” Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts: 223–323. 

Kant, Immanuel (1788). Kritik der praktischen Vernunft.

Locke, John (1693). Some Thoughts Concerning Education. London: A. and J. Churchill.

Locke, John (1787 [1693]). Some Thoughts Concerning Education. Translated into German by J. L. Rudolphi as Über die Erziehung der Jugend in den gesitteten Ständen. Vienna and Wolfenbüttel.

Mutschelle, Sebastian (1793). Vermischte Schriften von Sebastian Mutschelle. Vol. 1. Munich: Joseph Lindauer.

Pörschke, Karl Ludwig (1795). Vorbereitungen zu einem populären Naturrechte. Königsberg: Friedrich Nicolovins.

Neurohr, J.A., and Johann Hugo Wyttenbach (1797). Aussprüche der philosophierende Vernunft und des reinen Herzens über die der Menschheit wichtigsten Gegenstände mit besonderer Rücksicht auf die kritische Philosophie zusammengetragen aus den Schriften älterer und neuerer Denker. Jena: J.G. Voigt.

Reinhold, Carl Leonhard (1790). Sixth Letter, in Briefe über die kantische Philosophie. Vol. 1. Leipzig: Georg Joachim Göschen.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1755). Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes. Amsterdam: Marc Michel Rey.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762a). Du contrat social, ou Principes du droit politique. Vol. 1. Amsterdam: Marc-Michel Rey.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1762b). “Profession de foi du vicaire savoyard,” in Émile, ou de l’éducation. Amsterdam: Jean Néaulme.

Schiller, Friedrich (1860 [1795]). Fourth Letter, in Über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen in einer Reihe von Briefen. In Schillers Sämtliche Werke. Vol. 12. Stuttgart: J.G. Clotta.

Schiller, Friedrich (1905 [1793]). Über Anmut und Würde. In Schillers Sämtliche Werke. Vol. 11. Stuttgart: J. G. Clotta.

Schmid, D. Johann Wilhelm (1790). Ueber den Geist der Sittenlehre Jesu und seiner Apostel. Jena: Christian Heinrich Cuno’s Erben.

Related Posts

Δdocument.getElementById( "ak_js_1" ).setAttribute( "value", ( new Date() ).getTime() );

Until recently, women were systematically excluded from the history of philosophy – so systematically that it used to be assumed that there were no women philosophers in the past. Women have even been left out of the canon when they were famous in their own times. The Anglo-Irish philosopher Frances Power Cobbe (1822–1904) is a case in point. 

In later nineteenth-century Britain, Cobbe was one of the most prominent women intellectuals, very well known for her many philosophical writings and her political campaigns against scientific experimentation on live animals and against cruelty to animals more generally. Cobbe’s writings included her first book, An Essay on Intuitive Morals (1855–1857); two books on religion, Broken Lights (1864) and Dawning Lights (1868); and essay collections on feminism (Essays on the Pursuits of Women, 1863), ethics and aesthetics (Studies New and Old of Ethical and Social Subjects, 1865), evolution, philosophy of mind, and other topics (Darwinism in Morals, and Other Essays, 1872), philosophy of history and religion (The Hopes of the Human Race, 1874), pessimism, life after death, and related topics (The Peak in Darien, 1882), science and scientism (The Scientific Spirit of the Age, 1888) and animal ethics (The Modern Rack: Papers on Vivisection, 1889).[1]

As this shows, Cobbe’s work was expansive in scope, and her books were widely read, so much so that she was able to support herself financially from her writing. Cobbe was in such demand that she was employed for seven years as leader writer for a high-circulation daily newspaper, the Echo, who provided her with “a room of her own” for writing her columns. Another indicator of the status Cobbe used to have is that she was one of only three women whom the British Idealist W. R. Sorley included in his 1920 History of English Philosophy, which covered the medieval period up to 1900. (Besides Cobbe, the other two women he included were Harriet Martineau and Edith Simcox.)[2]

Cobbe’s disappearance from the history of philosophy, then, is rather mysterious, all the more so because much of her work was quite straightforwardly philosophical. She did not generally do philosophy in the medium of novels, or poetry, or other literary forms, and she wrote in a direct and very readable style, so that her work does not present the complex interpretive challenges that we face, for instance, with Bettina Brentano-von Arnim. Cobbe tackled many questions traditionally seen as central to philosophy, such as the existence of God, the nature of moral principles and moral knowledge, how to balance our moral responsibilities to ourselves and to others, the relation between mind and body, and beauty in nature and art. Her moral theory was most heavily influenced by Kant but she engaged with a variety of thinkers, including Comte, Darwin, John Stuart Mill, and Schopenhauer – to mention just a few already-canonical men. 

Besides dealing with these traditional subjects and reference-points, Cobbe also innovated in addressing questions – animal rights, feminism, the nature of health and well-being – that have only recently become accepted as legitimate parts of the philosophical agenda. Finally, unlike many women of her period who published anonymously or using pseudonyms or initials, Cobbe published almost everything signed with her full female name. 

Despite all this, Cobbe has fallen so far off our collective radar that her name is barely known to philosophers today. Even the feminist effort to recover women philosophers has hardly reached her.[3] Why is this? The answer is complicated, but here are two factors.

First, Cobbe published in a milieu – the world of Victorian periodicals – that was lost to view for most of the twentieth century. Victorian Britain had many general but still heavyweight and serious journals such as the Westminster Review, Fraser’s Magazine, Macmillan’s Magazine, and the Contemporary Review. Cobbe published in a lot of these journals – indeed, most of her books were collections of her journal articles. The four periodicals I have just mentioned were among the best-known, but they were the tip of a huge iceberg: more than a hundred thousand journals, magazines, and newspapers came and went over the century.[4]Until researchers began to study Victorian periodicals around forty years ago, this vast world had become invisible to scholars. 

