The Project Gutenberg EBook of The German Classics of The Nineteenth and
Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV, by Editor-in-Chief: Kuno Francke

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Title: The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV
       Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. In Twenty
       Volumes.


Author: Editor-in-Chief: Kuno Francke

Release Date: April 16, 2004 [EBook #12060]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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#THE GERMAN CLASSICS#




Masterpieces of German Literature

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH




IN TWENTY VOLUMES




ILLUSTRATED

1914



VOLUME IV

       *       *       *       *       *





CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV


JEAN PAUL

  The Life of Jean Paul. By Benjamin W. Wells.

  Quintus Fixlein's Wedding. Translated by Thomas Carlyle.

  Rome. Translated by C. T. Brooks.

  The Opening of the Will. Translated by Frances H. King.

WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT

  Schiller and the Process of His Intellectual Development. Translated
    by Frances H. King.

  The Early Romantic School. By James Taft Hatfield.

AUGUST WILHELM SCHLEGEL

  Lectures on Dramatic Art. Translated by John Black.

FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL

  Introduction to Lucinda. By Calvin Thomas.

  Lucinda. Translated by Paul Bernard Thomas.

  Aphorisms. Translated by Louis H. Gray.

NOVALIS (FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG)

  The Story of Hyacinth and Roseblossom. Translated by Lillie Winter.

  Aphorisms. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge.

  Hymn to Night. Translated by Paul Bernard Thomas.

  Though None Thy Name Should Cherish. Translated by Charles Wharton
    Stork.

  To the Virgin. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork.

FRIEDRICH HOeLDERLIN

  Hyperion's Song of Fate. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork.

  Evening Phantasie. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork.

LUDWIG TIECK

  Puss in Boots. Translated by Lillie Winter.

  Fair Eckbert. Translated by Paul Bernard Thomas.

  The Elves. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge.

HEINRICH VON KLEIST

  The Life of Heinrich von Kleist. By John S. Nollen.

  Michael Kohlhaas. Translated by Frances H. King.

  The Prince of Homburg. Translated by Hermann Hagedorn.


ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME IV

  Lonely Ride. By Hans Thoma.

  Jean Paul. By E. Hader.

  Bridal Procession. By Ludwig Richter.

  Wilhelm von Humboldt. By Franz Krueger.

  The University of Berlin.

  A Hermit watering Horses. By Moritz von Schwind.

  A Wanderer looks into a Landscape. By Moritz von Schwind.

  The Chapel in the Forest. By Moritz von Schwind.

  August Wilhelm Schlegel.

  Caroline Schlegel.

  Friedrich Schlegel. By E. Hader.

  The Creation. By Moritz von Schwind.

  Novalis. By Eduard Eichens.

  The Queen of Night. By Moritz von Schwind.

  Friedrich Hoelderlin. By E. Hader.

  Ludwig Tieck. By Vogel von Vogelstein.

  Puss in Boots. By Moritz von Schwind.

  Dance of the Elves. By Moritz von Schwind.

  Heinrich von Kleist.

  Sarcophagus of Queen Louise in the Mausoleum at Charlottenburg. By
    Christian Rauch.

  The Royal Castle at Berlin.

  Statue of the Great Elector. By Andreas Schlueter.




EDITOR'S NOTE

From this volume on, an attempt will be made to bring out, in the
illustrations, certain broad tendencies of German painting in the
nineteenth century, parallel to the literary development here
represented. There will be few direct illustrations of the subject
matter of the text. Instead, each volume will be dominated, as far as
possible, by a master, or a group of masters, whose works offer an
artistic analogy to the character and spirit of the works of literature
contained in it. Volumes IV and V, for instance, being devoted to German
Romantic literature of the early nineteenth century, will present at the
same time selections from the work of two of the foremost Romantic
painters of Germany: Moritz von Schwind and Ludwig Richter. It is hoped
that in this way THE GERMAN CLASSICS OF THE NINETEENTH AND TWENTIETH
CENTURIES will shed a not unwelcome side-light upon the development of
modern German art.

KUNO FRANCKE.




JEAN PAUL

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LIFE OF JEAN PAUL

By BENJAMIN W. WELLS, Ph.D.

Author of _Modern German Literature_.

"The Spring and I came into the world together," Jean Paul liked to
tell his friends when in later days of comfort and fame he looked back
on his early years. He was, in fact, born on the first day (March 21)
and at almost the first hour of the Spring of 1763 at Wunsiedel in the
Fichtelgebirge, the very heart of Germany. The boy was christened
Johann Paul Friedrich Richter. His parents called him Fritz. It was
not till 1793 that, with a thought of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he called
himself Jean Paul.

Place and time are alike significant in his birth. Wunsiedel was a
typical German hill village; the ancestry, as far back as we can trace
it, was typically German, as untouched as Wunsiedel itself, by any
breath of cosmopolitan life. It meant much that the child who was in
later life to interpret most intimately the spirit of the German
people through the days of the French Revolution, of the Napoleonic
tyranny and of the War of Liberation, who was to be a bond between the
old literature and the new, beside, yet independent of, the men of
Weimar, should have such heredity and such environment. Richter's
grandfather had held worthily minor offices in the church, his father
had followed in his churchly steps with especial leaning to music; his
maternal grandfather was a well-to-do clothmaker in the near-by town
of Hof, his mother a long-suffering housewife. It was well that Fritz
brought sunshine with him into the world; for his temperament was his
sole patrimony and for many years his chief dependence. He was the
eldest of seven children. None, save he, passed unscathed through the
privations and trials of the growing household with its accumulating
burdens of debt. For Fritz these trials meant but the tempering of his
wit, the mellowing of his humor, the deepening of his sympathies.

When Fritz was two years old the family moved to Joditz, another
village of the Fichtelgebirge. Of his boyhood here Jean Paul in his
last years set down some mellowed recollections. He tells how his
father, still in his dressing gown, used to take him and his brother
Adam across the Saale to dig potatoes and gather nuts, alternating in
the labor and the play; how his thrifty mother would send him with the
provision bag to her own mother's at Hof, who would give him goodies
that he would share with some little friend. He tells, too, of his
rapture at his first A B C book and its gilded cover, and of his
eagerness at school, until his too-anxious father took him from
contact with the rough peasant boys and tried to educate him himself,
an experience not without value, at least as a warning, to the future
author of _Levana_. But if the Richters were proud, they were very
poor. The boys used to count it a privilege to carry the father's
coffee-cup to him of a Sunday morning, as he sat by the window
meditating his sermon, for then they could carry it back again "and
pick the unmelted remains of sugar-candy from the bottom of it."
Simple pleasures surely, but, as Carlyle says, "there was a bold,
deep, joyful spirit looking through those young eyes, and to such a
spirit the world has nothing poor, but all is rich and full of
loveliness and wonder."

Every book that the boy Fritz could anywise come at was, he tells us,
"a fresh green spring-place," where "rootlets, thirsty for knowledge
pressed and twisted in every direction to seize and absorb." Very
characteristic of the later Jean Paul is one incident of his childhood
which, he says, made him doubt whether he had not been born rather for
philosophy than for imaginative writing. He was witness to the birth
of his own self-consciousness.

[Illustration: JEAN PAUL]

"One forenoon," he writes, "I was standing, a very young child, by
the house door, looking to the left at the wood-pile, when, all at
once, like a lightning flash from heaven, the inner vision arose
before me: I am an _I_. It has remained ever since radiant. At that
moment my _I_ saw itself for the first time and forever."

It is curious to contrast this childhood, in the almost cloistered
seclusion of the Fichtelgebirge, with Goethe's at cosmopolitan
Frankfurt or even with Schiller's at Marbach. Much that came unsought,
even to Schiller, Richter had a struggle to come by; much he could
never get at all. The place of "Frau Aja" in the development of the
child Goethe's fancy was taken at Joditz by the cow-girl. Eagerness to
learn Fritz showed in pathetic fulness, but the most diligent search
has revealed no trace in these years of that creative imagination with
which he was so richly dowered.

When Fritz was thirteen his father received a long-hoped-for promotion
to Schwarzenbach, a market town near Hof, then counting some 1,500
inhabitants. The boy's horizon was thus widened, though the family
fortunes were far from finding the expected relief. Here Fritz first
participated in the Communion and has left a remarkable record of his
emotional experience at "becoming a citizen in the city of God." About
the same time, as was to be expected, came the boy's earliest strong
emotional attachment. Katharina Baerin's first kiss was, for him, "a
unique pearl of a minute, such as never had been and never was to be."
But, as with the Communion, though the memory remained, the feeling
soon passed away.

The father designed Fritz, evidently the most gifted of his sons, for
the church, and after some desultory attempts at instruction in
Schwarzenbach, sent him in 1779 to the high school at Hof. His
entrance examination was brilliant, a last consolation to the father,
who died, worn out with the anxieties of accumulating debt, a few
weeks later. From his fellow pupils the country lad suffered much till
his courage and endurance had compelled respect. His teachers were
conscientious but not competent. In the liberally minded Pastor Vogel
of near-by Rehau, however, he found a kindred spirit and a helpful
friend. In this clergyman's generously opened library the thirsty
student made his first acquaintance with the unorthodox thought of his
time, with Lessing and Lavater, Goethe and even Helvetius. When in
1781 he left Hof for the University of Leipzig the pastor took leave
of the youth with the prophetic words: "You will some time be able to
render me a greater service than I have rendered you. Remember this
prophecy."

Under such stimulating encouragement Richter began to write. Some
little essays, two addresses, and a novel, a happy chance has
preserved. The novel is an echo of Goethe's _Werther_, the essays are
marked by a clear, straightforward style, an absence of sentimentality
or mysticism, and an eagerness for reform that shows the influence of
Lessing. Religion is the dominant interest, but the youth is no longer
orthodox, indeed he is only conditionally Christian.

