ABSTRACT Tennyson’s friend Arthur Hallam was a great admirer of Goethe and Schiller. At the time of Hallam’s early death in 1833, Tennyson, too, was preoccupied with these two authors, and his interest in them was renewed some six years later, as he was beginning work on his long narrative poem The Princess. Its most celebrated passage, ‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height’, is much indebted to Schiller’s Maid of Orleans, and the poem as a whole combines the influence of that text with that of Faust: Part Two. In turning to German literature, Tennyson was following in Hallam’s footsteps, and it seems possible that he also identified with the profound grief that Goethe had felt in response to the early death of Schiller. By combining the influence of these two writers in The Princess, Tennyson may have been seeking figuratively to reunite them, and to create, also, a similar sense of communion between himself and Hallam. This interpretation can be strengthened if we examine the poem’s subtle but extensive engagement with the themes of death and resurrection, which are also central to the roughly contemporaneous In Memoriam. It has not been widely acknowledged that Tennyson’s friend Arthur Henry Hallam was an enthusiastic Germanophile.1 In October 1829, about six months after his first acquaintance with the poet, he remarked: ‘I really think learning German a branch of moral duty’, and in December, he reported that he was himself ‘making way in that divine language’.2 In March of the following year, he declared: ‘Come what will there must ever be communion of heart between an Englishman and German, [more] than we can have with any other people on the face of the Globe’.3 Hallam’s warm regard for the Germans, and his diligent study of their language, were partly motivated by his respect for what he called ‘the glory of Goethe’, and he also had great admiration for Schiller, three of whose poems he translated.4 Hallam died of a brain haemorrhage in Vienna in September 1833, aged just twenty-two. This painful tragedy is seen by most Tennyson scholars as the central event of the poet’s life, a deeply felt loss from which he may never have entirely recovered. It provided the inspiration for much of his greatest writing, including his masterpiece In Memoriam A. H. H. (which he worked on intermittently from 1833 to 1850).5 Far less recognition, however, has been accorded to the links between Hallam’s death and The Princess: A Medley (which Tennyson began around 1839, and the first edition of which appeared in 1847).6 Another, closely related aspect of this piece has, moreover, been entirely overlooked: the extensive influence upon it of the writings of Schiller and Goethe, specifically, The Maid of Orleans (1801) and Faust (1808, 1832). There is evidence to suggest that Tennyson was preoccupied with these two works around the time of Hallam’s death. For example, at the Tennyson Research Centre in Lincoln, there is an 1833 translation of Faust: Part One, which is annotated in the poet’s hand.7 And although Tennyson’s knowledge of German is likely to have been rather limited at this point, it would appear that he was also trying to read this work in the original. On the stub of a page in one of his manuscripts, Harvard Notebook 13 (which dates from late 1833), he has compiled a German glossary, which reads: diesen. acc[usative] tisch. ta[ble] tischen.. schlimm Gar. very Neugier Beflüge[ln]8 All of these words can be found, in the exact same order, in lines 113–18 of Faust.9 In Harvard Notebook 17 (which dates from the same time), there is another German glossary: freyer. pflügen. sprößling. enkel. vetter suitor. plow. sprout. grandchild. kinsman verschlossen. allmählig. trift. geheur reserved. by degrees drove secure pasture10 All of these words occur—again, in the exact same order—in the first two scenes of Schiller’s Maid of Orleans.11 Tennyson’s interest in German literature seems to have revived around the time that he began work on The Princess. It is likely that his knowledge of the language was now improving, although he was probably still partly dependent on translations.12 On 25 December 1838, his friend John Heath gave him a copy of Goethe’s novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship), and he was also presented with the same author’s Hermann und Dorothea, as well as Sarah Austin’s Characteristics of Goethe (1833), and Rabenhorst’s Pocket Dictionary of the German and English Languages.13 He studied the first-named work very carefully, adding an extensive glossary to each of its four volumes, and his absorption in it was soon to leave a perceptible trace in his poetry.14 In Book III, Chapter XII of the novel, Goethe describes the feelings that are experienced by a writer when he is asked to make a transcript of one of his works: It is like the golden age of authorship: he feels transported into those centuries when the press had not inundated the world with so many useless writings, when none but excellent performances were copied, and kept by the noblest men.15 In the opening lines of an untitled poem that dates from around 1839 (Poems of Tennyson, II, 153–6), Tennyson draws an implicit contrast between this ‘golden age’, and the much gloomier period that has been ushered in by the invention of the press: Wherefore, in these dark ages of the Press (As that old Teuton christened them). (ll. 1–2) The hitherto unidentified ‘old Teuton’ of the second line is, therefore, the Teutonic Goethe (who was an impressive eighty-two at the time of his death). Sarah Austin’s Characteristics of Goethe (a loose biographical compendium) would also appear to have left its mark on Tennyson’s writings of 1839—in this case, a revealing letter to his fiancée Emily Sellwood, which is postmarked 24 October.16 As Cecil Y. Lang observes, its second sentence, ‘So mayst thou and I and all of us ascend stepwise to Perfection’ (my emphasis), is reminiscent of the words ‘men may rise on stepping-stones’ from In Memoriam (I, l. 3), which refer to Goethe.17 Lang’s insight can, I think, be expanded upon, for Austin’s Characteristics includes the text, in both German and English, of the poem ‘The Metamorphosis of Plants’,18 in which Goethe writes: Werdend betrachte sie nun, wie, nach und nach sich die Pflanze, Stufenweise geführt, bilde zu Blüthen und Frucht.19 Here is Austin’s English version of these lines (note her characteristically literal translation of the word stufenweise, which means ‘step by step’, or ‘gradually’): Mark now the progress—how by degrees the plant step-wise led up, forms itself to blossom and to fruit.20 