The Spirit of Heidelberg Romanticism

In this evocative essay, Emre Aracı retraces the poetic and musical spirit of Heidelberg, where memory, music, and Romanticism converge. Guided by a faded postcard, he returns to the castle above the Neckar, wanders the streets once trodden by Mozart, Schumann, and Brahms, and revisits the enchanted landscapes that inspired Goethe and Marianne von Willemer’s "West-östlicher Divan". Through serendipitous encounters and haunting echoes of the past, Aracı reveals how Heidelberg continues to bestow quiet miracles upon the solitary traveller in search of beauty.

“Hail to thee, ancient palace of princes, crowned with rich garlands” — thus wrote Marianne von Willemer in her poem Das Heidelberger Schloss, saluting with lyrical tenderness that monumental fortress, part ruin, part dream, which rises in majestic red stone above the Neckar River. A fusion of Gothic austerity and Renaissance grace, its very walls bear the imprint of the centuries that shaped them. Lines from Willemer’s poem were later inscribed in Gothic script upon a dedication tablet affixed to a commanding fragment of wall overlooking the city from the castle terrace, dated 28 August 1899. 

The tablet was installed to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the birth of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe — that towering figure of German letters, poet, thinker, and seer. It was unveiled by Grand Duke Friedrich of Baden and his consort, Duchess Luise, on 29 October that year. It was a fitting homage, for the poem had originally been composed and gifted to Goethe himself in 1824, on the occasion of his birthday. These verses — flowing from Zuleika to Hatem — had once been born into the living air of Heidelberg Castle, their secret symbols and leafy metaphors whispering of a real and profound love. In truth, they were an enduring reply to the insatiable avarice of the material world, a quiet act of defiance in the name of eternal affection — a monument wrought by the twin architects of the West-östlicher Divan.

" I first encountered a lone figure in an old postcard, which seemed to beckon me to Heidelberg"

Many a solitary traveller, rucksack on back, cane or umbrella in hand, straw-hatted, has passed before that tablet. Their spirits, stirred by the tolling of church bells rising from the valleys below, may well have conjured the ghosts of lost loves as they gazed from that lofty vantage point over the bewitching panorama. I first encountered such a lone figure in an old postcard, a century old, which seemed to beckon me to Heidelberg. 

It was evening when I stepped onto the cobbled Hauptstraße, just as the Allegro from Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik rang out from the Rathaus bell tower in Karlsplatz. And there, as though summoned by some divine synchronicity, the illuminated silhouette of the castle emerged before me — resplendent, theatrical, timeless. It was a reception of pure poetry, bestowed in a quiet, off-season Heidelberg untroubled by tourist throngs. Mozart himself had once wandered these same streets. In July 1763, he visited the town with his father Leopold and sister Nannerl, travelling from Schwetzingen Palace. He was seven years old. At the great Romanesque-Gothic Church of the Holy Spirit (Heiliggeistkirche), he played the organ, astonishing those who heard him, just as he did wherever he went. A plaque was once affixed in commemoration — though, alas, it has since been lost to time.

And so, my first evening in Heidelberg began with Mozart — but the town, ever hungry for creative spirits, would cradle many more musicians in its embrace. Walking further along the Hauptstraße, I spotted a modest commemorative plaque beneath a first-floor window at No. 160. It bore the name of Robert Schumann, who had resided there. His 16 months in Heidelberg between 1829 and 1830 were transformative. Having come to study law at the university after his time in Leipzig, it was here he found his true calling and left resolved to follow his inner voice. On 30 July 1830, he wrote to his mother from Heidelberg:

“In Leipzig I lived without worrying about a life plan … Here I have worked more, and yet in both places I have become ever more bound to art. Now I stand at a crossroads, and the question ‘Where to?’ leaves me stunned. If I follow my inner gift, I believe it will lead me to art — and to the right path”.

The rest, as we know, belongs to music history. In Heidelberg, Schumann composed his Abegg Variations, Op. 1 — a work as cryptic and rich in symbolism as his life itself. He dedicated it to Countess Pauline von Abegg, transmuting the letters of her name into musical notes — a technique he would later employ in other compositions. Yet no such countess existed. It seems he had met a young pianist named Meta Abegg in Mannheim and, in the imaginative alchemy so typical of Schumann, transformed her into the fictional Pauline.

"Even Chopin and Mendelssohn are said to have glimpsed this same view" (photo © Emre ARACI)

As I wandered the streets alone, gazing upon the statues of the Karl Theodor Bridge or the blossoming cherry trees along the Neckar — so reminiscent of Prague’s Charles Bridge — I could not help but feel that the seeds of this heightened sensibility had begun to germinate in me too. Even Chopin and Mendelssohn are said to have glimpsed this same view. And in August 1854, Johannes Brahms arrived in Heidelberg. In a letter to Clara Schumann, (published in Harald Pfeiffer, Johannes Brahms in Heidelberg und Ziegelhausen, Engelsdorfer Verlag, 2008), he wrote:

“I arrived in Heidelberg late on Saturday; I should like to speak with you at length about the magnificent castle ruins. I have found the house in which your husband once lived as a student”.