With such literary baggage, fortified with personal recommendations
and introductions from the Head Master at Hof, with a Certificate of
Maturity and a _testimonium paupertatis_ that might entitle him to
remission of fees and possibly free board, Richter went to Leipzig.
From the academic environment and its opportunities he got much, from
formal instruction little. He continued to be in the main self-taught
and extended his independence in manners and dress perhaps a little
beyond the verge of eccentricity. Meantime matters at home were going
rapidly from bad to worse. His grandfather had died; the inheritance
had been largely consumed in a law-suit. He could not look to his
mother for help and did not look to her for counsel. He suffered from
cold and stretched his credit for rent and food to the breaking point.
But the emptier his stomach the more his head abounded in plans "for
writing books to earn money to buy books." He devised a system of
spelling reform and could submit to his pastor friend at Rehau in 1782
a little sheaf of essays on various aspects of Folly, the student
being now of an age when, like Iago, he was "nothing if not critical."
Later these papers seemed to him little better than school exercises,
but they gave a promise soon to be redeemed in _Greenland Law-Suits_,
his first volume to find a publisher. These satirical sketches,
printed early in 1783, were followed later in that year by another
series, but both had to wait 38 years for a second edition, much
mellowed in revision--not altogether to its profit.

The point of the _Law-Suits_ is directed especially against
theologians and the nobility. Richter's uncompromising fierceness
suggests youthful hunger almost as much as study of Swift. But
Lessing, had he lived to read their stinging epigrams, would have
recognized in Richter the promise of a successor not unworthy to carry
the biting acid of the _Disowning Letter_ over to the hand of Heine.

The _Law-Suits_ proved too bitter for the public taste and it was
seven years before their author found another publisher. Meanwhile
Richter was leading a precarious existence, writing for magazines at
starvation prices, and persevering in an indefatigable search for some
one to undertake his next book, _Selections from the Papers of the
Devil_. A love affair with the daughter of a minor official which she,
at least, took seriously, interrupted his studies at Leipzig even
before the insistence of creditors compelled him to a clandestine
flight. This was in 1784. Then he shared for a time his mother's
poverty at Hof and from 1786 to 1789 was tutor in the house of
Oerthel, a parvenu Commercial-Counsellor in Toepen. This experience he
was to turn to good account in _Levana_ and in his first novel, _The
Invisible Lodge_, in which the unsympathetic figure of Roeper is
undoubtedly meant to present the not very gracious personality of the
Kommerzienrat.

To this period belongs a collection of _Aphorisms_ whose bright wit
reveals deep reflection. They show a maturing mind, keen insight,
livelier and wider sympathies. The _Devil's Papers_, published in
1789, when Richter, after a few months at Hof, was about to become
tutor to the children of three friendly families in Schwarzenbach,
confirm the impression of progress. In his new field Richter had great
freedom to develop his ideas of education as distinct from
inculcation. Rousseau was in the main his guide, and his success in
stimulating childish initiative through varied and ingenious
pedagogical experiments seems to have been really remarkable.

Quite as remarkable and much more disquieting were the ideas about
friendship and love which Richter now began to develop under the
stimulating influence of a group of young ladies at Hof. In a note
book of this time he writes: "Prize question for the Erotic Academy:
How far may friendship toward women go and what is the difference
between it and love?" That Richter called this circle his "erotic
academy" is significant. He was ever, in such relations, as alert to
observe as he was keen to sympathize and permitted himself an
astonishing variety of quickly changing and even simultaneous
experiments, both at Hof and later in the aristocratic circles that
were presently to open to him. In his theory, which finds fullest
expression in _Hesperus_, love was to be wholly platonic. If the first
kiss did not end it, the second surely would. "I do not seek," he
says, "the fairest face but the fairest heart. I can overlook all
spots on that, but none on this." "He does not love who _sees_ his
beloved, but he who _thinks_ her." That is the theory. The practice
was a little different. It shows Richter at Hof exchanging fine-spun
sentiments on God, immortality and soul-affinity with some half dozen
young women to the perturbation of their spirits, in a transcendental
atmosphere of sentiment, arousing but never fulfilling the expectation
of a formal betrothal. That Jean Paul was capable of inspiring love of
the common sort is abundantly attested by his correspondence. Perhaps
no man ever had so many women of education and social position "throw
themselves" at him; but that he was capable of returning such love in
kind does not appear from acts or letters at this time, or, save
perhaps for the first years of his married life, at any later period.

The immediate effect of the bright hours at Hof on Richter as a writer
was wholly beneficent. _Mr. Florian Fuelbel's Journey_ and _Bailiff
Josuah Freudel's Complaint Bible_ show a new geniality in the
personification of amusing foibles. And with these was a real little
masterpiece, _Life of the Contented Schoolmaster Maria Wuz_, which
alone, said the Berlin critic Moritz, might suffice to make its author
immortal. In this delicious pedagogical idyl, written in December,
1790, the humor is sound, healthy, thoroughly German and
characteristic of Richter at his best. It seems as though one of the
great Dutch painters were guiding the pen, revealing the beauty of
common things and showing the true charm of quiet domesticity.
Richter's _Contented Schoolmaster_ lacked much in grace of form, but
it revealed unguessed resources in the German language, it showed
democratic sympathies more genuine than Rousseau's, it gave the
promise of a new pedagogy and a fruitful esthetic; above all it bore
the unmistakable mint-mark of genius.

_Wuz_ won cordial recognition from the critics. With the general
public it was for the time overshadowed by the success of a more
ambitious effort, Richter's first novel, _The Invisible Lodge_. This
fanciful tale of an idealized freemasonry is a study of the effects in
after life of a secluded education. Though written in the year of the
storming of the Tuileries it shows the prose-poet of the
Fichtelgebirge as yet untouched by the political convulsions of the
time. The _Lodge_, though involved in plot and reaching an empty
conclusion, yet appealed very strongly to the Germans of 1793 by its
descriptions of nature and its sentimentalized emotion. It was truly
of its time. Men and especially women liked then, better than they do
now, to read how "the angel who loves the earth brought the most holy
lips of the pair together in an inextinguishable kiss, and a seraph
entered into their beating hearts and gave them the flames of a
supernal love." Of greater present interest than the heartbeats of
hero or heroine are the minor characters of the story, presenting
genially the various types of humor or studies from life made in the
"erotic academy" or in the families of Richter's pupils. The despotic
spendthrift, the Margrave of Bayreuth, has also his niche, or rather
pillory, in the story. Notable, too, is the tendency, later more
marked, to contrast the inconsiderate harshness of men with the
patient humility of women. Encouraged by Moritz, who declared the book
"better than Goethe," Richter for the first time signed his work "Jean
Paul." He was well paid for it and had no further serious financial
cares.

Before the _Lodge_ was out of press Jean Paul had begun _Hesperus, or
45 Dog-post-days_, which magnified the merits of the earlier novel but
also exaggerated its defects. Wanton eccentricity was given fuller
play, formlessness seemed cultivated as an art. Digressions interrupt
the narrative with slender excuse, or with none; there is, as with the
English Sterne, an obtrusion of the author's personality; the style
seems as wilfully crude as the mastery in word-building and
word-painting is astonishing. On the other hand there is both greater
variety and greater distinction in the characters, a more developed
fabulation and a wonderful deepening and refinement of emotional
description. _Werther_ was not yet out of fashion and lovers of his
"Sorrows" found in _Hesperus_ a book after their hearts. It
established the fame of Jean Paul for his generation. It brought women
by swarms to his feet. They were not discouraged there. It was his
platonic rule "never to sacrifice one love to another," but to
experiment with "simultaneous love," "_tutti_ love," a "general
warmth" of universal affection. Intellectually awakened women were
attracted possibly as much by Richter's knowledge of their feelings as
by the fascination of his personality. _Hesperus_ lays bare many
little wiles dear to feminine hearts, and contains some keenly
sympathetic satire on German housewifery.

While still at work on _Hesperus_ Jean Paul returned to his mother's
house at Hof. "Richter's study and sitting-room offered about this
time," says Doering, his first biographer, "a true and beautiful
picture of his simple yet noble mind, which took in both high and low.
While his mother bustled about the housework at fire or table he sat
in a corner of the same room at a plain writing-desk with few or no
books at hand, but only one or two drawers with excerpts and
manuscripts. * * * Pigeons fluttered in and out of the chamber."

At Hof, Jean Paul continued to teach with originality and much success
until 1796, when an invitation from Charlotte von Kalb to visit Weimar
brought him new interests and connections. Meanwhile, having finished
_Hesperus_ in July, 1794, he began work immediately on the genial
_Life of Quintus Fixlein, Based on Fifteen Little Boxes of Memoranda_,
an idyl, like _Wuz_, of the schoolhouse and the parsonage, reflecting
Richter's pedagogical interests and much of his personal experience.
Its satire of philological pedantry has not yet lost pertinence or
pungency. Quintus, ambitious of authorship, proposes to himself a
catalogued interpretation of misprints in German books and other tasks
hardly less laboriously futile. His creator treats him with unfailing
good humor and "the consciousness of a kindred folly." Fixlein is the
archetypal pedant. The very heart of humor is in the account of the
commencement exercises at his school. His little childishnesses are
delightfully set forth; so, too, is his awe of aristocracy. He always
took off his hat before the windows of the manor house, even if he saw
no one there. The crown of it all is The Wedding. The bridal pair's
visit to the graves of by-gone loves is a gem of fantasy. But behind
all the humor and satire must not be forgotten, in view of what was to
follow, the undercurrent of courageous democratic protest which finds
its keenest expression in the "Free Note" to Chapter Six. _Fixlein_
appeared in 1796.

Richter's next story, the unfinished _Biographical Recreations under
the Cranium of a Giantess_, sprang immediately from a visit to
Bayreuth in 1794 and his first introduction to aristocracy. Its chief
interest is in the enthusiastic welcome it extends to the French
Revolution. Intrinsically more important is the _Flower, Fruit and
Thorn Pieces_ which crowded the other subject from his mind and tells
with much idyllic charm of "the marriage, life, death and wedding of
F. H. Siebenkaes, Advocate of the Poor" (1796-7).