There are at least two reasons why Tennyson’s phrase ‘ascend stepwise to Perfection’ can be confidently identified as an echo of Austin’s translation of ‘Metamorphosis’. First, elsewhere in that poem, Goethe describes natural forms as gradually developing ‘towards a higher perfection’.21 And second, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word ‘stepwise’ did not enter the language until half a century later.22 Tennyson’s interest in German literature c.1839 may have been partly motivated by his need to maintain a sense of emotional contact with the Germanophile Hallam. This claim is lent some support by the extensive annotations in his copy of Rabenhorst’s Dictionary, for they reveal that he used it to help him read three different German texts, all of which had been admired by his late friend: Faust, Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, and Schiller’s little-known play The Bride of Messina.23 Hallam refers to the first-named work in a letter dating from September 1829, in which he writes: ‘I have taken up German eagerly, reading Schiller every evening, […] I hope to walk with Kant, and the author of Faust in another year’.24 In his celebrated essay ‘On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry, and on the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson’ (1831), Hallam compares Shelley and Keats to ‘the hero of Goethe’s novel [Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship]’, and he quotes a passage from Book V, Chapter VI of that work.25 And in a letter of September 1829, he declares effusively: ‘I am reading German now with great diligence. Oh the glories of Schiller’s Braut von Messina!’26 By walking with Goethe and Schiller, Tennyson may have been consciously following in Hallam’s footsteps, and tempering his bereavement with a consoling sense of literary intimacy. As he read Sarah Austin’s Characteristics he would have learned, moreover, of the profound impact that the death of the author of The Maid of Orleans had had upon the author of Faust. Austin cites Goethe: In the beginning of May [1805, Schiller and I] […] parted before his house-door—never to meet again … He departed on the ninth; I [had been dangerously ill, and] was now doubly and trebly attacked by all my maladies. When I had manned myself, I looked around for some important definite occupation: my first thought was to finish [the play on which Schiller had been working at the time of his death,] Demetrius. […] I burned with desire to carry forward our intercourse in despite of death; to preserve his thoughts, views, and designs even in their details; and to show here, for the last time, the highest pitch to which a common labour could be carried, by the redaction of the matter I had inherited together with that I could originate. By thus carrying forward his existence I seemed to find compensation for his loss.27 It was only when Goethe abandoned this plan that his grieving began in earnest: I dare not, even now, think of the state into which I felt myself plunged. Now was Schiller indeed torn from me—now had I first lost his society. […] [I]ntolerable grief seized me; and, as bodily suffering cut me off from all society, I was secluded in most melancholy solitude. My journal bears no record of that time; the blank leaves tell of the void in my existence. […] How often must I inwardly smile in after times, when sympathizing friends looked in vain for Schiller’s monument in Weimar; then and ever I bethought me that I could have founded the noblest [monument], the most satisfactory to him and to our companionship.28 I propose that in The Princess, Tennyson is, in a broad sense, taking up Goethe’s abandoned plan. For just as the completed Demetrius would have been, in effect, a collaboration between Goethe and Schiller, echoes of the two men’s work are brought together in Tennyson’s poem. In The Princess, Goethe and Schiller are, figuratively speaking, reunited. So too, perhaps, are Tennyson and Hallam, for the former appears to have felt a sense of identification with Goethe, and his loss of Schiller. F. T. Palgrave recounts that in July 1853 (just two months before the twentieth anniversary of Hallam’s death), Tennyson read out to him Goethe’s poem ‘upon the sight of Schiller’s skull’, which he ‘valued for its stately beauty and tender feeling for a friend’.29 And in August 1865, Tennyson visited Weimar, where (as his wife Emily recorded in her journal), ‘we tried to impress upon our driver that we wanted to see all which concerned’ Goethe and Schiller: A. and the boys [were taken] inside the Fürstengruft [Royal Tomb], where they saw Goethe’s and Schiller’s coffins lying beside those of the Royal Family. Lionel had a leaf of bay given him for A. from Goethe’s coffin. […] Afterwards we drove to Schiller’s house […]. [O]n [his bed was] a portrait of himself, said to be good, taken soon after death. The “other-world” peace of it struck A. and me. […] Went […] to Goethe’s town-house. […] The Director […] took us into the sacred study. One cannot explain in words the awe and sadness with which this long dark room filled A.30 ‘I touched Goethe’s coffin’, Tennyson told William Allingham in October, declaring Weimar to be ‘the most interesting place in Europe’.31 The links between The Princess, and Goethe and Schiller—and beyond to Tennyson and Hallam—are most clearly revealed in its most celebrated passage, the beautiful self-contained lyric ‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height’ (VII, ll. 177–207). There is a considerable amount of biographical material (relating to all four individuals) which is relevant to our understanding of this text. Tennyson wrote it in German-speaking Switzerland in August 1846. Many of the details of this tour (which he recorded in a journal, in a manuscript book of The Princess) suggest that Goethe, Schiller, and Hallam were on his mind. This was only Tennyson’s second lengthy visit to the Continent since he and Hallam had travelled to Germany in 1832, and he chose to retrace the route of that trip by journeying, once again, down the Rhine: Nonnenwerth and Drachenfels brought ‘sad recollections’.32 On 6 August, he spent the night in Mannheim, which from 1783 to 1785 had been the home of Schiller.33 In Lucerne on the 8th, he spoke to an ‘agreeable Swiss young lady to whom I quoted Goethe and she spouted [Schiller’s] William Tell’ (which is set in the area).34 Tennyson’s journal ends on 12 August, as he heads ‘over the hills to Meyringen’ in the Bernese Alps, but his son’s Memoir of him informs us that ‘Come down, O maid’ was written elsewhere in that region, ‘chiefly at Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald’.35 There is evidence to suggest that Tennyson would have associated this whole area with Goethe, Hallam, and Schiller. The celebrated Reichenbach Falls near Meiringen and, in particular, the Staubbach Falls above Lauterbrunnen (which are the highest in Switzerland) can be confidently identified as the principal sources of inspiration for Tennyson’s ‘thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke’ (VII, l. 198). In October 1779, Goethe, too, had visited the Bernese Alps, and had been inspired by these same waterfalls to write his ‘Song of the Spirits over the Waters’.36 If Tennyson at some point had a look at Karl Bädeker’s newly published guide to Die Schweiz (Switzerland) (1844), he might have been aware of this connection, for in his description of the Staubbach, Bädeker cites ten lines from Goethe’s poem.37 An even more significant visitor—at least from Tennyson’s point of view—arrived in June 1822: the eleven-year-old Arthur Hallam, who was on holiday with his parents. His mother Julia kept a journal of the trip: 30th [June]: we proceeded up the narrow picturesque valley of the Luschinen [sic] to Lauterbrunnen where we spent the day. [My husband] Henry walked with his guide to see the fall of the Smadribach [sic]. Arthur & I mounted the char horses & rode part of the way – the fall of the Staubbach near the inn is worth seeing from its singularity – the volume of water is not large; but it falls entirely in a sheet of foam, which has a beautiful effect.38 The next day, she writes, ‘Arthur & I went in the Char to Grindelwald’, and the day after, the family ‘descended 6 hours to Meyringen’, passing ‘the fine fall of the Reichenbach’ on their way.39 This spectacular journey would certainly have been a memorable experience for an eleven-year-old boy, so it is possible that Hallam would have described it years later to Tennyson. Unlike Goethe and Hallam, Schiller never visited the Bernese Alps, but the fact that Tennyson associated him with this region can be clearly demonstrated. As mentioned above, the glossary in Harvard Notebook 17 reveals that in late 1833, Tennyson was attempting to read the German text of the ‘Prologue’ to The Maid of Orleans. He returned to this play a few years later: in the copy of Schiller’s Sämmtliche Werke (Complete Works) that is at the Tennyson Research Centre, The Maid is the only text in this 1,304-page volume that is heavily annotated, with numerous English glosses of German words in the poet’s hand.40 Beneath one of these notes, Tennyson has written ‘Noehden’, and under another, ‘Noeh’.41 These are references to G. H. Noehden, the editor of the German dictionary that he was given for Christmas in 1838, and his glosses have clearly been made with the help of that work. This—and the level of German which the annotations suggest—would seem to indicate that Tennyson read The Maid of Orleans either in 1839, or in the first half of the 1840s. The maid of the title is, of course, Joan of Arc, and scene 2 of the ‘Prologue’ is played out between herself, her father Thibaut, and the young shepherd who is in love with her, Raimond. When Thibaut laments the fact that Joan is unresponsive to Raimond’s attentions, the latter defends her in fifteen lines of verse (from which Tennyson noted down two words in his 1833 glossary, annotating the same two words again years later in the Collected Works).42 They include the following: Yet loves she on the mountain heights to rove, And from the dewy heath fears she to come Down to the haunts of men, where eating cares And low-born passions dwell. Oft from the vale Wondering have I beheld her noble form, Upon the upland pastures, as she stood In towering dignity, tending her flock.43 The theme of these pentameters recurs in those of Tennyson: ‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?[’] (VII, ll. 177–9) In an alternative draft of the first two lines, Tennyson wrote: ‘O Daughter of the height & of the cold | Come to us, mountain shepherdess’.44 Schiller’s opening stage direction refers to Joan as one of Thibaut’s ‘three daughters’, and the words of Raimond cited above make it clear that she is a mountain shepherdess (‘Prolog’. 1., stage direction before line 1 / 205). ‘Come down, O maid’ may have begun to germinate in Tennyson’s mind on 11 August 1846, when (as he recorded in his journal) he saw ‘far off [the] Jungfrau [mountain] looking as if delicately pencilled’.45 The Jungfrau (which means ‘virgin’) is the highest peak in the Bernese Alps, and it dominates the region. As Julia Hallam wrote in her journal in 1822: ‘The Jungfrau is the great ornament of this spot – from the Inn window [in Lauterbrunnen], we had a magnificent view of it, embellished with the various tints of the setting sun’.46 The German title of The Maid of Orleans is Die Jungfrau von Orleans, and the word Jungfrau is used on more than fifty different occasions in the text. It is not difficult to make the necessary inference: Tennyson linked the Jungfrau of the Alps to the Jungfrau of Schiller’s drama. The close bond between maid and mountain in this lyric can be partly attributed to their shared name.47 It is likely, therefore, that Tennyson associated his shepherd with Goethe (who had stood in the valley where the poem was written), and his maid with Schiller (to whose play she can be traced). Tennyson might, in turn, have identified himself with the former, and Hallam with the latter.48 This interpretation could help to explain why he made two important changes to his source. In Schiller’s play, the mountain heights are portrayed as a refuge, but the poem associates them, instead, with death: the maid lives ‘In height and cold’, moving ‘so near the Heavens’, and walking ‘With Death and Morning’ (VII, ll. 179, 180, 189). Even the high Alpine waterfall, with its ‘thousand wreaths’, is abundantly mournful (VII, l. 198). In some of Tennyson’s drafts, these suggestions of mortality are stronger still: ‘there is death among the silver horns’, he writes; ‘[…] leave the cold, the death’; ‘[…] Descend, descend & move no more in Heaven’.49 So, whereas Schiller’s Raimond is happy to accept Joan’s wanderings, Tennyson’s shepherd—right from his opening word—addresses the maid in the imperative, gently pleading with her to cross the ‘threshold’, and return to life and love (The Maid, ‘Prolog’. 2. 