Today, several decades of research by Victorianists, now aided and accelerated by digitisation, have restored this world to sight. Susan Hamilton has estimated that women contributed at least 13% of all Victorian periodical content[5] – not great, but then again not too bad compared to the numbers of women contributing to philosophy journals in the twentieth century (according to Joel Katzav, who looks at the Philosophical Review, the proportion of woman-authored content fell from 11% in the 1910s to just 2% from 1950–1970).[6] Cobbe was one of the highest-profile of these Victorian women journal authors, alongside others such as Harriet Martineau, Anna Jameson, Julia Wedgwood, Edith Simcox, Vernon Lee, and Constance Naden. These women, like Cobbe, await recovery as the philosophers they were.[7]

A second, and related, factor is nationality. The lion’s share of modern-day interest in nineteenth-century philosophy goes to German-speaking traditions.[8] In contrast, British philosophy of the time is often regarded, rather dismissively, as having been amateurish. It is true that the culture was amateur, deliberately so. The prevailing assumption was that “Minds of the first rank are generalizers; of the second, specializers.”[9] But this very lack of specialisation helped to keep periodical culture open to women, because one did not have to be a professional academic with specialist credentials to publish in it. In other words, nineteenth-century British philosophy had not yet undergone the disciplinary “purification” that Eileen O’Neill, and others such as Anna Ezekiel elsewhere on this blog, have rightly highlighted as having been key to women’s exclusion.[10] It is interesting to note, moreover, that our now-standard division of modern Western philosophy – into early modern (c. 1600–1800 across Europe and beyond), post-Kantian (1800 onwards primarily on the European mainland), and history of analytic (1900 onwards primarily in Anglophone contexts) – renders nineteenth-century British and English-speaking philosophy invisible. This has worked against Cobbe, as well as other women of her place and period such as Martineau and Wedgwood.

Looking at nineteenth-century women like Cobbe therefore raises questions about what we count as philosophy and why, and which fields of discussion are included in the history of philosophy and which are not. To make sense of Cobbe’s philosophical thought and even to access it in the first place, we need to recognise Victorian print culture as having been a site for philosophical invention, argument, and debate. This culture was lively, diverse, colourful, and fast-paced; there was much more to it than stereotypes about narrow-minded and repressed Victorians would lead us to expect. This culture found room for a number of significant female voices, and provided a platform for Cobbe to rise to become “the thoughtful woman par excellence” in the eyes of her contemporaries.[11]

Alison Stone is Professor of Philosophy at Lancaster University and the author of a number of books on feminist philosophy and nineteenth-century philosophy. These include Frances Power Cobbe (Cambridge University Press, 2022), an edited collection of Cobbe’s essays, Frances Power Cobbe: Essential Writings of a Nineteenth-Century Feminist Philosopher (Oxford University Press, 2022), and an article on Cobbe’s aesthetics. Some of her shorter pieces on Cobbe are “Frances Power Cobbe and Nineteenth-Century Moral Philosophy” at the Blog of the APA and “Revealing Voices” at Project Vox. Her podcast on “British Women Philosophers of the Nineteenth Century” is here. 

[1] Most of Cobbe’s work can be easily accessed through digital archives such as Internet Archive or Hathitrust. I have edited a selection of some of her key essays: see Alison Stone, ed., Frances Power Cobbe: Essential Writings of a Nineteenth-Century Feminist Philosopher (Oxford University Press, 2022). Many of Cobbe’s animal ethics writings are collected in Susan Hamilton, ed., Animal Welfare and Anti-Vivisection 1870–1910: Frances Power Cobbe (Taylor & Francis, 2004), and several of her feminist essays are in Susan Hamilton, ed., Criminals, Idiots, Women & Minors: Victorian Writing by Women on Women (second edition; Broadview Press, 2004).

[2] Sorley, A History of English Philosophy (US edition; Putnam’s Sons, 1921).

[3] There is, however, a considerable literature on Cobbe from outside philosophy, including Susan Hamilton, Frances Power Cobbe and Victorian Feminism (Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), Sally Mitchell, Frances Power Cobbe: Victorian Feminist, Journalist, Reformer (University of Virginia Press, 2004), and Lori Williamson, Power and Protest: Frances Power Cobbe and Victorian Society (Rivers Oram Press, 2005). Also, two books that adopt a more philosophical angle are Sandra J. Peacock, The Theological and Ethical Writings of Frances Power Cobbe, 1822–1904 (Edwin Mellen, 2002) and recently my short book Frances Power Cobbe (Cambridge University Press, 2022).

[4] See Laurel Brake and Marysa Demoor, Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism in Britain and Ireland (Academia Press, 2009). The label “journalism” should not put one off – in the nineteenth century a “journalist” simply meant someone who published in the journals; the modern divide between (“mere”) journalists and academics did not exist.

[5] Hamilton, Frances Power Cobbe, 6.

[6] Katzav, “Women Philosophers in the Philosophical Review,” Digressions&Impressions.

[7] It is an interesting question why one woman philosopher of this place and period – Harriet Taylor Mill – has escaped the oblivion that has befallen her (rough) contemporaries. I suspect that, ironically, her connection to John Stuart Mill has saved her – whereas, of the other women philosophers I’ve mentioned, Harriet Martineau, Julia Wedgwood, Edith Simcox, Vernon Lee, and Constance Naden never married. Nor did Cobbe, who had a life-long partnership with another woman, the sculptor Mary Lloyd. Having said that these women await recovery as philosophers, I must mention Clare Stainthorp’s invaluable Constance Naden: Scientist, Philosopher, Poet (Peter Lang, 2019); moreover, much can be learnt about these women’s philosophical views from biographical, historical or politically focused studies – e.g., for just two examples, Judith Johnston, Anna Jameson: Victorian, Feminist, Woman of Letters (Scolar Press, 1997), and Caroline Roberts, The Woman and the Hour: Harriet Martineau and Victorian Ideologies (University of Toronto Press, 2002).

[8] For instance, on Philpapers.org, within the breakdown of “Nineteenth-century philosophy” we find: American philosophy – 9343 books and articles; Austrian – 4698; British – 3458; and German – 26,066.