In 1796, at the suggestion of the gifted, emancipated and ill-starred
Charlotte von Kalb, Jean Paul visited Weimar, already a Mecca of
literary pilgrimage and the centre of neo-classicism. There, those
who, like Herder, were jealous of Goethe, and those who, like Frau von
Stein, were estranged from him, received the new light with
enthusiasm--others with some reserve. Goethe and Schiller, who were
seeking to blend the classical with the German spirit, demurred to the
vagaries of Jean Paul's unquestioned genius. His own account of his
visit to "the rock-bound Schiller" and to Goethe's "palatial hall" are
precious commonplaces of the histories of literature. There were sides
of Goethe's universal genius to which Richter felt akin, but he was
quite ready to listen to Herder's warning against his townsman's
"unrouged" infidelity, which had become socially more objectionable
since Goethe's union with Christiane Vulpius, and Jean Paul presently
returned to Hof, carrying with him the heart of Charlotte von Kalb, an
unprized and somewhat embarrassing possession. He wished no heroine;
for he was no hero, as he remarked dryly, somewhat later, when
Charlotte had become the first of many "beautiful souls" in confusion
of spirit about their heart's desire.

In 1797 the death of Jean Paul's mother dissolved home bonds and he
soon left Hof forever, though still for a time maintaining diligent
correspondence with the "erotic academy" as well as with new and more
aristocratic "daughters of the Storm and Stress." The writings of this
period are unimportant, some of them unworthy. Jean Paul was for a
time in Leipzig and in Dresden. In October, 1798, he was again in
Weimar, which, in the sunshine of Herder's praise, seemed at first his
"Canaan," though he soon felt himself out of tune with Duchess
Amalia's literary court. To this time belongs a curious _Conjectural
Biography_, a pretty idyl of an ideal courtship and marriage as his
fancy now painted it for himself. Presently he was moved to essay the
realization of this ideal and was for a time betrothed to Karoline von
Feuchtersleben, her aristocratic connections being partially reconciled
to the _mesalliance_ by Richter's appointment as Legationsrat. He
begins already to look forward, a little ruefully, to the time when his
heart shall be "an extinct marriage-crater," and after a visit to
Berlin, where he basked in the smiles of Queen Luise, he was again
betrothed, this time to the less intellectually gifted, but as devoted
and better dowered Karoline Mayer, whom he married in 1801. He was then
in his thirty-eighth year.

Richter's marriage is cardinal in his career. Some imaginative work he
was still to do, but the dominant interests were hereafter to be in
education and in political action. In his own picturesque language,
hitherto his quest had been for the golden fleece of womanhood,
hereafter it was to be for a crusade of men. The change had been
already foreshadowed in 1799 by his stirring paper _On Charlotte
Corday_ (published in 1801).

_Titan_, which Jean Paul regarded as his "principal work and most
complete creation," had been in his mind since 1792. It was begun in
1797 and finished, soon after his betrothal, in 1800. In this novel the
thought of God and immortality is offered as a solution of all problems
of nature and society. _Titan_ is human will in contest with the
divine harmony. The maturing Richter has come to see that idealism in
thought and feeling must be balanced by realism in action if the thinker
is to bear his part in the work of the world. The novel naturally falls
far short of realizing its vast design. Once more the parts are more
than the whole. Some descriptive passages are very remarkable and the
minor characters, notably Roquairol, the Mephistophelean Lovelace, are
more interesting than the hero or the heroine. The unfinished _Wild
Oats_ of 1804, follows a somewhat similar design. The story of Walt
and Vult, twin brothers, Love and Knowledge, offers a study in contrasts
between the dreamy and the practical, with much self-revelation of the
antinomy in the author's own nature. There is something here to recall
his early satires, much more to suggest Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_.

While _Wild Oats_ was in the making, Richter with his young wife and
presently their first daughter, Emma, was making a sort of triumphal
progress among the court towns of Germany. He received about this time
from Prince Dalberg a pension, afterward continued by the King of
Bavaria. In 1804 the family settled in Bayreuth, which was to remain
Richter's not always happy home till his death in 1825.

The move to Bayreuth was marked by the appearance of _Introduction to
Esthetics_, a book that, even in remaining a fragment, shows the
parting of the ways. Under its frolicsome exuberance there is keen
analysis, a fine nobility of temper, and abundant subtle observation.
The philosophy was Herder's, and a glowing eulogy of him closes the
study. Its most original and perhaps most valuable section contains a
shrewd discrimination of the varieties of humor, and ends with a
brilliant praise of wit, as though in a recapitulating review of
Richter's own most distinctive contribution to German literature.

The first fruit to ripen at the Bayreuth home was _Levana_, finished
in October, 1806, just as Napoleon was crushing the power of Prussia
at Jena. Though disconnected and unsystematic _Levana_ has been for
three generations a true yeast of pedagogical ideas, especially in
regard to the education of women and their social position in Germany.
Against the ignorance of the then existing conditions Jean Paul raised
eloquent and indignant protest. "Your teachers, your companions, even
your parents," he exclaims, "trample and crush the little flowers you
shelter and cherish. * * * Your hands are used more than your heads.
They let you play, but only with your fans. Nothing is pardoned you,
least of all a heart." What _Levana_ says of the use and abuse of
philology and about the study of history as a preparation for
political action is no less significant. Goethe, who had been reticent
of praise in regard to the novels, found in _Levana_ "the boldest
virtues without the least excess."

From the education of children for life Richter turned naturally to
the education of his fellow Germans for citizenship. It was a time of
national crisis. Already in 1805 he had published a _Little Book of
Freedom_, in protest against the censorship of books. Now to his
countrymen, oppressed by Napoleon, he addressed at intervals from 1808
to 1810, a _Peace Sermon, Twilight Thoughts for Germany_ and _After
Twilight_. Then, as the fires of Moscow heralded a new day, came
_Butterflies of the Dawn_; and when the War of Liberation was over and
the German rulers had proved false to their promises, these
"Butterflies" were expanded and transformed, in 1817, into _Political
Fast-Sermons for Germany's Martyr-Week_, in which Richter denounced
the princes for their faithlessness as boldly as he had done the
sycophants of Bonaparte.

Most noteworthy of the minor writings of this period is _Dr.
Katzenberger's Journey to the Baths_, published in 1809. The effect of
this rollicking satire on affectation and estheticism was to arouse a
more manly spirit in the nation and so it helped to prepare for the
way of liberation. The patriotic youth of Germany now began to speak
and think of Richter as Jean Paul the Unique. In the years that follow
Waterloo every little journey that Richter took was made the occasion
of public receptions and festivities. Meanwhile life in the Bayreuth
home grew somewhat strained. Both partners might well have heeded
_Levana's_ counsel that "Men should show more love, women more common
sense."

Of Richter's last decade two books only call for notice here, _Truth
about Jean Paul's Life_, a fragment of autobiography written in 1819,
and _The Comet_, a novel, also unfinished, published at intervals from
1820 to 1822. Hitherto, said Richter of _The Comet_, he had paid too
great deference to rule, "like a child born curled and forthwith
stretched on a swathing cushion." Now, in his maturity, he will, he
says, let himself go; and a wild tale he makes of it, exuberant in
fancy, rich in comedy, unbridled in humor. The Autobiography extends
only to Schwarzenbach and his confirmation, but of all his writings it
has perhaps the greatest charm.

Richter's last years were clouded by disease, mental and physical, and
by the death of his son Max. A few weeks before his own death he
arranged for an edition of his complete works, for which he was to
receive 35,000 thaler ($26,000). For this he sought a special
privilege, copyright being then very imperfect in Germany, on the
ground that in all his works not one line could be found to offend
religion or virtue.

He died on November 14, 1825. On the evening of November 17 was the
funeral. Civil and military, state and city officials took part in it.
On the bier was borne the unfinished manuscript of _Selina_, an essay
on immortality. Sixty students with lighted torches escorted the
procession. Other students bore, displayed, _Levana_ and the
_Introduction to Esthetics_.

Sixteen years after Richter's death the King of Bavaria erected a
statue to him in Bayreuth. But his most enduring monument had already
long been raised in the funeral oration by Ludwig Boerne at Frankfurt.
"A Star has set," said the orator, "and the eye of this century will
close before it rises again, for bright genius moves in wide orbits
and our distant descendants will be first again to bid glad welcome
to that from which their fathers have taken sad leave. * * * We shall
mourn for him whom we have lost and for those others who have not lost
him, for he has not lived for all. Yet a time will come when he shall
be born for all and all will lament him. But he will stand patient on
the threshold of the twentieth century and wait smiling till his
creeping people shall come to join him."




QUINTUS FIXLEIN'S WEDDING[1]

From _The Life of Quintus Fixlein_ (1796)

By JEAN PAUL

TRANSLATED BY T. CARLYLE

At the sound of the morning prayer-bell, the bridegroom--for the din
of preparation was disturbing his quiet orison--went out into the
churchyard, which (as in many other places) together with the church,
lay round his mansion like a court. Here, on the moist green, over
whose closed flowers the churchyard wall was still spreading broad
shadows, did his spirit cool itself from the warm dreams of Earth:
here, where the white flat grave-stone of his Teacher lay before him
like the fallen-in door of the Janus-temple of life, or like the
windward side of the narrow house, turned toward the tempests of the
world: here, where the little shrunk metallic door on the grated cross
of his father uttered to him the inscriptions of death, and the year
when his parent departed, and all the admonitions and mementos, graven
on the lead--there, I say, his mood grew softer and more solemn; and
he now lifted up by heart his morning prayer, which usually he read,
and entreated God to bless him in his office, and to spare his
mother's life, and to look with favor and acceptance on the purpose of
today. Then, over the graves, he walked into his fenceless little
angular flower-garden; and here, composed and confident in the divine
keeping, he pressed the stalks of his tulips deeper into the mellow
earth.