65–8 / 208; The Princess, VII, l. 185). The poem can be seen as Tennyson’s attempt to entice the dead Hallam down from ‘the lifelessness of those high places’,50 and into the valley, an environment which is strongly suggestive of the most treasured episode of their friendship. In the words of Robert Bernard Martin: Recurrently sounding through the poetry written after [Tennyson’s] Pyrenean trip [of 1830] is the word ‘valley’, always connected with love, usually with youth, and frequently with Arthur Hallam. […] As he was to write in The Princess, nearly two decades later, ‘Love is of the valley’ [VII, ll. 183, 184; see also l. 195]. […] Much of [‘Come down, O maid’] rings with echoes of his stay with Hallam in Cauteretz [in the French Pyrenees].51 Like Tennyson’s late friend, the maid has entered the deathly region which she now inhabits at an early age (the literal translation of Jungfrau—or junge Frau—is ‘young woman’). The shepherd confidently expects that she will eventually descend and rejoin him in the valley (which, with its maize, vines, and red wine (VII, ll. 186–8), is more redolent of southern France than it is of high-altitude Lauterbrunnen, where ‘little fruit can be grown’.52 Tennyson could well be seeking to bring his departed friend back to life through the power of his poetry.53 This imaginative reunion of Goethe and Schiller—and of Tennyson and Hallam—may also be perceptible in the ‘medley’ that is The Princess as a whole, for the poem interweaves elements from Faust: Part Two and The Maid of Orleans.54 Tennyson could have been led to couple these two works by a passage in Act IV of the latter, in which Joan’s father accuses her of being a kind of female Faust: ‘to the foe of man | Did she make over her immortal part’ (IV. 11. 2992–3 / 350). There is, however, a further link between the two plays, and it is this which provides, I believe, the key to Tennyson’s response to them. As discussed above, The Maid inspired him to write a lyric in which a man tries to entice a woman down from ‘the Heavens’, thus bringing her, implicitly, back to life.55 This is also the relationship between the sixteenth-century Faust and the ancient Greek Helena, in Acts I to III of Part Two—although here, the home of the dead is not the Christian heaven, but the classical underworld. In Carlyle’s 1828 article on ‘Goethe’s “Helena”’ (which is included in his Critical and Miscellaneous Essays (1839), an 1840 copy of which Tennyson owned),56 we find the following quotation from Goethe: The old Legend tells us, […] that Faust, in his imperious pride of heart, required from Mephistopheles the love of the fair Helena of Greece; in which demand the other, after some reluctance, gratified him. […] [He] found means to bring back the individual Helena, in person, out of Orcus into Life.57 A similar resurrection is implicitly described in The Princess—which can, in this respect, be usefully compared to In Memoriam.58 In both works, the expression of love is also an encounter with mortality: in order for passion to be fulfilled, it must surmount the barrier between life and death. This theme—which is clearly stated in In Memoriam—is no more than hinted at in The Princess. There is, however, a broad similarity between the two poems, which may be significant: in both works, the speaker yearns to be reunited with an individual with whom he had once had a close bond, but who has now undergone a sudden and unexpected change. Some of the details of these two transformations seem comparable. In section LXXXIV of In Memoriam, Tennyson looks back to 1833, and addresses his dead friend (who had been engaged to his sister Emily): the day was drawing on, When thou shouldst link thy life with one Of mine own house. (ll. 10–12) That day never came, however, for whilst holidaying in ‘Imperial’ Vienna, Hallam was seized by a ‘sudden frost’, and ‘turned to something strange’ (XCVIII, l. 29, LXXXI, l. 10, XLI, l. 5). In section I of The Princess, the speaker recalls that ‘when the days drew nigh that I should wed’, unexpected news arrived from a ‘foreign court’ (ll. 40, 74). His ‘affianced’, Ida, had become as cold as the east wind, and was now a ‘strange Poet-princess’ (III, ll. 338, 215, 256). When the Prince sets forth to reverse this change, his journey suggests a transition from one form of existence to another. First, he crosses a frontier, and then, in section II, he passes through a gate, on which is written: ‘LET NO MAN ENTER IN ON PAIN OF DEATH’ (I, l. 108; II, l. 178). The Prince’s subsequent courting of Ida has a number of similarities to Faust: Part Two (in Act III of which, the hero is twice described as a ‘prince’, whilst Helena is at one point referred to as a ‘princess’).59 As John Killham points out, the speaker of Tennyson’s poem resembles the protagonists of two oriental stories, both of whom fall in love with images of their future wives before they have even met them.60 But Faust—who in Act I of Part Two is entranced by an apparition of Helena (ll. 6487–500, 6549–59 / 86, 90)—provides another precedent. Act I also includes a lengthy masquerade, in which Nymphs and goddesses appear (ll. 5065–986 / 20–58).61 The Prince’s idea of donning ‘female gear’ is suggested by his recollection of ‘how we three presented Maid | Or Nymph, or Goddess […] | In masque or pageant’ (I, ll. 196, 193–95). Faust undertakes a magical flight southwards—from Germany to Greece—in search of Helena (l. 7056 and preceding stage direction / 115), and their subsequent marriage represents, in the words of Carlyle, ‘Northern Character wedded to Grecian Culture’.62 Tennyson’s blond, blue-eyed Prince twice expresses his yearning for the dark-haired Ida by identifying himself with a southward-flying bird, and there are numerous passages in which the two characters are associated with North and South (I, ll. 1–3, 38; IV, l. 257; III, ll. 193–5; IV, ll. 70–98; I, ll. 4, 35, 165–6, 235; II, l. 246; III, ll. 102, 230; IV, ll. 411–12). The relationship between Raimond and Joan in The Maid also leaves its mark on The Princess. In section II of Tennyson’s poem, Joan is one of the female role models who are invoked by Ida’s colleague Lady Psyche. Significantly, this reference is preceded by a mention of Elizabeth I, who is one of the two central characters in Schiller’s preceding play, Mary Stuart (1800): in arts of government Elizabeth and others; arts of war The peasant Joan and others. (ll. 145–7)63 Both Joan and Ida have taken on a traditionally masculine role, whilst shunning involvement with men. As the former declares: I did not put this iron harness on, To deck with bridal wreaths my braided hair. ’Tis to a work far different I am called, Which none but a pure maid [Jungfrau] can bring to pass. I fight the battles of the Lord of Hosts, Nor must an earthly man call me his bride. (III. 4. 2199–204 / 307; see also III. 4. 