How strange to imagine Brahms pacing these same streets in search of Schumann’s lodgings. He would return in 1855 — this time with Clara herself. Their spirits, one feels, still linger among the city’s hushed alleyways. In the Alte Aula of Heidelberg University — more shrine than classroom, with its wood-panelled walls — time itself seems to stand still.

"The Alte Aula of Heidelberg University — more shrine than classroom" (photo © Emre ARACI)

Once part of the Holy Roman Empire, Heidelberg Castle suffered the ravages of conflict and the fire sparked by lightning in 1764. When Karl Theodor moved his court from Mannheim to Munich in 1777, the castle was abandoned, and ivy slowly reclaimed its walls. Thus did the ruins begin to turn their face towards the spirit of what would become known as Heidelberg Romanticism. Writers such as Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano, enchanted by legend and longing for the aesthetic of the past, sought to preserve the castle’s original fabric from excessive restoration. Their folk-song anthology Des Knaben Wunderhorn (1805–1808), compiled in Heidelberg, inspired countless composers, Gustav Mahler foremost among them. Its spell has endured ever since.

 "The spirit of what would become known as Heidelberg Romanticism"

Among those similarly enchanted was the young Englishman Patrick Leigh Fermor, who set out from London in December 1933 on a journey to Istanbul — on foot, with only a rucksack. He arrived in Heidelberg on New Year’s Eve. Entering the Roten Ochsen, a student tavern hung with faded daguerreotypes, he was welcomed by the kindly Spengel family, who offered him shelter that cold night. The next day their son Fritz took him up to the castle. In A Time of Gifts Fermor recalled:

“That afternoon, with Fritz and a friend, we climbed through the forest to see the ruins of the palace overshadowing the city: a vast, dark-red stone complex, suspended above the town, shifting between pink, crimson, or purple with the vagaries of light and hour. Its fundamental mass is medieval, yet the Renaissance repeatedly bursts forth in doorways, courtyards, and galleries, expanding into the elegant carvings of the sixteenth century”.

They had arrived before a monumental ceremonial gateway: “Slapping a red column, Fritz exclaimed, ‘Guess the name of this gate! Elizabeth or the English Gate! The English Princess—The Winter Queen! The merry daughter of James I, Elizabeth, Electress Palatine, and Queen of Bohemia for a single year! She came here as a bride at seventeen, and, throughout her five-year reign, my friends tell me, Heidelberg had never seen such masques, revelries, and balls’”, (Patrick Leigh Fermor, A Time of Gifts, John Murray, 1977).

"As I ascended the castle many years later, those words rang in my mind"  (photo © Emre ARACI)

As I ascended the castle many years later, those words rang in my mind. And there, suddenly before me, stood the elegant form of the Elizabeth Gate. Not far beyond it was the dedication tablet bearing lines from Willemer’s birthday poem to Goethe — the very same tablet I had once seen in that old postcard. Though the original had long vanished, a new and simpler one had taken its place, engraved with the same verses. 

Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, inspired by Hafiz and fuelled by his intellectual bond with Willemer, had given birth to a unique poetic dialogue: Goethe became “Hatem”, and Willemer “Zuleika”. They used these names even in their letters. Five of the Divan’s poems were later revealed, after Willemer’s death in 1869, to have been written by her — Goethe’s beloved “Zuleika” — whose voice lives on even in Schubert’s songs. And there is still a Ginkgo tree — two, in fact — in the castle gardens. Goethe showed the original to Willemer on 15 September 1815, during their final meeting. He plucked two leaves and later affixed them to his manuscript of the Gingo biloba poem, which he sent to her as a token of their bond. I saw only the bare branches of that tree on my visit — the season not yet ripe. 

But my return to Heidelberg had another purpose: as a child of eight, I had once stood in the castle courtyard with my parents and elder brother, part of a tourist group captured in a photograph. Now, forty-seven years later, I had returned — my hair silvered — to relive that moment. When I consulted my brother’s diary, I discovered a small miracle: the photograph had been taken on 28 August 1977 — Goethe’s birthday.

"The photograph had been taken on 28 August 1977 — Goethe’s birthday"

That evening, I entered the Roten Ochsen, dined alone by candlelight beneath the old daguerreotypes, and showed the group photograph to a kindly gentleman at a nearby table. As fate would have it, he turned out to be Philipp Spengel — grandson of the very Fritz who had once guided Fermor to the castle, and the sixth generation of his family to keep the tavern’s doors open to wanderers. “Hail to thee, ancient palace of princes, crowned with rich garlands” — on that night, I bore witness to the truth: that the spirit of Heidelberg Romanticism lives on into the twenty-first century, undiminished, still bestowing miracles upon those who come in search of beauty.

Emre Aracı with Philipp Spengel at the Roten Ochsen, 7 March 2024

Emre Aracı's article was originally published in Turkish under the title ‘Heidelberg Romantizmi’ in the April 2024 issue (No. 210) of Andante.

Link to the original article in Turkish

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