But on returning to the house, he was met on all hands by the
bell-ringing and the Janizary-music of wedding-gladness; the
marriage-guests had all thrown off their nightcaps, and were drinking
diligently; there was a clattering, a cooking, a frizzling;
tea-services, coffee-services, and warm beer-services, were advancing
in succession; and plates full of bride-cakes were going round like
potter's frames or cistern-wheels. The Schoolmaster, with three young
lads, was heard rehearsing from his own house an _Arioso_, with which,
so soon as they were perfect, he purposed to surprise his clerical
superior. But now rushed all the arms of the foaming joy-streams into
one, when the sky-queen besprinkled with blossoms the bride, descended
upon Earth in her timid joy, full of quivering, humble love; when the
bells began; when the procession-column set forth with the whole village
round and before it; when the organ, the congregation, the officiating
priest, and the sparrows on the trees of the church-window, struck louder
and louder their rolling peals on the drum of the jubilee-festival.

* * * The heart of the singing bridegroom was like to leap from its
place for joy "that on his bridal-day it was all so respectable and
grand." Not till the marriage benediction could he pray a little.

Still worse and louder grew the business during dinner, when
pastry-work and march-pane-devices were brought forward, when glasses,
and slain fishes (laid under the napkins to frighten the guests) went
round, and when the guests rose and themselves went round, and, at
length, danced round: for they had instrumental music from the city
there.

One minute handed over to the other the sugar-bowl and bottle-case of
joy: the guests heard and saw less and less, and the villagers began
to see and hear more and more, and toward night they penetrated like a
wedge into the open door--nay, two youths ventured even in the middle
of the parsonage-court to mount a plank over a beam and commence
seesawing. Out of doors, the gleaming vapor of the departed sun was
encircling the earth, the evening-star was glittering over parsonage
and churchyard; no one heeded it.

However, about nine o'clock, when the marriage-guests had well nigh
forgotten the marriage-pair, and were drinking or dancing along for
their own behoof; when poor mortals, in this sunshine of Fate, like
fishes in the sunshine of the sky, were leaping up from their wet
cold element; and when the bridegroom under the star of happiness and
love, casting like a comet its long train of radiance over all his
heaven, had in secret pressed to his joy-filled breast his bride and
his mother--then did he lock a slice of wedding-bread privily into a
press, in the old superstitious belief that this residue secured
continuance of bread for the whole marriage. As he returned, with
greater love for the sole partner of his life, she herself met him
with his mother, to deliver him in private the bridal-nightgown and
bridal-shirt, as is the ancient usage. Many a countenance grows pale
in violent emotions, even of joy. Thiennette's wax-face was bleaching
still whiter under the sunbeams of Happiness. O, never fall, thou lily
of Heaven, and may four springs instead of four seasons open and shut
thy flower-bells to the sun! All the arms of his soul, as he floated
on the sea of joy, were quivering to clasp the soft warm heart of his
beloved, to encircle it gently and fast, and draw it to his own.

He led her from the crowded dancing-room into the cool evening. Why
does the evening, does the night, put warmer love in our hearts? Is it
the nightly pressure of helplessness or is it the exalting separation
from the turmoil of life--that veiling of the world, in which for the
soul nothing more remains but souls;--is it therefore that the letters
in which the loved name stands written on our spirit appear, like
phosphorus-writing, by night, _in fire_, while by day in their
_cloudy_ traces they but smoke?

He walked with his bride into the Castle garden: she hastened quickly
through the Castle, and past its servants' hall, where the fair flowers
of her young life had been crushed broad and dry, under a long dreary
pressure; and her soul expanded and breathed in the free open garden,
on whose flowery soil destiny had cast forth the first seeds of the
blossoms which today were gladdening her existence. Still Eden! Green
flower-chequered _chiaroscuro_! The moon is sleeping under ground
like a dead one; but beyond the garden the sun's red evening-clouds
have fallen down like rose-leaves; and the evening-star, the brideman
of the sun, hovers, like a glancing butterfly, above the rosy red,
and, modest as a bride, deprives no single starlet of its light.

[Illustration: BRIDAL PROCESSION _From the Painting by Ludwig Richter_]

The wandering pair arrived at the old gardener's hut, now standing
locked and dumb, with dark windows in the light garden, like a
fragment of the Past surviving in the Present. Bared twigs of trees
were folding, with clammy half-formed leaves, over the thick
intertwisted tangles of the bushes. The Spring was standing, like a
conqueror, with Winter at his feet. In the blue pond, now bloodless, a
dusky evening sky lay hollowed out, and the gushing waters were
moistening the flower-beds. The silver sparks of stars were rising on
the altar of the East, and, falling down, were extinguished in the red
sea of the West.

The wind whirred, like a night-bird, louder through the trees, and
gave tones to the acacia-grove; and the tones called to the pair who
had first become happy within it: "Enter, new mortal pair, and think
of what is past, and of my withering and your own; be holy as Eternity,
and weep not only for joy, but for gratitude also!" And the wet-eyed
bridegroom led his wet-eyed bride under the blossoms, and laid his
soul, like a flower, on her heart, and said: "Best Thiennette, I am
unspeakably happy, and would say much, but cannot! Ah, thou Dearest,
we will live like angels, like children together! Surely I will do
all that is good to thee; two years ago I had nothing, no, nothing;
ah, it is through thee, best love, that I am happy. I call thee Thou,
now, thou dear good soul!" She drew him closer to her, and said, though
without kissing him: "Call me Thou always, Dearest!"

And as they stept forth again from the sacred grove into the
magic-dusky garden, he took off his hat; first, that he might
internally thank God, and, secondly, because he wished to look into
this fairest evening sky.

They reached the blazing, rustling, marriage-house, but their
softened hearts sought stillness; and a foreign touch, as in the
blossoming vine, would have disturbed the flower-nuptials of their
souls. They turned rather, and winded up into the churchyard to
preserve their mood. Majestic on the groves and mountains stood the
Night before man's heart, and made that also great. Over the _white_
steeple-obelisk the sky rested _bluer_, and _darker_; and, behind it,
wavered the withered summit of the May-pole with faded flag. The son
noticed his father's grave, on which the wind was opening and
shutting, with harsh noise, the little door of the metal cross, to let
the year of his death be read on the brass plate within. As an
overpowering sadness seized his heart with violent streams of tears,
and drove him to the sunk hillock, he led his bride to the grave, and
said: "Here sleeps he, my good father; in his thirty-second year he
was carried hither to his long rest. O thou good, dear father, couldst
thou today but see the happiness of thy son, like my mother! But thy
eyes are empty, and thy breast is full of ashes, and thou seest us
not." He was silent. The bride wept aloud; she saw the moldering
coffins of her parents open, and the two dead arise and look round for
their daughter, who had stayed so long behind them, forsaken on the
earth. She fell upon his heart, and faltered: "O beloved, I have
neither father nor mother. Do not forsake me!"

O thou who hast still a father and a mother, thank God for it, on the
day when thy soul is full of joyful tears and needs a bosom whereon to
shed them.

And with this embracing at a father's grave, let this day of joy be
holily concluded.




ROME[2]

From _Titan_ (1800)

By JEAN PAUL

TRANSLATED BY C. T. BROOKS

Half an hour after the earthquake the heavens swathed themselves in
seas, and dashed them down in masses and in torrents. The naked
_Campagna_ and heath were covered with the mantle of rain. Gaspard was
silent, the heavens black; the great thought stood alone in Albano
that he was hastening on toward the bloody scaffold and the
throne-scaffolding of humanity, the heart of a cold, dead
heathen-world, the eternal Rome; and when he heard, on the _Ponte
Molle_, that he was now going across the Tiber, then was it to him as
if the past had risen from the dead, as if the stream of time ran
backward and bore him with it; under the streams of heaven he heard
the seven old mountain-streams, rushing and roaring, which once came
down from Rome's hills, and, with seven arms, uphove the world from
its foundations. At length the constellation of the mountain city of
God, that stood so broad before him, opened out into distant nights;
cities, with scattered lights, lay up and down, and the bells (which
to his ear were alarm-bells) sounded out the fourth hour; [3] when the
carriage rolled through the triumphal gate of the city, the _Porta del
Popolo_, then the moon rent her black heavens, and poured down out of
the cleft clouds the splendor of a whole sky. There stood the Egyptian
Obelisk of the gateway, high as the clouds, in the night, and three
streets ran gleaming apart. "So," (said Albano to himself, as they
passed through the long _Corso_ to the tenth ward) "thou art veritably
in the camp of the God of war--here is where he grasped the hilt of
the monstrous war-sword, and with the point made the three wounds in
three quarters of the world!" Rain and splendor gushed through the
vast, broad streets; occasionally he passed suddenly along by gardens,
and into broad city-deserts and market-places of the past. The rolling
of the carriages amidst the rush and roar of the rain resembled the
thunder whose days were once holy to this heroic city, like the
thundering heaven to the thundering earth; muffled-up forms, with
little lights, stole through the dark streets; often there stood a
long palace with colonnades in the light of the moon, often a solitary
gray column, often a single high fir tree, or a statue behind
cypresses. Once, when there was neither rain nor moonshine, the
carriage went round the corner of a large house, on whose roof a tall,
blooming virgin, with an uplooking child on her arm, herself directed
a little hand-light, now toward a white statue, now toward the child,
and so, alternately, illuminated each. This friendly group made its
way to the very centre of his soul, now so highly exalted, and brought
with it, to him, many a recollection; particularly was a Roman child
to him a wholly new and mighty idea.

They alighted at last at the Prince _di Lauria's_--Gaspard's
father-in-law and old friend. * * * Albano, dissatisfied with all, kept
his inspiration sacrificing to the unearthly gods of the past round
about him, after the old fashion, namely, with silence. Well might he
and could he have discussed, but otherwise, namely in odes, with the
whole man, with streams which mount and grow upward. He looked even more
and more longingly out of the window at the moon in the pure rain-blue,
and at single columns of the Forum; out of doors there gleamed for him
the greatest world. At last he rose up, indignant and impatient, and
stole down into the glimmering glory, and stepped before the Forum; but
the moonlit night, that decoration-painter, which works with irregular
strokes, made almost the very stage of the scene irrecognizable to him.