2257–64 / 309) Ida seems like a scholarly version of Joan: when we set our hand To this great work, we purposed with ourself Never to wed. (II, ll. 45–7; see also I, ll. 47–9) In both texts, however, the heroine’s resolve is tested by a group of male invaders from the North: ‘saucy islanders’ in The Maid (‘Prolog’. 3. 322 / 217), and ‘a rout of saucy boys’ in The Princess (V, l. 384). The leader of this group, the Prince, is determined to break down the barriers between Ida and himself. She, however, is associated with death, being ‘as grand as doomsday and as grave’ (I, l. 185). His two attempts to create a greater intimacy with her seem to carry him, therefore, to the frontiers of existence. The first of these efforts—which takes place during the geological excursion in sections III and IV—is tentative and unsuccessful. When, in section III, the trip is about to begin, the Prince experiences one of his bouts of ‘catalepsy’,64 in which he seems ‘to move among a world of ghosts’ (I, ll. 20, 17): On a sudden my strange seizure came Upon me, […] The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show, […] And I myself the shadow of a dream, For all things were and were not. (ll. 167–9, 172–3) These words lend an air of unreality—or non-existence—to what follows. Setting out, the Prince and Ida ride side by side (l. 181), and as they gradually draw closer to one another, references to death proliferate: ‘let the topic die’; ‘[…] you will shock him even to death’; ‘[…] perchance your life may fail’ (ll. 189, 196, 220). Alluding to the days before she founded her university, the Princess states quite explicitly that she sees herself as having died: ‘We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, | Being other’ (ll. 205–6). She would, moreover, be happy to die again, eagerly contemplating a ‘single act | Of immolation, any phase of death’ (ll. 267–8). As in In Memoriam, the looming presence of mortality makes Nature herself seem redolent of extinction: the scarpéd cliff reveals ‘The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roared | Before man was’ (ll. 277–8). Ida compares the fields where she and the Prince walk to ‘the Elysian lawns’, whilst above them, ‘the Sun | Grew broader toward his death’ (ll. 324, 345–6). Even the intercalated lyric which follows this section (‘The splendour falls on castle walls’) reiterates the words ‘dying, dying, dying’ (between III and IV, ll. 6, 12, 18; see also l. 13). Like that other female death-figure—the beloved woman of ‘Come down, O maid’—Ida is closely identified with the heights. As Paul Turner observes, she takes her name from the mountain in ‘Œnone’.65 Physically lofty, she is addressed, of course, as ‘your Highness’, and she exhorts her students to ‘lift [their] natures up’ (II, l. 27; III, ll. 162– 63, 186, 195, 215; VI, ll. 305–6, 309; II, l. 74).66 At the beginning of section IV, however, she unwittingly adumbrates the maid’s descent into the valley: ‘let us down and rest’, she declares, before she and the Prince come ‘Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices’ (ll. 3, 4). As they do so, a tentative intimacy is created: ‘Once she leaned on me, | Descending; once or twice she lent her hand’ (ll. 8–9). This longed-for touch of a hand is a recurrent image in In Memoriam (VII, ll. 4–5; XIV, l. 11; CXIX, l. 12). Perhaps Ida’s return to earth is also, implicitly, Hallam’s. This faintly Schillerian descent from the heavens is quickly followed by a Goethean ascent from the underworld. In Part Two Act I, Faust journeys into the bowels of the earth: ‘A glowing tripod then will tell you this,’ Mephistopheles informs him, ‘That you have reach’d the deepest deep abyss’ (ll. 6283–4 / 75). Faust retrieves this magical object, which is needed in order to conjure up an apparition of Helena (already mentioned above). An observer describes his return to the surface: ‘A tripod rises with him from the cave, | I see the censer’s holy incense wave’ (ll. 6423–4 / 82). Music is played, and the illusory Helena appears (ll. 6444–8; stage direction before l. 6479 / 83, 85). In The Princess, as the Prince and Ida enter the tent together in section IV, the imagery and actions are similar to those in Faust: on a tripod in the midst A fragrant flame rose, and before us glowed Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. Then she, ‘Let some one sing to us: lightlier move The minutes fledged with music.’ (ll. 15–19) The ‘mournful’ (VI, l. 298) song which follows, ‘Tears, idle tears’ (ll. 21–40), can be seen as the equivalent of Faust’s attempt to conjure up the dead. It includes numerous references to death (ll. 33, 36, 40), and Tennyson even mentions ‘a sail, | That brings our friends up from the underworld’ (ll. 26–27). ‘Tears, idle tears’ was written at Tintern Abbey, which Tennyson described as being ‘full for me of its bygone memories’.67 As Douglas Bush points out, one of these may well have been the memory of Hallam, whose resting-place is nearby.68 The Prince’s second attempt to restore his bond with his ‘betrothed’ (I, l. 119) is the contest in section V, and its aftermath in VI and VII. This, too, is an encounter with death: more literal, more intense, and, ultimately, more successful. Once again, it is not just the Prince and Ida, but also Goethe and Schiller who are brought into proximity. When, in Section V, the Prince’s father declares that ‘Man is the hunter; woman is his game’ (l. 147), he is echoing the words that Faust’s libidinous son Euphorion addresses to the female chorus in Part Two Act III: ‘I am the hunter, | Ye are the game’ (ll. 9771–2 / 242). Section V is also indebted to the battle scenes in Act IV of the play: the compound ‘War-music’ (l. 256), for example, may well be Tennyson’s literal translation of ‘Kriegsmusik’ (stage direction before l. 10297). Goethe’s ‘three mighty men’ are, perhaps, the ancestors of the king’s ‘three broad sons’, whilst ‘[t]he Emperor’s Tent’ becomes Tennyson’s ‘imperial tent’ (Faust: Part Two, stage directions before ll. 10323 and 10345 / 269, 271; The Princess, ll. 259, 9). Also, in both Act IV of Part Two (ll. 10407–22, 10473–86 / 274, 277), and section V of The Princess (ll. 342–48), the ruler wishes to take part in the fighting, but is dissuaded from doing so by one or more of his subjects. Earlier, in section IV, the Prince and Ida had experienced a brief moment of physical closeness whilst one of them was near to death. Their spiritual rapprochement in VI and VII takes place in a similar context, and here, Tennyson draws, once again, on Schiller. The dramatic turning-point of The Maid comes at the end of its third act, when Joan encounters the English general Lionel on the battlefield, and is about to kill him, when she is overcome with pity (III. 10. 