[9] Eastern Hermit, “Ivy-Leaves,” Fraser’s Magazine 17 (1878): 268. “Eastern Hermit” was the pseudonym of William Allingham; this illustrates the fact that men, as well as women, often wrote with pseudonyms or anonymously. Anonymity was in fact standard in British periodicals up until the mid-1860s.

[10] O’Neill, however, says that the purification happened in the nineteenth century and that this was therefore the “pivotal era” for women’s disappearance (“Early Modern Women Philosophers and the History of Philosophy,” Hypatia 20.3 (2005): 186–187). But in nineteenth-century Britain at least, professionalisation had not yet happened; it only occurred at the end of the century. 

[11] This phrase comes from the Glasgow Herald (3rd February 1891), who were actually saying that Cobbe had vacated this role now that she had retired to Wales; they saw her role as being taken over by Julia Wedgwood. Wedgwood was a friend of Cobbe’s, and took Cobbe as her role model of an intellectual woman; see Sue Brown’s excellent recent biography of Wedgwood, Julia Wedgwood: The Unexpected Victorian (Anthem Press, 2022).

“In later nineteenth-century Britain, Cobbe was one of the most prominent women intellectuals, very well known for her many philosophical writings and her political campaigns against scientific experimentation on live animals and against cruelty to animals more generally”

Tweet

Supplementary information and corrections to published scholarship on the sources for poems transcribed in Günderrode’s notebooks. This is a resource for scholars working on Günderrode’s notes and unpublished writings.

Günderrode left numerous notes from her studies on a range of subjects, including philosophy, chemistry, Latin, metrics, physiognomy, ancient history and religions from across the world. Her notes also include transcriptions of poems, which in some cases she altered. Sabine Gölz (2000) has shown how a careful analysis of Günderrode’s selective transcription and rewriting of poems by other authors (in particular, Novalis) can yield insights into Günderrode’s thought. I hope that the information below will facilitate further study of Günderrode’s work on those pieces to which she makes significant creative modifications in her transcription.

Published data on the sources for the poems in Günderrode’s notebooks is based on information in a 1975 article by Doris Hopp and Max Preitz. In this post, I add supplementary information and corrections to this data. I also indicate findings from a preliminary cross-referencing of Günderrode’s transcriptions with the originals.

Large portions of Günderrode’s study books are available in German in Günderrode 1990–1991 and Hopp and Preitz 1975. A smaller number of English translations can be found in Gjesdal and Nassar 2021 and my forthcoming volume of translations from Günderrode’s writings, Philosophical Fragments.

This blog considers only Günderrode’s transcriptions of poems and other works of literature that are not addressed elsewhere (e.g., in my forthcoming Philosophical Fragments or Gölz 2000).

Wilhelm Nicolaus Freudentheil, “Die Erfindung der Schreibekunst [The Discovery of the Art of Writing]”
Hopp and Preitz 243-44; see 307
The version of this poem in Günderrode’s notes was transcribed in someone else’s handwriting. Freudentheil’s original is titled “Erfindung der Schrift [Discovery of Writing].” Other than the altered title, minor differences in punctuation, and one change in the first line of the last verse (“my dear [mein Theurer]” instead of “my brother [mein Bruder]”), the poem is copied faithfully.

Karl Philipp Conz, “Die Jugend Jahre [The Years of Youth]”
Hopp and Preitz 244-47; see 307-8
This poem appears in Conz’s 1806 collection Gedichte (p.109), where it is titled “Jugendzeit [The Time of Youth].” However, the version in Günderrode’s notes differs from the poem in that collection. Hopp and Preitz suggest that whoever copied this piece into Günderrode’s notes (it is not in her handwriting) may have taken it from an earlier publication. I have not been able to find this earlier source, and it is also possible that Günderrode made these changes herself.

Karl Ludwig von Knebel, “Cynthiens Schatten [Cynthia’s Shade]”
Hopp and Preitz 247-49; see 308-9
Knebel’s 1796 translation of the poem “Cynthia’s Shade” by the Latin elegiac poet Sextus Propertius (c. 50–15 BCE) appeared in Schiller’s journal Die Horen. Günderrode transcribes this poem fairly faithfully, although she tends to omit punctuation. However, she changes the line “and sighing were the words [und seufzend waren die Worte]” to “and lamenting were the words [und klagend waren die Worte],” omits three words that do not significantly alter the meaning of the sentence (e.g., “then [dann]”) and, most significantly, in two places omits two lines. It is unclear whether these changes were deliberate or accidental.

Edmund von Harald, trans., “Darthula” and “The Songs of Selma”
Hopp and Preitz 249-50; see 309-310
In 1775, Harold published the first complete translations of Ossian in German. Günderrode provides a close transcription of the opening passage of Harold’s translation of “Darthula” (Harold 1775, 180–81). However, her transcription of the opening two paragraphs of Harold’s translation of the “Songs of Selma” is loose and really only summarises the story (Harold 1775, 15–16).

Ludwig Theobul Kosegarten, “Ritogar und Wanda [Ritogar and Wanda]”
Hopp and Preitz 250-62; see 310-11
Günderrode copied the entire piece, transcribing quite faithfully to begin with (except for variations in spelling and punctuation), but with increasing deviations as she wrote. Especially towards the end of the piece, Günderrode’s version has several missing lines as well as differences in word choice from the version published in Kosegarten’s 1798 collection Poesieen. It is possible that these changes were Günderrode’s own or that she was working from a different version by Kosegarten.

Ludwig Theobul Kosegarten, “Das Schicksal und das Ich, nach Jean Paul [Destiny and the I, after Jean Paul]”
Hopp and Preitz 263-64; see 311
As Hopp and Preitz note, Kosegarten’s poem is a summary of the end of chapter 23 in Jean Paul’s novel Siebenkäs. Günderrode’s transcription omits several lines and changes one word (“roses [Rosen]” becomes “flowers [Blumen]”); otherwise, she is faithful to Kosegarten’s original.