What a dreary, broad plain, loftily encompassed with ruins, gardens
and temples, covered with prostrate capitals of columns, and with
single, upright pillars, and with trees and a dumb wilderness! The
heaped-up ashes out of the emptied urn of Time! And the potsherds of a
great world flung around! He passed by three temple columns,[4] which
the earth had drawn down into itself even to the breast, and along
through the broad triumphal arch of Septimius Severus; on the right,
stood a chain of columns without their temple; on the left, attached
to a Christian church, the colonnade of an ancient heathen temple,
deep sunken into the sediment of time; at last the triumphal arch of
Titus, and before it, in the middle of the woody wilderness, a
fountain gushing into a granite basin.

He went up to this fountain, in order to survey the plain out of which
the thunder months of the earth once arose; but he went along as over
a burnt-out sun, hung round with dark, dead earths. "O Man, O the
dreams of Man!" something within him unceasingly cried. He stood on
the granite margin, turning toward the Coliseum, whose mountain ridges
of wall stood high in the moonlight, with the deep gaps which had been
hewn in them by the scythe of Time. Sharply stood the rent and ragged
arches of Nero's golden house close by, like murderous cutlasses. The
Palatine Hill lay full of green gardens, and, in crumbling
temple-roofs, the blooming death-garland of ivy was gnawing, and
living ranunculi still glowed around sunken capitals. The fountain
murmured babblingly and forever, and the stars gazed steadfastly down,
with transitory rays, upon the still battlefield over which the winter
of time had passed without bringing after it a spring; the fiery soul
of the world had flown up, and the cold, crumbling giant lay around;
torn asunder were the gigantic spokes of the main-wheel, which once
the very stream of ages drove. And in addition to all this, the moon
shed down her light like eating silver-water upon the naked columns,
and would fain have dissolved the Coliseum and the temples and all
into their own shadows!

Then Albano stretched out his arm into the air, as if he were giving
an embrace and flowing away as in the arms of a stream, and exclaimed,
"O ye mighty shades, ye, who once strove and lived here, ye are
looking down from Heaven, but scornfully, not sadly, for your great
fatherland has died and gone after you! Ah, had I, on the
insignificant earth, full of old eternity which you have made great,
only done one action worthy of you! Then were it sweet to me and
legitimate to open my heart by a wound, and to mix earthly blood with
the hallowed soil, and, out of the world of graves, to hasten away to
you, eternal and immortal ones! But I am not worthy of it!"

At this moment there came suddenly along up the _Via Sacra_ a tall
man, deeply enveloped in a mantle, who drew near the fountain without
looking round, threw down his hat, and held a coal-black, curly,
almost perpendicular, hindhead under the stream of water. But hardly
had he, turning upward, caught a glimpse of the profile of Albano,
absorbed in his fancies, when he started up, all dripping, stared at
the count, fell into an amazement, threw his arms high into the air,
and said, "_Amico_!" Albano looked at him. The stranger said,
"Albano!" "My Dian!" cried Albano; they clasped each other
passionately and wept for love.

Dian could not comprehend it at all; he said in Italian: "But it
surely cannot be you; you look old." He thought he was speaking German
all the time, till he heard Albano answer in Italian. Both gave and
received only questions. Albano found the architect merely browner,
but there was the lightning of the eyes and every faculty in its old
glory. With three words he related to him the journey, and who the
company were. "How does Rome strike you?" asked Dian, pleasantly. "As
life does," replied Albano, very seriously, "it makes me too soft and
too hard." "I recognize here absolutely nothing at all," he continued;
"do those columns belong to the magnificent temple of Peace?" "No,"
said Dian, "to the temple of Concord; of the other there stands yonder
nothing but the vault." "Where is Saturn's temple?" asked Albano.
"Buried in St. Adrian's church," said Dian, and added hastily: "Close
by stand the ten columns of Antonine's temple; over beyond there the
baths of Titus; behind us the Palatine hill; and so on. Now tell
me--!"

They walked up and down the Forum, between the arches of Titus and
Severus. Albano (being near the teacher who, in the days of childhood,
had so often conducted him hitherward) was yet full of the stream
which had swept over the world, and the all-covering water sunk but
slowly. He went on and said: "Today, when he beheld the Obelisk, the
soft, tender brightness of the moon had seemed to him eminently
unbecoming for the giant city; he would rather have seen a sun blazing
on its broad banner; but now the moon was the proper funeral-torch
beside the dead Alexander, who, at a touch, collapses into a handful
of dust." "The artist does not get far with feelings of this kind,"
said Dian, "he must look upon everlasting beauties on the right hand
and on the left." "Where," Albano went on asking, "is the old lake of
Curtius--the Rostrum--the pila Horatia--the temple of Vesta--of Venus,
and of all those solitary columns?" "And where is the marble Forum
itself?" said Dian; "it lies thirty span deep below our feet." "Where
is the great, free people, the senate of kings, the voice of the
orators, the procession to the Capitol? Buried under the mountain of
potsherds! O Dian, how can a man who loses a father, a beloved, in
Rome shed a single tear or look round him with consternation, when he
comes out here before this battle-field of time and looks into the
charnel-house of the nations? Dian, one would wish here an iron heart,
for fate has an iron hand!"

Dian, who nowhere stayed more reluctantly than upon such tragic cliffs
hanging over, as it were, into the sea of eternity, almost leaped off
from them with a joke; like the Greeks, he blended dances with
tragedy! "Many a thing is preserved here, friend!" said he; "in
Adrian's church yonder they will still show you the bones of the three
men that walked in the fire." "That is just the frightful play of
destiny," replied Albano, "to occupy the heights of the mighty
ancients with monks shorn down into slaves."

"The stream of time drives new wheels," said Dian "yonder lies Raphael
twice buried.[5]" * * * And so they climbed silently and speedily over
rubbish and torsos of columns, and neither gave heed to the mighty
emotion of the other.

Rome, like the Creation, is an entire wonder, which gradually
dismembers itself into new wonders, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, St.
Peter's church, Raphael, etc.

With the passage through the church of St. Peter, the knight began the
noble course through Immortality. The Princess let herself, by the tie
of Art, be bound to the circle of the men. As Albano was more smitten
with edifices than with any other work of man, so did he see from
afar, with holy heart, the long mountain-chain of Art, which again
bore upon itself hills, so did he stop before the plain, around which
the enormous colonnades run like Corsos, bearing a people of statues.
In the centre shoots up the Obelisk, and on its right and left an
eternal fountain, and from the lofty steps the proud Church of the
world, inwardly filled with churches, rearing upon itself a temple
toward Heaven, looks down upon the earth. But how wonderfully, as they
drew near, had its columns and its rocky wall mounted up and flown
away from the vision!

He entered the magic church, which gave the world blessings, curses,
kings and popes, with the consciousness, that, like the world-edifice,
it was continually enlarging and receding more and more the longer one
remained in it. They went up to two children of white marble who held
an incense-muscle-shell of yellow marble; the children grew by
nearness till they were giants. At length they stood at the main
altar and its hundred perpetual lamps. What a place! Above them the
heaven's arch of the dome, resting on four inner towers; around them
an over-arched city of four streets in which stood churches. The
temple became greatest by walking in it; and, when they passed round
one column, there stood a new one before them, and holy giants gazed
earnestly down.

Here was the youth's large heart, after so long a time, filled. "In no
art," said he to his father, "is the soul so mightily possessed with
the sublime as in architecture; in every other the giant stands within
and in the depths of the soul, but here he stands out of and close
before it." Dian, to whom all images were more clear than abstract
ideas, said he was perfectly right. Fraischdoerfer replied, "The
sublime also here lies only in the brain, for the whole church stands,
after all, in something greater, namely, in Rome, and under the
heavens; in the presence of which latter we certainly should not feel
anything." He also complained that "the place for the sublime in his
head was very much narrowed by the innumerable volutes and monuments
which the temple shut up therein at the same time with itself."
Gaspard, taking everything in a large sense, remarked, "When the
sublime once really appears, it then, by its very nature, absorbs and
annihilates all little circumstantial ornaments." He adduced as
evidence the tower of the Minster,[6] and Nature itself, which is not
made smaller by its grasses and villages.

Among so many connoisseurs of art, the Princess enjoyed in silence.

The ascent of the dome Gaspard recommended to defer to a dry and
cloudless day, in order that they might behold the queen of the world,
Rome, upon and from the proper throne; he therefore proposed, very
zealously, the visiting of the Pantheon, because he was eager to let
this follow immediately after the impression of Saint Peter's church.
They went thither. How simply and grandly the hall opens! Eight
yellow columns sustain its brow, and majestically as the head of the
Homeric Jupiter its temple arches itself. It is the Rotunda or
Pantheon. "O the pigmies," cried Albano, "who would fain give us new
temples! Raise the old ones higher out of the rubbish, and then you
have built enough!" [7] They stepped in. There rose round about them a
holy, simple, free world-structure, with its heaven-arches soaring and
striving upward, an Odeum of the tones of the Sphere-music, a world in
the world! And overhead[8] the eye-socket of the light and of the sky
gleamed down, and the distant rack of clouds seemed to touch the lofty
arch over which it shot along! And round about them stood nothing but
the temple-bearers, the columns! The temple of _all_ gods endured and
concealed the diminutive altars of the later ones.

Gaspard questioned Albano about his impressions. He said he preferred
the larger church of Saint Peter. The knight approved, and said that
youth, like nations, always more easily found and better appreciated
the sublime than the beautiful, and that the spirit of the young man
ripened from strong to beautiful, as the body of the same ripens from
the beautiful into the strong; however, he himself preferred the
Pantheon. "How could the moderns," said the Counsellor of Arts,
Fraischdoerfer, "build anything, except some little Bernini-like
turrets?" "That is why," said the offended Provincial Architect, Dian
(who despised the Counsellor of Arts, because he never made a good
figure except in the esthetic hall of judgment as critic, never in the
exhibition-hall as painter), "we moderns are, without contradiction,
stronger in criticism; though in practice we are, collectively and
individually, blockheads." Bouverot remarked that the Corinthian
columns might be higher. The Counsellor of Arts said that after all he
knew nothing more like this fine hemisphere than a much smaller one,
which he had found in Herculaneum molded in ashes, of the bosom of a
fair fugitive. The knight laughed, and Albano turned away in disgust
and went to the Princess.