2454–506; III. 11. 2507–517 / 320–5). In the similarly medieval setting of a formal tournament, Ida’s ‘noble heart [is] molten in her breast’ at the sight of the wounded Prince (VI, l. 103). The Princess is now ready to embark on her second descent—a much more far-reaching one than that which had taken her from the quarry to the tent in section IV. Once again, Tennyson’s language anticipates that of ‘Come down, O maid’ (with its ‘cold’, its ‘ice’, and its ‘azure pillars of the hearth’, which beckon its addressee (VII, ll. 179, 191, 201)): we will scatter all our maids Till happier times each to her proper hearth: […] […] speak to the king: Thaw this male nature to some touch of that Which kills me with myself, and drags me down From my fixt height. (VI, ll. 283–4, 286–9; see also VII, ll. 16–17, 20–1, 28) This ‘killing’ of Ida is really a return to life, for her earlier transformation is now being reversed by a more ‘truthful change’ (VII, l. 329). But it is only in section VII, when the Prince, too, is at the threshold of life and death, that the barriers between them are finally overcome: Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death […]. […] ‘[…] I shall die tonight. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.’ I could no more, but lay like one in trance, That hears his burial talked of by his friends, And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, But lies and dreads his doom. She turned; she paused; She stooped; and out of languor leapt a cry; Leapt fiery passion from the brinks of death; And I believed that in the living world My spirit closed with Ida’s at the lips. (ll. 104, 134–43) ‘Stoop down and seem to kiss me’: this resembles Tennyson’s initial draft of line 13 of In Memoriam, XCIII (which is addressed to Hallam’s spirit): ‘Stoop soul & touch me: wed me’.69 The similarity may well be significant, for it suggests, once again, that the reunion of Ida and the Prince is also a reunion of Tennyson and Hallam. Indulging this ‘sweet dream’ (VII, ll. 130, 134) may have helped to fortify Tennyson to face the harsh realities of the later sections of In Memoriam. In LXXXIV, he briefly imagines what Hallam would have been like had he lived to old age, but the section concludes with a firm rejection of this ‘backward fancy’, which serves only to reawaken ‘[t]he old bitterness’ (ll. 46, 47). And in XCII–XCIV, he explicitly rejects the possibility that his friend will ever come back to life.70 Like the main narrative of The Princess, In Memoriam ends with marriage, the anticipation of childbirth, and the hope of better things, but even as it looks to the future, it finds space for one final, poignant, look back: a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race […] For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffered, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type. (‘Epilogue’, ll. 127–8, 134–8) Section VII of The Princess employs similar language, but in this case, the loss with which the poem began has been entirely cancelled out, and the sometimes bitter complexities of In Memoriam are, therefore, absent: ‘[…] Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be […] Then springs the crowning race of humankind. […] […] let us type them now In our own lives, […] O we will walk this world, Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so through those dark gates across the wild That no man knows […]’. (ll. 273, 279, 281–2, 339–42) This is an optimism unqualified by any past tragedy. Helena, it would seem, has been brought up from Orcus. Joan has descended from the heights. Goethe and Schiller are reunited. And so too, I think, are Tennyson and Hallam. I would like to thank, first and foremost, Kate Shotter. I would also like to express my gratitude to my supervisors, Dr Jane Wright and Dr Samantha Matthews, for their much-valued help, support, and criticism. My thanks are also due to the Arts and Humanities Research Council, which provided me with generous funding. No-one whom I met in the course of my Ph.D. was more helpful than the curator of the Tennyson Research Centre, Grace Timmins, to whom I am indebted for a number of specific discoveries. I am grateful to the staff of the British Library, Senate House Library, and the University of Bristol. I would also like to thank my father, Ken Baynes. Footnotes 1 The isolated negative comments on Germany in Hallam’s ‘Influence of Italian upon English Literature’ need to be seen in context (The Writings of Arthur Hallam, ed. T. H. Vail Motter (New York, NY, 1943), 213–34, 232–3). This piece was written to be read out in Trinity College Chapel in Cambridge in December 1831, and speaking in this sacred environment—just a short time after a further outbreak of political upheaval in Europe—Hallam is likely to have been mindful of the fact that in England, German culture was associated with immorality, irreligion, and revolution. 2 The Letters of Arthur Henry Hallam, ed. Jack Kolb (Columbus, OH, 1981), 334, 343. 3 Hallam, Letters, 356. 4 Hallam, Letters, 343; Hallam, Writings, 308–11. For Hallam’s praise of Schiller, see his Letters, 314, 322, 337, 344–5, 441, and 614. 5 The Poems of Tennyson, ed. Christopher Ricks, 2nd edn, 3 vols (Harlow, 1987), II, 304–459. All quotations from Tennyson’s poetry are from this edition unless otherwise indicated. 6 The poem was repeatedly revised thereafter, not reaching its final form until 1853. 7 Lincoln, Tennyson Research Centre, AT/3274 (hereafter TRC). This volume is listed in the uncompleted inventory of his own books that Tennyson drew up around 1861 (Lincoln, TRC, MS N/25), so it will have been at some point after that date that he passed it on to one of his sisters (who inscribed it ‘Maud Tennyson from Alfred’). According to Hallam Tennyson’s Memoir of his father, ‘he often quoted [Faust] with lavish praise’, and elsewhere in this volume, the poet acclaims Goethe as ‘one of the great artists of the world’ (Hallam Lord Tennyson, Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Memoir by his Son, 2 vols (London, 1897), II, 504, fn; 422–3; see also 287–8, 376–7, 457, and 464; hereafter Memoir). 8 The Tennyson Archive, ed. Christopher Ricks and Aidan Day, 31 vols (New York, NY, 1987–1993), II: The Harvard Manuscripts: Notebooks 5–15 (MS Eng 952), 266 (hereafter Archive). 9 Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Sämtliche Werke. Briefe, Tagebücher und Gespräche, ed. Friedmar Apel, Hendrik Birus, and others, 40 vols (Frankfurt a.M., 1987–1999), VII (I): Faust. Texte, ed. Albrecht Schöne, 9–464 (hereafter Goethe, SW). 