The famous passage beginning “To be or not to be…” from August Wilhelm Schlegel and Caroline Schlegel’s translation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet 
Hopp and Preitz 267-68; see 313
Other than the usual minor differences in spelling and punctuation, Günderrode copies the Schlegels’ translation faithfully, with two exceptions. She omits “also/even [auch]” which the Schlegels added to their translation of Shakespeare’s “To sleep: perchance to dream” (Schlafen! Vielleicht auch träumen!).” And she replaces the word “needle” (Nadel) in the Schlegels’ translation of “With a bare bodkin” (Mit einer Nadel bloß) with “dagger” (Dolch). A bodkin is a small dagger. Technically, both these changes make Günderrode’s text closer to Shakespeare’s original, although in the first case she sacrifices scansion and in the second the emphasis on the small size of the weapon, which is relevant in the passage. This may indicate that she read the original English as well as the German translation.

August Hennings, “Des Menschen Bestimmung [The Human Vocation]”
Hopp and Preitz 268; see 314 
This entry in Günderrode’s notes was made in someone else’s handwriting. The original is titled simply “Vocation [Bestimmung].” This short piece is cited in its entirety in Günderrode’s notes and transcribed accurately except for her usual loose transcription of punctuation and one change: Günderrode’s notes have “man! [Mensch!]” where the original has “friend! [Freund!]”

Ludwig Theobul Kosegarten, “Gott nach Vanini [God, after Vanini]”
Hopp and Preitz 274-75; see 315
Kosegarten’s original poem was published in 1797 and titled “An Gott [To God].” Günderrode’s transcription of the piece differs considerably from Kosegarten’s published versions – it may be Günderrode’s own reworking of the piece or she may have had access to a different, unknown version. Kosegarten’s poem is a translation of the Latin poem “Deo” by Lucilio (Giulio Cesare) Vanini (1585–1619), an Italian philosopher and doctor who was executed for atheism and blasphemy. Hopp and Preitz are incorrect that the original Kosegarten piece is “Vanini’s Hymne” in the first volume of his Poesieen; this is a different poem.

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

Conz, Karl Philipp. 1806. “Die Jugend Jahre.” Gedichte. 109-113. Zurich: Orell Füssli und Compagnie.

Ezekiel, Anna, ed. Forthcoming. Philosophical Fragments. New York: Oxford University Press.

Freudentheil, Wilhelm Nicolaus. “Erfindung der Schrift.” In Gedichte. 37-40. Hannover: Verlage der Helwingschen Hofbuchhandlung, 1803.

Gölz, Sabine. 2000. “Günderrode Mines Novalis.” In “The Spirit of Poesy”: Essays on Jewish and German Literature and Thought in Honor of Géza von Molnár. Ed. Richard Block and Peter Fenves, 89–130. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.

Günderrode, Karoline von. 2021. Selected writings. Trans. Anna Ezekiel in Women Philosophers in the Long Nineteenth Century: The German Tradition. Ed. Kristin Gjesdal and Dalia Nassar. Oxford University Press.

Günderrode, Karoline von. 1990-1991. Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien. Historisch-Kritische Ausgabe. Ed. Walter Morgenthaler. Basel, Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern. 3 vols.

Harold, Edmund von, trans. 1775. “Darthula. Ein Gedicht.” In Die Gedichte Ossians eines alten celtischen Helden und Barden. Vol. 2. 180-201. Düsseldorf.

Harold, Edmund von, trans. 1775. “Die Lieder von Selma. Ein Gedicht.” In Die Gedichte Ossians eines alten celtischen Helden und Barden. Vol. 2. 15-27. Düsseldorf.

Hennings, August. 1798. “Bestimmung.” In Der Musaget, Ein Begleiter der Genius der Zeit. Viertes Stück. 89-90. Altona: J. F. Hammerich.

Hopp, Doris, and Max Preitz. 1975. “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt. III. Karoline von Günderrodes ‘Studienbuch.’” Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts: 223-323.

Kosegarten, Ludwig Theobul. 1797. “An Gott.” In Eusebia. Eine Jahresschrift zur Beförderung der Religiosität, mit einem Kupfer von Penzel, Erstes Jahr. 16-19. Leipzig: Heinrich Gräff.

Kosegarten, Ludwig Theobul. 1798. “Ritogar und Wanda.” In Poesieen. Vol. 2. 5-40. Leipzig: Heinrich Gräff.

Kosegarten, Ludwig Theobul. 1798. “Das Schicksal und das Ich, nach Jean Paul.” In Poesieen. Vol. 2. 310-314. Leipzig: Heinrich Gräff.

Knebel, Karl Ludwig von. 1796. “Cynthiens Schatten. Elegie von Properz. Des vierten Buchs siebente.” Die Horen. Vol. 8, Part 11. Ed. Friedrich Schiller, 98–104. Tübingen: J. G. Cotta.

“#Günderrode left numerous notes from her studies on a range of subjects, including philosophy, chemistry, Latin, metrics, physiognomy, ancient history and religions from across the world…”

Tweet

This poem was published in Günderrode’s first collection of poetry, dialogues and short stories, Poems and Fantasies, which appeared in 1804. Unlike Günderrode’s play Muhammad, the Prophet of Mecca, the poem does not follow Muhammad’s life or use the Prophet as a stand-in for European political figures. Instead, the piece develops Romantic, Christian, and alchemical themes to create an image of a creative genius radically transforming the world.

The original German text can be found here. Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation or my commentary.

The poem “Muhammad’s Dream in the Desert” has little to identify it with the Islamic prophet other than the name itself and, perhaps, the setting in an Arabian desert. At the time Günderrode was writing, the figure of Muhammad was often used as a stand-in for Napoleon or Luther to critique European society and politics, and Günderrode herself used Muhammad this way in her drama Muhammad, the Prophet of Mecca.[1] However, this usage is not evident, or at least not prominent, in “Muhammad’s Dream.” Instead, the poem integrates influences from Early German Romanticism, late eighteenth-century chemistry, alchemy, neo-Platonism, and Christianity, to create a rich set of images describing the remaking of the world.[2]

The poem begins with a common Enlightenment trope of a hot and sluggish Asia, which is in need of refreshment and revitalisation.[3] The Seer is “tired” and “sinks down” onto the sand of the Arabian desert. This initial setting seems to call for a regeneration of the torpid earth, but several verses intervene before Günderrode will show us the world remaking itself (beginning from the seventh verse). I will discuss that apocalyptic vision below; but first, what is going on in verses 2-6, after the Prophet sinks onto the sand?