He asked her for her opinion about the two temples. "Sophocles here,
Shakespeare there; but I comprehend and appreciate Sophocles more
easily," she replied, and looked with new eyes into his new
countenance. For the supernatural illumination through the zenith of
Heaven, not through a hazy horizon, transfigured, in her eyes, the
beautiful and excited countenance of the youth; and she took for
granted that the saintly halo of the dome must also exalt her form.
When he answered her: "Very good! But in Shakespeare, Sophocles also
is contained, not, however, Shakespeare in Sophocles--and upon Peter's
Church stands Angelo's Rotunda!", just then the lofty cloud, all at
once, as by the blow of a hand out of the ether, broke in two, and the
ravished Sun, like the eye of a Venus floating through her ancient
heavens--for she once stood even here--looked mildly in from the upper
deep; then a holy radiance filled the temple, and burned on the
porphyry of the pavement, and Albano looked around him in an ecstasy
of wonder and delight, and said with low voice: "How transfigured at
this moment is everything in this sacred place! Raphael's spirit comes
forth from his grave in this noontide hour, and everything which its
reflection touches brightens into godlike splendor!" The Princess
looked upon him tenderly, and he lightly laid his hand upon hers, and
said, as one vanquished, "Sophocles!"

On the next moonlit evening, Gaspard bespoke torches, in order that
the Coliseum, with its giant-circle, might the first time stand in
fire before them. The knight would fain have gone around alone with
his son, dimly through the dim work, like two spirits of the olden
time, but the Princess forced herself upon him, from a too lively wish
to share with the noble youth his great moments, and perhaps, in fact,
her heart and his own. Women do not sufficiently comprehend that an
idea, when it fills and elevates man's mind, shuts it, then, against
love, and crowds out persons; whereas with woman all ideas easily
become human beings.

They passed over the Forum, by the _Via Sacra_, to the Coliseum, whose
lofty, cloven forehead looked down pale under the moonlight. They
stood before the gray rock-walls, which reared themselves on four
colonnades one above another, and the torchlight shot up into the
arches of the arcades, gilding the green shrubbery high overhead, and
deep in the earth had the noble monster already buried his feet. They
stepped in and ascended the mountain, full of fragments of rock, from
one seat of the spectators to another. Gaspard did not venture to the
sixth or highest, where the men used to stand, but Albano and the
Princess did. Then the youth gazed down over the cliffs, upon the
round, green crater of the burnt-out volcano, which once swallowed
nine thousand beasts at once, and which quenched itself with human
blood. The lurid glare of the torches penetrated into the clefts and
caverns, and among the foliage of the ivy and laurel, and among the
great shadows of the moon, which, like departed spirits, hovered in
caverns. Toward the south, where the streams of centuries and
barbarians had stormed in, stood single columns and bare arcades.
Temples and three palaces had the giant fed and lined with his limbs,
and still, with all his wounds, he looked out livingly into the world.

"What a people!" said Albano. "Here curled the giant snake five times
about Christianity. Like a smile of scorn lies the moonlight down
below there upon the green arena, where once stood the Colossus of the
Sun-god. The star of the north[9] glimmers low through the windows,
and the Serpent and the Bear crouch. What a world has gone by!" The
Princess answered that "twelve thousand prisoners built this theatre,
and that a great many more had bled therein." "O! we too have
building prisoners," said he, "but for fortifications; and blood, too,
still flows, but with sweat! No, we have no present; the past, without
it, must bring forth a future."

The Princess went to break a laurel-twig and pluck a blooming
wall-flower. Albano sank away into musing: the autumnal wind of the
past swept over the stubble. On this holy eminence he saw the
constellations, Rome's green hills, the glimmering city, the Pyramid
of Cestius; but all became Past, and on the twelve hills dwelt, as
upon graves, the lofty old spirits, and looked sternly into the age,
as if they were still its kings and judges.

"This to remember the place and time!" said the approaching Princess,
handing him the laurel and the flower. "Thou mighty One! a Coliseum is
thy flower-pot; to thee is nothing too great, and nothing too small!"
said he, and threw the Princess into considerable confusion, till she
observed that he meant not her, but nature. His whole being seemed
newly and painfully moved, and, as it were, removed to a distance: he
looked down after his father, and went to find him; he looked at him
sharply, and spoke of nothing more this evening.




THE OPENING OF THE WILL

From the _Flegeljahre_ (1804)

By JEAN PAUL

TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING

Since Haslau had been a princely residence no one could remember any
event--the birth of the heir apparent excepted--that had been awaited
with such curiosity as the opening of the Van der Kabel will. Van der
Kabel might have been called the Haslau Croesus--and his life
described as a pleasure-making mint, or a washing of gold sand under a
golden rain, or in whatever other terms wit could devise. Now, seven
distant living relatives of seven distant deceased relatives of Kabel
were cherishing some hope of a legacy, because the Croesus had sworn
to remember them. These hopes, however, were very faint. No one was
especially inclined to trust him, as he not only conducted himself on
all occasions in a gruffly moral and unselfish manner--in regard to
morality, to be sure, the seven relatives were still beginners--but
likewise treated everything so derisively and possessed a heart so
full of tricks and surprises that there was no dependence to be placed
upon him. The eternal smile hovering around his temples and thick
lips, and the mocking falsetto voice, impaired the good impression
that might otherwise have been made by his nobly cut face and a pair
of large hands, from which New Year's presents, benefit performances,
and gratuities were continually falling. Wherefore the birds of
passage proclaimed the man, this human mountain-ash in which they
nested and of whose berries they ate, to be in reality a dangerous
trap; and they seemed hardly able to see the visible berries for the
invisible snares.

Between two attacks of apoplexy he made his will and deposited it with
the magistrate. Though half dead when, he gave over the certificate
to the seven presumptive heirs he said in his old tone of voice that
he did not wish this token of his decease to cause dejection to mature
men whom he would much rather think of as laughing than as weeping
heirs. And only one of them, the coldly ironical Police-Inspector
Harprecht, answered the smilingly ironical Croesus: "It was not in
their power to determine the extent of their collective sympathy in
such a loss."

At last the seven heirs appeared with their certificate at the city
hall. These were the Consistorial Councilor Glanz, the Police
Inspector, the Court-Agent Neupeter, the Attorney of the Royal
Treasury Knol, the Bookseller Passvogel, the Preacher-at-Early-Service
Flachs, and Herr Flitte from Alsace. They duly and properly requested
of the magistrates the charter consigned to the latter by the late
Kabel, and asked for the opening of the will. The chief executor of
the will was the officiating Burgomaster in person, the
under-executors were the Municipal-Councilors. Presently the charter
and the will were fetched from the Council-chamber into the
Burgomaster's office, they were passed around to all the Councilors
and the heirs, in order that they might see the privy seal of the city
upon them, and the registry of the consignment written by the town
clerk upon the charter was read aloud to the seven heirs. Thereby it
was made known to them that the charter had really been consigned to
the magistrates by the late departed one and confided to them _scrinio
rei publicae_, likewise that he had been in his right mind on the day
of the consignment. The seven seals which he himself had placed upon
it were found to be intact. Then--after the Town-Clerk had again drawn
up a short record of all this--the will was opened in God's name and
read aloud by the officiating Burgomaster. It ran as follows:

"I, Van der Kabel, do draw up my will on this seventh day of May 179-,
here in my house in Haslau, in Dog Street, without a great ado of
words, although I have been both a German notary and a Dutch _domine_.
Notwithstanding, I believe that I am still sufficiently familiar with
the notary's art to be able to act as a regular testator and
bequeather of property.

"Testators are supposed to commence by setting forth the motives which
have caused them to make their will. These with me, as with most, are
my approaching death, and the disposal of an inheritance which is
desired by many. To talk about the funeral and such matters is too
weak and silly. That which remains of me, however, may the eternal sun
above us make use of for one of his verdant springs, not for a gloomy
winter!

"The charitable bequests, about which notaries must always inquire, I
shall attend to by setting aside for three thousand of the city's
paupers an equal number of florins so that in the years to come, on
the anniversary of my death, if the annual review of the troops does
not happen to take place on the common that day, they can pitch their
camp there and have a merry feast off the money, and afterward clothe
themselves with the tent linen. To all the schoolmasters of our
Principality also I bequeath to every man one august d'or, and I leave
my pew in the Court church to the Jews of the city. My will being
divided into clauses, this may be taken as the first.

"SECOND CLAUSE

It is the general custom for legacies and disinheritances to be
counted among the most essential parts of the will. In accordance with
this custom Consistorial Councillor Glanz, Attorney of the Royal
Treasury Knol, Court-Agent Peter Neupeter, Police-Inspector Harprecht,
the Preacher-at-Early-Service Flachs, the Court-bookseller Passvogel
and Herr Flitte, for the time being receive nothing; not so much
because no _Trebellianica_ is due them as the most distant relatives,
or because most of them have themselves enough to bequeath, as because
I know out of their own mouths that they love my insignificant person
better than my great wealth, which person I therefore leave them,
little as can be got out of it."

Seven preternaturally long faces at this point started up like the
Seven-sleepers. The Consistorial Councillor, a man still young but
celebrated throughout all Germany for his oral and printed sermons,
considered himself the one most insulted by such taunts. From the
Alsatian Flitte there escaped an oath accompanied by a slight smack of
the tongue. The chin of Flachs, the Preacher-at-Early-Service, grew
downward into a regular beard.

The City Councillors could hear several softly ejaculated obituaries
referring to the late Kabel under the name of scamp, fool, infidel,
etc. But the officiating Burgomaster waved his hand, the Attorney of
the Royal Treasury and the Bookseller again bent all the elastic steel
springs of their faces as if setting a trap, and the Burgomaster
continued to read, although with enforced seriousness.