10 Archive, III: The Harvard Manuscripts: Notebooks 16–17 (MS Eng 952), 36. 11 Friedrich Schiller, Werke und Briefe, ed. Otto Dann, Axel Gellhaus, and others, 12 vols (Frankfurt a.M., 1988–2004), V: Dramen IV, ed. Matthias Luserke, 149–277, ‘Prolog’, 1. 1–42, 2. 43–95. The German glossary in Harvard Notebook 14 (which also dates from c. 1833) relates to Schiller’s essay ‘On the Sublime’ (Archive, II, 279–80; Schiller, Werke und Briefe, VIII: Theoretische Schriften, ed. Rolf-Peter Janz, 822–40). 12 A letter of December 1842 confirms that he was by that time able to read German, although four years later, he wrote: ‘Would that my acquaintance were more perfect with German’ (The Letters of Alfred Lord Tennyson, ed. Cecil Y. Lang and Edgar F. Shannon, Jr., 3 vols (Oxford, 1982–90), I: 1821–1850, 214, 262). Citing these words, his son adds: ‘He could read German with ease at this time’ (Memoir, I, 271, fn). 13 Lincoln, TRC, AT/1017, 1013, 469, 1846. All four volumes bear the inscription ‘A. Tennyson. Xmas Day 1838’ (or similar) in the poet’s hand. 14 For more on the influence of Meister on Tennyson, see Ian H. C. Kennedy’s important article ‘Alfred Tennyson’s Bildungsgang: Notes on his Early Reading’, Philological Quarterly, 57 (1978), 82–103. 15 Goethe, SW, IX: Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung, Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderten, ed. Wilhelm Voßkamp and Herbert Jaumann, 558–9 / The Works of Thomas Carlyle, ed. Henry Duff Traill, Centenary Edition, 30 vols (London, 1896–99), XXIII: Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship and Travels I, 232. 16 Tennyson, Letters, I, 174–5. 17 Cecil Y. Lang, ‘Introduction’, in Nancie Campbell (ed.), Tennyson in Lincoln: A Catalogue of the Collections in the Research Centre, 2 vols (Lincoln, 1971–73), I, ix–xiv (xi); Memoir, II, 391, and fn. 18 The copy of Goethe’s Gedichte (Poems) that is at the Tennyson Research Centre indicates that the poet studied this lyric with some care. He has underlined more than a dozen words or phrases, providing marginal glosses for most of them (Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Gedichte, 2 vols (Stuttgart, 1829), Lincoln, TRC, ET/3336, I, 199–201). Tennyson had acquired this book by 1837 at the latest (on the title page is the inscription ‘A Tennyson | Somersby | Lincolnsh[ire]’, which ceased to be his address after that date). 19 Goethe, SW, I: Gedichte. 1756–1799, ed. Karl Eibl, 639–41, ll. 9–10 / Sarah Austin (trans.), Characteristics of Goethe: From the German of Falk, von Müller, &c. With Notes, Original and Translated, Illustrative of German Literature, 3 vols (London, 1833), I, 164 (my emphasis). 20 Austin, Characteristics, I, 168 (my emphasis). 21 Goethe, SW, I, 640, l. 34 / Austin, Characteristics, I, 169. 22 ‘stepwise, adv. and adj.’, Oxford English Dictionary, <http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/189876?redirectedFrom=stepwise#eid>, accessed 5 April 2017. In his copy of Rabenhorst’s German Dictionary, Tennyson underlined the word Stufe (‘step’), the ensuing definition of which includes the word stufenweise (Lincoln, TRC, AT/1846, II, 353). 23 He wrote the relevant lines from these works in the margin, followed by ‘Faust’, ‘W. M.’, or ‘B. v. M.’ (Lincoln, TRC, AT/1846, II, 20, 34, 44, 64, 65, 90, 151, 185, 187, 308, 311, 363, 389, 416, 425). 24 Hallam, Letters, 322. 25 Hallam, Writings, 182–98, 186; refers to Goethe, SW, IX, 670 / Carlyle, Works, XXIII, 340. 26 Hallam, Letters, 314. Another of Tennyson’s 1838 Christmas presents was Gedichte (Poems) by Ludwig Tieck, one of whose lyrics Hallam had translated, and whom he refers to in a letter of March 1830 (Lincoln, TRC, AT/2217, inscribed ‘A. Tennyson, Xmas Day, 1838’; Hallam, Writings, 312–13; Hallam, Letters, 356). 27 Goethe, SW, XVII: Tag- und Jahreshefte, ed. Irmtraut Schmid, 141–2 / Austin, Characteristics, II, 325–6. 28 Goethe, SW, XVII, 142–3 / Austin, Characteristics, II, 327–8. 29 Memoir, II, 504. Palgrave is referring to ‘In the solemn burial-vault’ (Goethe, SW, II: Gedichte. 1800–1832, ed. Karl Eibl, 684–5 / Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Selected Verse, trans. David Luke (Harmondsworth, 1964), 326–7). 30 Lady Tennyson’s Journal, ed. James O. Hoge (Charlottesville, VA, 1981), 231, 232. 31 William Allingham’s Diary: 1847–1889, ed. H. Allingham and D. Radford (London, 1907; repr. 2000), 125. 32 Memoir, I, 252, 230–3, 232. 33 Memoir, I, 232; H. B. Garland, Schiller (London, 1949; repr. Westport, CT, 1976), 79–94. 34 Memoir, I, 232 (see also 233). 35 Memoir, I, 233, 252. 36 Nicholas Boyle, Goethe: The Poet and the Age (Oxford, 1991–), I: The Poetry of Desire (1749–1790), 309; Goethe, SW, I, 318–19 / Goethe, Selected Verse, 58–9. In Tennyson’s copy of Goethe’s Gedichte (Poems), ‘Song of the Spirits’ has two glosses (Lincoln, TRC, ET/3336, I, 292–3). Hallam Tennyson informs us that this volume was probably one of his father’s ‘usual travelling companions’ (Memoir, I, 341). 37 [Karl Bädeker], Die Schweiz. Handbüchlein für Reisende, nach eigener Anschauung und den besten Hülfsquellen bearbeitet (Koblenz, 1844), 150. This guide includes more than a dozen quotations from Goethe (many of them lengthy), and almost as many from Schiller. Goethe’s lines ‘Keep not standing fix’d and rooted’, which Tennyson will have known from Meister, are cited on the title-page (Goethe, SW, X: Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre, ed. Gerhard Neumann and Hans-Georg Dewitz, 173 / Carlyle, Works, XXIV: Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship and Travels II, 345). 38 London, British Library, MS Hallam Papers, Additional Manuscripts, 81293–305 (81295A, 12–13). 39 London, British Library, MS Hallam Papers, Additional Manuscripts, 81293–305 (81295A, 13, 15). 40 Schiller’s sämmtliche Werke in einem Bande (Stuttgart, 1834), Lincoln, TRC, AT/1947, 459–98. 41 Lincoln, TRC, AT/1947, 460, 496. 42 Schiller, Werke und Briefe, V, ‘Prolog’. 2. 68, 74; Archive, III, 36; Lincoln, TRC, AT/1947, 459. 43 Schiller, Werke und Briefe, V, ‘Prolog’. 2. 69–75 / Mary Stuart, A Tragedy; The Maid of Orleans, A Tragedy: From the German of Schiller, with a Life of the Author, trans. Rev. H. Salvin (London, 1824), 208. All subsequent references to The Maid of Orleans are to these two editions, with Act, scene and line references to Schiller’s text being followed by page references to Salvin’s. As we will see below, there is considerable evidence to suggest that Tennyson was familiar with this translation (which at the time of his attempted study of the German text of the play in 1833, was the only complete one available; see R. Pick, Schiller in England 1787–1960: A Bibliography (London, 1961), 1–27, esp. 19). 