In verse 2, the Prophet begins to develop insight into the true nature of the universe: he “Will separate the being of things / From deceptive appearance.” This search for “true” knowledge – that is, knowledge of something beyond or behind the everyday world of our ordinary experiences – was a frequent theme in Günderrode’s work. It is the focus of her poems “The Adept” and “The Wanderer’s Descent” and a major theme in her play “Immortalita.”[4]

Günderrode would have intended this claim to be understood in the context of philosophical discussions about knowledge. In the first place, it likely includes a reference to Kant’s distinction between the “phenomenal” world of “appearances” (of individual objects and events), which we encounter in everyday life through our senses and minds, and the “noumenal” world of actual “being,” which is how the world exists “in itself” (unfiltered by our senses and mental processes) and which we can never know. Günderrode is also mobilising imagery of the “lifting of the veil of nature,” which was a prominent trope at the time, including in Early German Romanticism (e.g., in Novalis’ The Novices at Saïs). On this Romantic view, mystical visions can provide glimpses of the world as it exists “in itself” – that is, beyond our ability to grasp with our senses and comprehend rationally. However, the cost of such visions may be madness or death. In Günderrode’s poem, we see the Prophet teetering on the brink of insanity as he experiences “drunken delusions,” vacillating between megalomaniac dreams of power and crushing despair.

Also in the second verse, Günderrode indicates that insight into the true nature of things is to be gained through “contemplating.” Specifically, knowledge of the universe is to be obtained by inward contemplation, or contemplation of oneself: by listening to one’s “heart’s voice” and following one’s “inspiration.” This focus on the subjective experience of the individual, including as a means of coming to know the world, is typical of Early German Romanticism, as well as of the work of the theologian Friedrich Schleiermacher. Günderrode studied these thinkers and integrated various aspects of their thought in her work.

However, Günderrode rarely (if ever) borrowed ideas from other writers without significantly modifying them, and “Muhammad’s Dream in the Desert” is no exception. Unlike the doomed protagonists of Romantic and Enlightenment seekers of hidden truths, Günderrode’s Prophet penetrates the “vain shimmer” of appearances and learns what lies behind them. At this point, he experiences existence beyond space and time: he “Skims through space / And all future times.” Since space and time are essential categories that characterise and give structure to all our experiences, this indicates that the Prophet has passed behind the “veil of nature” to perceive the world “in itself.”[5]

Once the Prophet had reached behind the veil of appearances, he attempts to see the future and, specifically, what will come of his own plans and efforts to implement his will. But, rather than obtaining answers, his questioning initiates a vision of an apocalyptic conflagration of the earth and its remaking in a new form. The seventh verse (beginning “He speaks it”) introduces Günderrode’s description of the destruction and remaking of the world. The Prophet watches as “the earth / Quakes, the sea / Sublimates” and “Flames blaze from rocky chasms.” The stars as well as the earth are set into violent motion and conflict, until the whole world is destroyed by fire, which “consumes everything earthly.”[6]

In this part of the poem, Günderrode uses hermetic and alchemical imagery, blended with ideas from late eighteenth-century chemistry, to portray the remaking of the world. Rather than being annihilated, the world that is “consumed” by fire is transformed into “clouds” and then “light.” The word Günderrode uses is “sublimates”: a weighted term in both chemical theory and German philosophy (the term became especially famous in the work of Hegel). The German verb this translates (aufheben) can also be translated as to cancel, override, dissolve or elevate. The burning of the world transforms earthly substances into a pure blaze of light which, Günderrode implies, is a higher or more spiritual form of matter. In the penultimate verse, a mysterious “voice” explains that this resulting pure light-material[7] will merge with the “eternal primal light”: a metaphor for the divine.[8]

Günderrode’s adaptation of alchemical and neo-Platonic ideas becomes clearer in verse 11. Awakening from his apocalyptic vision, the Prophet wonders “whether a god / Of the chain of being now awakens.” The idea of the chain of being, or the Great Chain of Being, originated with the ancient Greeks, especially the neo-Platonists, and in medieval Europe developed into a concept of the universe as organised hierarchically with God at the top, followed in order by angels, human beings, animals, plants, and finally rocks and minerals at the bottom. Each of these levels could be further divided into hierarchically ranked categories (for example, mammals were seen as higher in the category of animals than molluscs). In alchemy, the supposed connection of all beings in a continuous hierarchy, like links in a chain, was seen as justifying the idea that one kind of being could be transformed into another. In this poem, Günderrode’s use of language of sublimation, materials being consumed, and repeated sinking and rising movements suggests that she may be depicting this sort of transformative transition between levels in the hierarchy of being.

Lastly, at two points towards the end of the poem Günderrode uses Christian terminology to connect the Prophet’s activities to the creative force of the divine – that is, specifically to God’s creative word. In the second-last line, the Prophet cries “Only let there be light!” (in German: Das Licht nur werde!), referencing God’s creation of the earth in Genesis 1:3 (“Let there be light”; in German: Es werde Licht!). Similarly, the seventh verse, which ushers in the vision of the remaking of the world, begins with the phrase “He speaks it” (in German: “Er sprichts”). In these places, Günderrode is deliberately identifying the Prophet’s speech with the word of God, which forms a new world out of the void (or, in the Prophet’s case, out of the old world). Linking back to the second and third verses, in which the Prophet’s “spirit” and “divinity” guide his inner contemplation, it seems that Günderrode is presenting the inspired individual as developing (through introspection and the resulting penetration of the veil of nature) the creative power of a God.