"THIRD CLAUSE

I make an exception of the present house in Dog Street which, after
this my third clause, shall, just as it stands, devolve upon and
belong to that one of my seven above-named relatives, who first,
before the other six rivals, can in one half hour's time (to be
reckoned from the reading of the Clause) shed one or two tears over
me, his departed uncle, in the presence of an estimable magistrate who
shall record the same. If, however, all eyes remain dry, then the
house likewise shall fall to the exclusive heir whom I am about to
name."

Here the Burgomaster closed the will, remarked that the condition was
certainly unusual but not illegal, and the court must adjudge the
house to the first one who wept. With which he placed his watch, which
pointed to half-past eleven, on the office-table, and sat himself
quietly down in order in his capacity of executor to observe, together
with the whole court, who should first shed the desired tear over the
testator. It cannot fairly be assumed that, as long as the earth has
stood, a more woe-begone and muddled congress ever met upon it than
this one composed of seven dry provinces assembled together, as it
were, in order to weep. At first some precious minutes were spent
merely in confused wondering and in smiling; the congress had been
placed too suddenly in the situation of the dog who, when about to
rush angrily at his enemy, heard the latter call out: Beg!--and who
suddenly got upon his hind legs and begged, showing his teeth. From
cursing they had been pulled up too quickly into weeping.

Every one realized that genuine emotion was not to be thought of;
downpours do not come quite so much on the gallop; such sudden baptism
of the eyes was out of the question; but in twenty-six minutes
something might happen.

The merchant Neupeter asked if it were not an accursed business and a
foolish joke on the part of a sensible man, and he refused to lend
himself to it; but the thought that a house might swim into his purse
on a tear caused him a peculiar irritation of the glands, which made
him look like a sick lark to whom a clyster is being applied with an
oiled pinhead--the house being the head.

The Attorney of the Royal Treasury Knol screwed up his face like a
poor workman, whom an apprentice is shaving and scraping on a Saturday
evening by the light of a shoemaker's candle; he was furiously angry
at the misuse made of the title "Will" and quite near to shedding
tears of rage.

The crafty Bookseller Passvogel at once quietly set about the matter
in hand; he hastily went over in his mind all the touching things
which he was publishing at his own expense or on commission, and from
which he hoped to brew something; he looked the while like a dog that
is slowly licking off the emetic which the Parisian veterinary, Demet,
had smeared on his nose; it would evidently be some time before the
desired effect would take place.

Flitte from Alsace danced around in the Burgomaster's office, looked
laughingly at all the serious faces and swore he was not the richest
among them, but not for all Strasburg and Alsace besides was he
capable of weeping over such a joke.

At last the Police-Inspector looked very significantly at him and
declared: In case Monsieur hoped by means of laughter to squeeze the
desired drops out of the well-known glands and out of the Meibomian,
the caruncle, and others, and thus thievishly to cover himself with
this window-pane moisture, he wished to remind him that he could gain
just as little by it as if he should blow his nose and try to profit
by that, as in the latter case it was well known that more tears
flowed from the eyes through the _ductus nasalis_ than were shed in
any church-pew during a funeral sermon. But the Alsatian assured him
he was only laughing in fun and not with serious intentions.

The Inspector for his part tried to drive something appropriate into
his eyes by holding them wide open and staring fixedly.

The Preacher-at-Early-Service Flachs looked like a Jew beggar riding a
runaway horse. Meanwhile his heart, which was already overcast with
the most promising sultry clouds caused by domestic and
church-troubles, could have immediately drawn up the necessary water,
as easily as the sun before bad weather, if only the floating-house
navigating toward him had not always come between as a much too
cheerful spectacle, and acted as a dam.

The Consistorial Councillor had learned to know his own nature from
New Year's and funeral sermons, and was positive that he himself would
be the first to be moved if only he started to make a moving address
to others. When therefore he saw himself and the others hanging so
long on the drying-line, he stood up and said with dignity: Every one
who had read his printed works knew for a certainty that he carried a
heart in his breast, which needed to repress such holy tokens as tears
are--so as not thereby to deprive any fellowman of something--rather
than laboriously to draw them to the surface with an ulterior motive.
"This heart has already shed them, but in secret, for Kabel was my
friend," he said, and looked around.

He noticed with pleasure that all were sitting there as dry as wooden
corks; at this special moment crocodiles, stags, elephants, witches,
ravens[10] could have wept more easily than the heirs, so disturbed
and enraged were they by Glanz. Flachs was the only one who had a
secret inspiration. He hastily summoned to his mind Kabel's charities
and the mean clothes and gray hair of the women who formed his
congregation at the early-service, Lazarus with his dogs, and his own
long coffin, and also the beheading of various people, Werther's
Sorrows, a small battlefield, and himself--how pitifully here in the
days of his youth he was struggling and tormenting himself over the
clause of the will--just three more jerks of the pump-handle and he
would have his water and the house.

"O Kabel, my Kabel!" continued Glanz, almost weeping for joy at the
prospect of the approaching tears of sorrow. "When once beside your
loving heart covered with earth my heart too shall mol--"

"I believe, honored gentlemen," said Flachs mournfully, arising and
looking around, his eyes brimming over, "I am weeping." After which he
sat down again and let them flow more cheerfully; he had feathered his
nest. Under the eyes of the other heirs he had snatched away the
prize-house from Glanz, who now extremely regretted his exertions,
since he had quite uselessly talked away half of his appetite. The
emotion of Flachs was placed on record and the house in Dog Street was
adjudged to him for good and all. The Burgomaster was heartily glad to
see the poor devil get it. It was the first time in the principality
of Haslau that the tears of a school-master and teacher-of-the-church
had been metamorphosed, not like those of the Heliades into light
amber, which incased an insect, but like those of the goddess Freya,
into gold. Glanz congratulated Flachs, and gayly drew his attention to
the fact that perhaps he, Glanz, had helped to move him. The rest drew
aside, by their separation accentuating their position on the dry road
from that of Flachs on the wet; all, however, remained intent upon the
rest of the will.

Then the reading of it was continued.




_WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT_

       *       *       *       *       *

SCHILLER AND THE PROCESS OF HIS INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT

From the _Introduction to the Correspondence of Schiller and
W. von Humboldt_ (1830)

TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING

Schiller's poetic genius showed itself in his very first productions.
In spite of all their defects in form, in spite of many things which
to the mature artist seemed absolutely crude, _The Robbers_ and
_Fiesko_ gave evidence of remarkable inherent power. His genius
later betrayed itself in the longing for poetry, as for the native
atmosphere of his spirit, which longing constantly breaks out in his
varied philosophical and historical labors and is often hinted at in
his letters to me. It finally revealed itself in virile power and
refined purity in those dramas which will long remain the pride and
the renown of the German stage.

This poetic genius, however, is most closely wedded, in all its height
and depth, to thought; it manifests itself, in fact, in an
intellectuality which by analysis would separate everything into its
parts, and then by combination would unite all in one complete whole.
In this lies Schiller's peculiar individuality. He demanded of poetry
more profundity of thought and forced it to submit to a more rigid
intellectual unity than it had ever had before. This he did in a
two-fold manner--by binding it into a more strictly artistic form, and
by treating every poem in such a way that its subject-matter readily
broadened its individuality until it expressed a complete idea.

It is upon these peculiarities that the excellence which characterizes
Schiller as a writer rests. It is because of them that, in order to
bring out the greatest and best of which he was capable, he needed a
certain amount of time before his completely developed individuality,
to which his poetic genius was indissolubly united, could reach that
point of clearness and definiteness of expression which he demanded of
himself. * * *

On the other hand, it would probably be agreeable to the reader of
this correspondence if I should attempt briefly to show how my opinion
of Schiller's individuality was formed by intercourse with him, by
reminiscences of his conversation, by the comparison of his
productions in their successive sequence, and by a study of the
development of his intellect.

What must necessarily have impressed every student of Schiller as most
characteristic was the fact that thinking was the very substance of
his life, in a higher and more significant sense than perhaps has ever
been the case with any other person. His intellect was alive with
spontaneous and almost tireless activity, which ceased only when the
attacks of his physical infirmity became overpowering. Such activity
seemed to him a recreation rather than an effort, and was manifested
most conspicuously in conversation, for which Schiller appeared to
have a natural aptitude.

He never sought for deep subjects of conversation, but seemed rather
to leave the introduction of a subject to chance; but from each topic
he led the discourse up to a general point of view, and after a short
dialogue one found oneself in the very midst of a mentally stimulating
discussion. He always treated the central idea as an end to be
attained in common; he always seemed to need the help of the person
with whom he was conversing, for, although the latter always felt that
the idea was supplied by Schiller alone, Schiller never allowed him to
remain inactive.

This was the chief difference between Schiller's and Herder's mode of
conversing. Never, perhaps, has there been a man who talked with
greater charm than Herder, if one happened to catch him in an
agreeable mood--not a difficult matter when any kind of note was
struck with which he was in harmony.

[Illustration: #WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT# FRANZ KRUeGER]

All the extraordinary qualities of this justly admired man seemed to
gain double power in conversation, for which they were so peculiarly
adapted. The thought blossomed forth in expression with a grace and
dignity which appeared to proceed from the subject alone, although
really belonging only to the individual. Thus speech flowed on
uninterruptedly with a limpidness which still left something remaining
for one's own imagination, and yet with a _chiaroscuro_ which did not
prevent one from definitely grasping the thought. As soon as one
subject was exhausted a new one was taken up. Nothing was gained by
making objections which would only have served as a hindrance. One had
listened, one could even talk oneself, but one felt the lack of an
interchange of thought.

Schiller's speech was not really beautiful, but his mind constantly
strove, with acumen and precision, to make new intellectual conquests;
he held this effort under control, however, and soared above his
subject in perfect liberty. Hence, with a light and delicate touch he
utilized any side-issue which presented itself, and this was the
reason why his conversation was peculiarly rich in words that are so
evidently the inspiration of the moment; yet, in spite of such seeming
freedom in the treatment of the subject, the final end was not lost
sight of. Schiller always held with firmness the thread which was
bound to lead thither, and, if the conversation was not interrupted by
any mishap, he was not prone to bring it to a close until he had
reached the goal.