44 Archive, XXVI: The Manuscripts at the University Library, Cambridge, 222. 45 Memoir, I, 233; see also II, 65. 46 London, British Library, MS Hallam Papers, Additional Manuscripts, 81293–305 (81295A, 13). 47 Adjacent to the Jungfrau is another peak, the Silberhorn (‘Silver Horn’), to which Tennyson refers in line 189 of the lyric (and again in a letter dating from November 1852 (Tennyson, Letters, II: 1851–1870, 49)). 48 In August 1846, Hallam’s father was staying in Lausanne; Tennyson may have visited him there just a few days after he wrote ‘Come down, O maid’ (see Robert Bernard Martin, Tennyson: The Unquiet Heart (Oxford, 1980) 308). 49 Archive, XXVI, 223, 227. 50 Tennyson, Letters, II, 49. 51 Martin, Tennyson, 120, 307. See also ‘In the Valley of Cauteretz’. 52 Bädeker, Die Schweiz, 149. 53 The other poem which the Princess reads out in section VII, ‘Now sleeps the crimson petal’ (ll. 161–74), may be influenced by Goethe’s East-West Divan, a copy of which Tennyson owned (see W. D. Paden, ‘Tennyson and Persian Poetry, Again’, Modern Language Notes, 58 (1943), 652–6, 654; Lincoln, TRC, AT/1016). 54 It may be significant that both works are mentioned repeatedly in Austin’s Characteristics (II, 85, 86, 87, 94, 317; III, 43–5, 87–8, 94, 256, 296–7, 303–4, 305). Also, it was only in the years 1838–43 that Faust: Part Two really came into its own in Britain, with translations appearing at the rate of about one a year, and its new-found popularity overlapped with a comparable vogue for The Maid, seven translations of which were published between 1841 and 1848 (see William Frederic Hauhart, The Reception of Goethe’s ‘Faust’ in England in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century (New York, NY, 1909), 140–1, 144–5; Pick, Schiller in England, 34–44). 55 Tennyson’s attention might also have been caught by Joanna’s brief resurrection in the play’s closing scene: SOREL. SOREL. She opes her eyes! She lives! BURGUNDY (astonished). How! does she come back from the grave? Does she subdue the all-destroyer, death? See, see! she rises up! she stands! (V. 14. 3517–19 / 380). 56 Lincoln, TRC, AT/713. ‘Helena’ is the title that Goethe gave to Part Two Act III when he published it separately in 1827. 57 Goethe, SW, XXII: Ästhetische Schriften. 1824–1832, ed. Anne Bohnenkamp, 391 / Carlyle, Works, XXVI: Critical and Miscellaneous Essays I, 146–97 (165). If Faust can be linked to The Maid, the latter can be linked, in turn, to Schiller’s sometimes free translation of Carlo Gozzi’s play Turandot, which John Killham cautiously suggests as an influence on The Princess (Schiller, Werke und Briefe, IX: Übersetzungen und Bearbeitungen, ed. Heinz Gerd Ingenkamp, 371–465; John Killham, Tennyson and ‘The Princess’: Reflections of an Age (London, 1958), 222–9). ‘Schiller’, he observes, ‘[…] goes much further [than Gozzi]. […] [W]e cannot fail to notice that [in his version of the play,] the original heroine of the fairy tale has been changed into an ardent supporter of women’s rights’ (Killham, Tennyson and ‘The Princess’, 227, 228). Turandot (which is included in the edition of Schiller’s Complete Works that Tennyson owned) is based on the oriental tales which Killham cites as the main influences on The Princess (Lincoln, TRC, AT/1947, 597–624; Killham, Tennyson and ‘The Princess’, 198–211). The various sources of Tennyson’s poem might be seen, therefore, as comprising a chain of interrelated works. 58 The gestation periods of these two poems overlap substantially: from 1839 to 1850, Tennyson was working—albeit intermittently—on both. The theme of resurrection is dealt with explicitly in In Memoriam, XXXI and XXXII. 59 Goethe, SW, VII (I), ll. 9191, 9491, 9385 / Faust: A Tragedy by J. W. Goethe. Part II, as Completed in 1831, trans. Anon., 2nd edn (London, 1842), 216, 229, 225. Subsequent references to Faust are to these two editions, with line references to Goethe’s text being followed by page references to the 1842 translation. The occasional similarities between the latter and parts of The Princess suggest that Tennyson may have been familiar with it. 60 The Princess, I, ll. 37, 89–99; Killham, Tennyson and ‘The Princess’, 203, 205, 209–10. 61 One of these goddesses is Aglaia, whose name is inherited by the child in The Princess (and later on in Part Two, the name of her mother, Psyche, is used as well (ll. 5299–300, 11660 / 30, 333)). 62 Carlyle, Works, XXVI, 191. 63 As mentioned earlier, Salvin’s volume comprises translations of Mary Stuart and The Maid, and in Tennyson’s copy of Schiller’s Complete Works, these two plays are printed consecutively (Lincoln, TRC, AT/1947, 415–98). The ‘lady […] that armed | Her own fair head’ who is described in the ‘Prologue’ to The Princess (ll. 32–48, esp. ll. 32–3) also resembles Joan, right down to her ‘eyes’, which are ‘on fire’ (l. 41) (Joan has ‘eyes of fire’ (II. 6. 1570 / 277)). 64 These were added in 1851. 65 Paul Turner, Tennyson (London, 1976), 102. Tennyson ‘wrote part of Œnone in the valley of Cauteretz’ with Hallam (Alfred Lord Tennyson, Works, ed. Hallam Lord Tennyson, 9 vols (London, 1907–08), I: Poems 1, 358). In section V of The Princess, Ida is described as ‘standing like a stately Pine | Set in a cataract on an island-crag’ (ll. 336–7). This image, Tennyson tells us, is ‘Taken from a torrent above Cauteretz’ (Tennyson, Works, IV: The Princess and Maud, 261). 66 See also III, ll. 207–8; V, ll. 271, 276, 499–503; VI, l. 14. 67 Memoir, I, 253. 68 Douglas Bush (ed.), ‘Alfred, Lord Tennyson’, in G. B. Harrison (ed.), Major British Writers, 2nd edn, 2 vols (New York, NY, 1959), II, 369–466, 408. 69 Archive, XVI: The Manuscripts and Proofs at the Tennyson Research Centre: Lincoln M1–M37, N12, P7–P83, 58. 70 As Alfred Gatty points out, lines 13–16 of XCII contain an echo of Coleridge’s translation of Schiller’s Death of Wallenstein (Alfred Gatty, A Key to Lord Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’, 4th edn (London, 1894), 100, fn). As Ricks observes (Poems of Tennyson, II, 409–10, fn), Hallam may be alluding to this passage in a letter to his fiancée Emily Tennyson of December 1832 (Hallam, Letters, 706). © The Author 2017. Published by Oxford University Press 2017; all rights reserved This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/about_us/legal/notices)
The Review of English Studies – Oxford University Press
Published: Dec 15, 2017
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