[1] Christmann 2005, 212; Ezekiel 2016, 18, 123f.; Licher 1995; Raisbeck 2019, 94.

[2] Christmann (2005, 176) also suggests the influence of ideas from Hemsterhuis and Fichte on the poem, and Solbrig (1987, 18) identifies a further influence from Herder.

[3] For the use of this trope by Günderrode and Goethe, see Hilliard 1997. There are obvious colonialist overtones in the associated ideas that (a) the heat of Asia and Africa made people torpid and, correspondingly, stupid, unhealthy and lazy, and (b) Asia had fallen from a state of former glory as the torch of civilisation passed to Europe.

[4] These three pieces will all be available in English translation with commentary in my volume on Günderrode’s work, Philosophical Fragments (forthcoming with Oxford University Press).

[5] Cf. Günderrode’s prose poem “An Apocalyptic Fragment,” which also describes a vision of the reality that lies behind appearances and which involves a disruption to the normal experience of time.

[6] Günderrode’s play Udohla includes similar imagery of a violent and fiery apocalypse, after which the world can be remade. For discussion of the role of revolution and the apocalypse in revitalising the world, and its importance in Günderrode’s philosophy, see Ezekiel 2022 [preprint 2020].

[7] In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, “light-material,” or “luminous matter” (German: Lichtstoff) was thought to be a substance that emits light. Later, this theory was shown to be incorrect and “luminous matter” is now understood to be an imaginary substance. 

[8] Or, perhaps, a secularisation of the divine as a physical element.

MUHAMMAD’S DREAM IN THE DESERT

In the midday blaze
Where no cooling breeze
Refreshes the desert sand,
Where, hot, kissed only by the simoom,
A grey crag greets the clouds,
There the Seer sinks down tiredly.

His spirit, here contemplating,
Will separate the being of things
From deceptive appearance. 
He will invoke the future’s spirit,
Hear his own heart’s voice,
And follow his inspiration.

Here takes flight the divinity
That delusion lends him,        
The vain shimmer scatters.
And he to whom the peoples look,
Fanned only by palms of victory,
Is encircled by the dark night of tribulation.

The Seer’s dream
Skims through space
And all future times;
Now, in drunken delusions, he tastes
The bliss of successful plans,
Then sees his downfall.

Horror and fury
Struggle in alternating spate
In innermost life;
Surrounded, he cries, by doubt alone!
May resolve breathe out its life!
Before regret and failure punish it.

The divinity’s might
Rends the night
Of destiny, before my gaze!
It lets me see the future,
Do my flags wave, victorious?
Does my law rule the world?

He speaks it; then the earth
Quakes, the sea
Sublimates into clouds,
Flames blaze from rocky chasms,
The air, filled with the smell of brimstone,
Sluggishly lets the tired shaking rest. 

In wild dance,
The corona entwines
The errant stars, the heavens;
The ocean roars in its foundations
And in the earth’s deepest gorges
The elements dispute.

And concord’s bond,
That mightily entwined
The forces, it seems undone.
The clouds’ veil sinks from the air
And from the abyss the fire rises
And consumes everything earthly.

In turbid spate
The blaze rises,
Yet it burns ever purer,
Till from it arises, bright, a sea of light
That reaches, blazing, to the stars
And seethes pure, and bright, and radiant.

The Seer awakens
As if from the grave’s night
And, amazed, feels that he lives.
Awoken from death’s horrors,
He fearfully awaits whether a god
Of the chain of being now awakens.

Down from the stars
Down to the Seer
A voice now resounds:
“You saw here embodied
What will befall all things
You saw here the history of the world.

The force drives
It works and creates,
Stirring inexorably;
What is impure is consumed,
Only the pure, the light-material, endures
And flows to the eternal primal light.”

Now night sinks
And gleaming dawns
The morning in his soul.
Nothing more, he cries, shall vanquish me!
Only let there be light! May that be my struggle,
Then my deeds will be immortal.

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

Christmann, Ruth. Zwischen Identitätsgewinn und Bewußtseinsverlust. Das philosophisch-literarische Werk der Karoline von Günderrode (1780–1806). Frankfurt: Lang, 2005. p.175f.

Ezekiel, Anna C., ed. and trans. Poetic Fragments, by Karoline von Günderrode. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2016.

Ezekiel, Anna C. “Revolution and Revitalisation: Karoline von Günderrode’s Political Philosophy and Its Metaphysical Foundations.” British Journal of the History of Philosophy (forthcoming 2022; preprint available online 2020).

Hilliard. K. F. “Orient und Mythos: Karoline von Günderrode.” In Frauen: MitSprechen. MitSchreiben. Beiträge zur literatur- und sprachwissenschaflichen Frauenforschung. Ed. Marianne Henn and Britta Hufeisen, 244–55. Stuttgart: 1997.

Licher, Lucia Maria. “‘Du mußt Dich in eine entferntere Empfindung versetzen.’ Strategien interkultureller Annäherung im Werk Karoline von Günderrodes (1780-1806).” In ‘Der weibliche multikulturelle Blick.’ Ergebnisse eines Symposiums. Ed. Hannelore Scholz and Brita Baume, 21-35. Berlin: 1995.

Raisbeck, Joanna. Poetic Metaphysics in Karoline von Günderrode. PhD Dissertation. University of Oxford, 2019.

Solbrig, Ingeborg. “The Contemplative Muse: Caroline von Günderrode, Religious Works.” Germanic Notes 18.1-2 (1987): 18-20.

“The Seer awakens
As if from the grave’s night
And, amazed, feels that he lives.
Awoken from death’s horrors,
He fearfully awaits whether a god
Of the chain of being now awakens.”

Tweet

This unfinished poem by Günderrode contrasts faith and reason; an enchanted world with a safer but less inspiring world of science. The piece has parallels to Novalis’ “Christendom, or Europa,” although it was very likely written before Novalis’ text was published. It is interesting in part because of its consideration of themes that appear in Günderrode’s published work, especially “Letters of Two Friends.”

The three short, rough verses of this poem contrast the outlooks of faith and reason, presented as successive periods of human history. The first verse describes a past era, when the world and the human path within it were understood on the basis of a religious worldview. The second and third verses describe a rational, Enlightened period, presumably Günderrode’s current time, which she presents as more advanced scientifically but as correspondingly disenchanted and spiritually impoverished: “flattened out,” as Joanna Raisbeck describes it. While the second verse presents the accomplishments of reason – the dictates of heaven have been overthrown, while hell has been demolished – the third suggests that these accomplishments have brought with them a diminishment of human experience.

Elsewhere in her work, Günderrode presents the ancient world – ancient Greece, India, Egypt, Arabia, Scandinavia or Ossianic Scotland -, rather than medieval Christendom, as the embodiment of a richer and more spiritually fulfilling time. However, in some pieces Günderrode suggests that medieval Europe was also a period that can be mined for poetic inspiration. In “Letters of Two Friends” (part of the collection Melete), one of the correspondents argues, like Novalis in “Christendom, or Europe,” that Protestantism, with its emphasis on individual piety, has been responsible for a loss of divine inspiration: “Everyone is allowed access to the communion cup, laypersons as well as the consecrated, so that no-one can drink enough to become full of God, and the drops are enough for no-one.” Thus, they suggest, “Let us gaze back to more beautiful days, to what has been.” The writer then asks, partly rhetorically, “does it not seem better to you if I abandon the path of my own poetic production and begin a serious study of the poets of the past and especially of the middle ages?” Interestingly, the first correspondent’s interlocutor responds in the negative, claiming that “The great masters of the ancient world are certainly there to be read and understood” but that “infinite nature will always reveal itself anew in infinite time.” In other words, the times have changed since the great works we’re familiar with were created, but that does not mean that art and poetry are dead.

Günderrode’s draft poem ends abruptly with a blunt, final-sounding statement that seems to signal the death of enchantment, and artistic creativity with it. I sometimes wonder whether, if she had finished the poem, she would have kept the ending like this, or whether she would have resolved it with a third movement similar to that in “Letters of Two Friends.” The poem was likely written fairly early – probably between 1799 and 1802, according to the editor of the critical edition of Günderrode’s works. It is therefore possible that Günderrode’s views developed between writing this draft and composing the “Letters of Two Friends.” Another possibility, since the position of this poem is similar to that of the younger-seeming correspondent in the “Letters,” is that this is Günderrode’s view, while the more positive assessment of the poetic potential of the current age is presented for contrast or consideration, or as a more optimistic perspective for disillusioned young poets to aspire to.

The original German text can be found here. Translations from “Letters of Two Friends” are taken from my forthcoming volume of translations of Günderrode’s works, Philosophical Fragments. Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation and my commentary.

ANTIQUITY, AND MODERNITY

A narrow, rough path, the Earth once seemed.
And over the mountains heaven shines,
An abyss beside them is hell,
And paths lead to heaven and to hell.

But all has now become wholly otherwise.
Heaven is overthrown, the abyss filled in,
And covered with reason, and made comfortable.

Belief’s heights are now demolished.
And on the flat Earth understanding strides,
And measures everything out in fathoms and feet.

FURTHER READING

Licher, Lucia Maria. Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen. Umrisse einer Ästhetik im Werk Karoline von Günderrodes (1780-1806). Heidelberg: Winter, 1996. P.234f.

Raisbeck, Joanna. Poetic Metaphysics in Karoline von Günderrode. PhD Diss. University of Oxford, 2019. P.150f.

A narrow, rough path, the Earth once seemed.
And over the mountains heaven shines,
An abyss beside them is hell,
And paths lead to heaven and to hell.
#Günderrode

Tweet

Although this piece is unfinished (it ends mid-sentence), it was set to be published as the last piece in what would have been Günderrode’s third collection of poetry and short prose, “Melete.” The second part of the piece has been lost, leaving a tantalising fragment that uses humour to gently mock its characters and the Romantic novel.

The original German text can be found here. Please cite me if you share or quote from this translation and my commentary.

At the time Günderrode was writing, supposedly found texts and textual fragments were relatively common literary phenomena, and she published several pieces with the explicit subtitle of “fragment.” She also titled her first collection of writings Poetic Fragments. Although “Valorich” lacks this subtitle, on its own it could perhaps be ranked among Günderrode’s deliberate fragments. However, it seems that Georg Friedrich Creuzer, who was interceding for Günderrode with the publisher, had the rest of the text, and that it has since been lost. In two letters Creuzer begs Günderrode to finish the piece as it would be a shame for it to remain a “fragment” or a “torso,” and in a third (writing of himself in the third person) that “The conclusion of this story (which is very dear to him, through and through) made him melancholy, but in the way that he likes to be melancholy.” What this conclusion might have been is, sadly, a mystery.

There has been little or no commentary on “Valorich” in the secondary literature, and as far as I know this is the first translation. Perhaps the lack of interest can be partially attributed to the incompleteness of the piece and the difficulty of assigning it a genre: for instance, although it is written in a short story form, Barbara Becker-Cantarino describes this piece as “a fragment from an attempt at a drama.” Another reason for the lack of interest may be the apparent infelicities in the text: while the piece seems to be the beginning of an epic story, some of Günderrode’s turns of phrase undermine the heroic tone. For example, she describes Ermanerich’s heroically named sword Siegheim as “really a very good sword,” while her account of its turning up in the hands of Ermanerich’s grandson strangely and comically elides the events by which this happens. Fiediger’s people are scattered and some are reduced to working as mercenaries “for vile gold”: when he thinks of this, “it almost made him sad” – one would think so! Even the opening line – “It was really a very great and mighty land he had conquered, Ermanerich, with boldness and manly deeds” – presents Ermanerich’s manly accomplishments in a patronising and indulgent tone. This comical disruption of what seems like it should be an epic and Romantic tale can seem like a stylistic failing, or simply confusing.

Nonetheless, it is likely that the comical effect of these phrasings is quite deliberate, and meant to poke fun at overwrought, pretentious narratives. (I am grateful to Cornelia Ilbrig for drawing my attention to the deliberate humour in Günderrode’s writing.) These odd-sounding interjections in an otherwise grand-sounding story resemble two of Günderrode’s early plays, which were overtly written for comedic effect: The Cannon Shot, or the Feast of Tantalus. A Heroic-Comic Tragic Play as a Warning and Example for Foolish People’s Impertinence and Most Highly Stupid Bantering, So That They Can and Will Learn Decent Conduct, and History of the Beautiful Goddess and Noble Nymph Calypso, Ruler of the Island Ogygia, and Telemachus the Prince of Ithaca. Beside the Cobbled-together History of Tillina. Brought to Light through N:N: In the Manner of the Old Heathenish Poet, and Blind Man Homer. Like “Valorich,” these plays disrupt any pretensions at seriousness with abrupt transitions in action and tone that have the effect of poking gentle fun at their characters. These plays, too, have generally been ignored by scholars, perhaps for similar reasons.

In “Valorich,” the conversations between characters, and the interjection of a song and a story by a minstrel – which we can surmise would have motivated further actions by Valorich, likely involving the maiden Sigismunda (and perhaps the sword Siegheim!) – is strongly reminiscent of a work we know Günderrode read: Novalis’ Henry of Ofterdingen. Whether this similarity would have extended to and perhaps subverted other characteristics of Romantic works – such as, dreams, reflections on nature and the secret connections between things, and the development of the protagonist into an artist – is a question the answer to which lies tantalisingly out of our reach.

VALORICH

It was really a very great and mighty land he had conquered, Ermanerich, with boldness and manly deeds: he had become a King over the East Goths. But he would not have accomplished that without assistance from his sword Siegheim, which was really a very good sword, for which Ermanerich always highly honoured it. But as the Huns came, with more than many thousand lusty warriors, and conquered Ermanerich’s kingdom, the good sword Siegheim fell, after going through many kinds of fortune, into the hands of Fiediger. He was a grandchild of Ermanerich, and not little did the rapier delight him, for well he knew its virtue. But what would that help him? The people of the Goths were scattered here and there, from Illyria on to the north sea, and many tribes had chosen their own king over themselves; others served strange warlords for vile gold. When Fiediger bethought this, it almost made him sad. Then he called his younger brother Valorich and spoke to him:

“Know, brother, I have a withstood a good adventure, that I regard with the value of a perilous battle, for look! I have won this old sword, which our father so assiduously sought all his life. But the sword befits a mightier lord than I am, and as I shall remain a fugitive, who has no inheritance nor goods, nor greater honour than until now, I’m almost ashamed of the find.”

“Heaven forfend,” countered Valorich, “that we should be ashamed of our inheritance, or regard ourselves as meaner than our ancestors. When someone has done something, even if it was almost difficult, I do not think a bold creature would lag behind. But because you are the oldest, brother, then seek to not be unworthy of us, and I will serve you and help you attain it: to that I am firmly disposed.”

While they were still speaking with each other, along the path came a young fellow who bore a harp in his hand, like the minstrels care to. He greeted them friendlily and sat down with them. When he wanted to rest, Valorich said:

“I beg you, Mr Minstrel, if you don’t have anything against it, then sing me a song, for I love harps’ and zithers’ cheerful tunes.”

“I will do it,” said the song singer, “and play you my best song, because you encourage me so earnestly.”

And now he took the fine ivory harp and struck the strings and sang with it:

Two eyes like stars
  That would gladly see
            The blissful light,
            And may not;
            The bright carbuncles
            That could eclipse
            The sunny light,   
            And may not.
            Oh love’s longing!
            Caught in a dungeon,
            The eyes so loving,
            The lips so blissful,
            The words so soothing,
            The locks so golden,
            My heart breaks
            From sorrow and pain.
            Till death I see
            The rosy lips
            And shall never recover,
            Yet if I thought of her loving essence,
            Of her gaze so mild,
            Of the most beautiful woman,
            And should I gain shame and death
            I love the maid even should I die.

“That’s a really pitiful and sweet song,” says Valorich. “Where does the beautiful maid live, of whom you sang? Or did you only have her in your mind like the song-singers care to?”

“Not at all,” countered the minstrel. “If it pleases you to heed me I will not hold back from you what I know of the young lady. She is called Sigismunda, and her father is known as Lord Sigemar, a King of the Boyars, who live around here on the River Danube. Lady Irmengard, her mother, soon died, and left her husband and her underage child Sigismunda alone. But as she grew up, she thrived in such wonderful beauty that she greatly enthralled everyone, and whoever saw her once never wanted to part from her, so very graceful she was. For that reason, many princes and lords came from far and wide and courted the regal maid Sigismunda, but Lord Sigemar did not want to let her go, for he was mightily devoted to her.

“Once he had to ride to war in a far land. Then his daughter was almost morose, and could not leave him for great sorrow; even Sigemar was more troubled than usual, and he thought in his heart he should have chosen a valiant lord for his child, to take care of her in dangerous times.

“For this reason, he called his brother Odho and said to him: ‘Odho, I leave my daughter in your custody, and if I should not return home, then give her a spouse whom she wants and who befits her.’ That Odho promised with his handshake, and Sigemar went from them, placated.

“Then Sigismunda was long troubled until tidings came to her, and often stood on the balcony and gazed after the route of the army. And one day she saw several riders galloping along the path. She climbed swiftly down into the courtyard to determine whence the riders came, and Herman, Lord Sigemar’s squire, met her and brought her tidings with many tears, how the King had departed in the battle. Then the damsel fainted, and when she awoke could find no end of tears and sighs. But Odho was glad in spirit. He thought to win the damsel, for her excessive beauty had wholly bewitched his heart, and he knew no counsel but to marry her. For that reason, he went to her a lot and wanted to soothe her with earnest and heartfelt speech; but she did not want to hear him, and answered his cooing sparingly. That annoyed him, for he was high-minded and strutting, and once, when he…”