And as Schiller in his conversation always aimed to add new ground to
the domain of thought, so, in general, it may be said that his
intellectual activity was always characterized by an intense
spontaneity. His letters demonstrate these traits very perceptibly,
and he knew absolutely no other method of working.

He gave himself up to mere reading late in the evening only, and
during his frequently sleepless nights. His days were occupied with
various labors or with specific preparatory studies in connection
with them, his intellect being thus kept at high tension by work and
research.

Mere studying undertaken with no immediate end in view save that of
acquiring knowledge, and which has such a fascination for those who
are familiar with it that they must be constantly on their guard lest
it cause them to neglect other more definite duties--such studying, I
say, he knew nothing about from experience, nor did he esteem it at
its proper value. Knowledge seemed to him too material, and the forces
of the intellect too noble, for him to see in this material anything
more than mere stuff to be worked up. It was only because he placed
more value upon the higher activity of the intellect, which creates
independently out of its own depths, that he had so little sympathy
with its efforts of a lower order. It is indeed remarkable from what a
small stock of material and how, in spite of wanting the means by
which such material is procured by others, Schiller obtained his
comprehensive theory of life (_Weltanschauung_), which, when once
grasped, fairly startles us by the intuitive truthfulness of genius;
for one can give no other name to that which originates without
outside aid.

Even in Germany he had traveled only in certain districts, while
Switzerland, of which his _William Tell_ contains such vivid
descriptions, he had never seen. Any one who has ever stood by the
Falls of the Rhine will involuntarily recall, at the sight, the
beautiful strophe in _The Diver_ in which this confusing tumult of
waters, that so captivates the eye, is depicted; and yet no personal
view of these rapids had served as the basis for Schiller's
description.

But whatever Schiller did acquire from his own experience he grasped
with a clearness which also brought distinctly before him what he
learned from the description of others. Besides, he never neglected to
prepare himself for every subject by exhaustive reading. Anything that
might prove to be of use, even if discovered accidentally, fixed
itself firmly in his memory; and his tirelessly-working imagination,
which, with constant liveliness, elaborated now this now that part of
the material collected from every source, filled out the deficiencies
of such second-hand information.

In a manner quite similar he made the spirit of Greek poetry his own,
although his knowledge of it was gained exclusively from translations.
In this connection he spared himself no pains. He preferred
translations which disclaimed any particular merit in themselves, and
his highest consideration was for the literal classical paraphrases.

* * * _The Cranes of Ibycus_ and the _Festival of Victory_ wear the
colors of antiquity with all the purity and fidelity which could be
expected from a modern poet, and they wear them in the most beautiful
and most spirited manner. The poet, in these works, has quite absorbed
the spirit of the ancient world; he moves about in it with freedom,
and thus creates a new form of poetry which, in all its parts,
breathes only such a spirit. The two poems, however, are in striking
contrast with each other. _The Cranes of Ibycus_ permitted a
thoroughly epic development; what made the subject of intrinsic value
to the poet was the idea which sprung from it of the power of artistic
representation upon the human soul. This power of poetry, of an
invisible force created purely by the intellect and vanishing away
when brought into contact with reality, belonged essentially to the
sphere of ideas which occupied Schiller so intensely.

As many as eight years before the time when this subject assumed the
ballad form within his mind it had floated before his vision, as is
evident in the lines which are taken from his poem _The Artists_--

  "Awed by the Furies' chorus dread
  Murder draws down upon its head
  The doom of death from their wild song."

This idea, moreover, permitted an exposition in complete harmony with
the spirit of antiquity; the latter had all the requisites for
bringing it into bold relief in all its purity and strength.
Consequently, every particular in the whole narrative is borrowed
immediately from the ancient world, especially the appearance and the
song of Eumenides. The chorus as employed by AEschylus is so
artistically interwoven with the modern poetic form, both in the
matter of rhyme and the length of the metre, that no portion of its
quiet grandeur is lost.

_The Festival of Victory_ is of a lyric, of a contemplative nature. In
this work the poet was able--indeed was compelled--to lend from his
own store an element which did not lie within the sphere of ideas and
the sentiments of antiquity; but everything else follows the spirit of
the Homeric poem with as great purity as it does in the _Cranes of
Ibycus_. The poem as a whole is clearly stamped with a higher, more
distinct, spirituality than is usual with the ancient singers; and it
is in this particular that it manifests its most conspicuous beauties.

The earlier poems of Schiller are also rich in particular traits
borrowed from the poems of the ancients, and into them he has often
introduced a higher significance than is found in the original. Let me
refer in this connection to his description of death from _The
Artists_--"The gentle bow of necessity"--which so beautifully recalls
the _gentle darts_ of Homer, where, however, the transfer of the
adjective from _darts_ to _bow_ gives to the thought a more tender and
a deeper significance.

Confidence in the intellectual power of man heightened to poetic form
is expressed in the distichs entitled _Columbus_, which are among the
most peculiar poetic productions that Schiller has given us. Belief in
the invisible force inherent in man, in the opinion, which is sublime
and deeply true, that there must be an inward mystic harmony between
it and the force which orders and governs the entire universe (for all
truth can only be a reflection of the eternal primal Truth), was a
characteristic feature of Schiller's way of thinking. It harmonized
also with the persistence with which he followed up every intellectual
task until it was satisfactorily completed. We see the same thought
expressed in the same kind of metaphor in the bold but beautiful
expression which occurs in the letters from Raphael to Julius in the
magazine, _The Thalia_--

"When Columbus made the risky wager with an untraveled sea." * * *

[Illustration: #UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN# With the statues of Wilhelm and
Alexander von Humboldt]

Art and poetry were directly joined to what was most noble in man;
they were represented to be the medium by means of which he first
awakens to the consciousness of that nature, reaching out beyond the
finite, which dwells within him. Both of them were thus placed upon
the height from which they really originate. To safeguard them upon
this height, to save them from being desecrated by every paltry and
belittling view, to rescue them from every sentiment which did not
spring from their purity, was really Schiller's aim, and appeared to
him as his true life-mission determined for him by the original
tendency of his nature.

His first and most urgent demands are, therefore, addressed to the
poet himself, from whom he requires not merely genius and talent
isolated, as it were, in their activity, but a mood which takes
possession of the entire soul and is in harmony with the sublimity of
his vocation; it must be not a mere momentary exaltation, but an
integral part of character. "Before he undertakes to influence the
best among his contemporaries he should make it his first and most
important business to elevate his own self to the purest and noblest
ideal of humanity." * * * To no one does Schiller apply this demand
more rigorously than to himself.

Of him it can truthfully be said that matters which bordered upon the
common or even upon the ordinary, never had the slightest hold upon
him; that he transferred completely the high and noble views which
filled his thoughts to his mode of feeling and his life; and that in
his compositions he was ever, with uniform force, inspired with a
striving for the ideal. This was true even of his minor productions.

To assign to poetry, among human endeavors, the lofty and serious
place of which I have spoken above, to defend it from the petty point
of view of those who, mistaking its dignity, and the pedantic attitude
of those who, mistaking its peculiar character, regard it only as a
trifling adornment and embellishment of life or else ask an immediate
moral effect and teaching from it--this, as one cannot repeat too
often, is deeply rooted in the German habit of thought and feeling.
Schiller in his poetry gave utterance--in his own individual manner,
however--to whatever his German nature had implanted in him, to the
harmony which rang out to him from the depths of the language, the
mysterious effect of which he so cleverly perceived and knew how to
use so masterfully. * * *

The deeper and truer trend of the German resides in his highly
developed sensibility which keeps him closer to the truths of nature,
in his inclination to live in the world of ideas and of emotions
dependent upon them, and, in fact, in everything which is connected
therewith. * * *

A favorite idea which often engaged Schiller's attention was the need
of educating the crude natural man--as he understood him--through art,
before he could be left to attain culture through reason. Schiller has
enlarged upon this theme on many occasions, both in prose and verse.
His imagination dwelt by preference upon the beginnings of
civilization in general, upon the transition from the nomadic life to
the agricultural, upon the covenant established in naive faith with
pious Mother Earth, as he so beautifully expresses it.

Whatever mythology offered here as kindred material, he grasped with
eagerness and firmness. Faithfully following the traces of fable, he
made of Demeter, the chief personage in the group of agricultural
deities, a figure as wonderful as it was appealing, by uniting in her
breast human feelings with divine. It was long a cherished plan with
Schiller to treat in epic form the earliest Attic civilization
resulting from foreign immigration. _The Eleusinian Festival_,
however, replaced this plan, which was never executed. * * *

The merely emotional, the fervid, the simply descriptive, in fact
every variety of poetry derived directly from contemplation and
feeling, are found in Schiller in countless single passages and in
whole poems. * * * But the most remarkable evidence of the consummate
genius of the poet is seen in _The Song of the Bell_, which, in
changing metre, in descriptions full of vivacity where a few touches
represent a whole picture, runs through the varied experiences in the
life of man and of society; for it expresses the feelings which arise
in each of them, and ever adapts the whole, symbolically, to the tones
of the bell, the casting and completing of which the poem accompanies
throughout in all its various stages. I know of no poem, in any
language, which shows so wide a poetic world in so small a compass,
that so runs through the scale of all that is deepest in human
feelings, and, in the guise of a lyric, depicts life in its important
events and epochs as if in an epic poem confined within natural
limits. But the poetic clearness is enhanced by the fact that a
subject which is portrayed as actually existing, corresponds with the
shadowy visions of the imagination; and the two series thus formed run
parallel with each other to the same end. * * *

Schiller was snatched from the world in the full maturity of his
intellectual power, though he would undoubtedly have been able to
perform an endless amount of additional work. His scope was so
unlimited that he would never have been able to find a goal, and the
constantly increasing activity of his mind would never have allowed
him time for stopping. For long years ahead he would have been able to
enjoy the happiness, the rapture, yes, the bliss of his occupation as
a poet, as he so inimitably describes it in one of the letters in this
collection, written about a plan for an idyl. His life ended indeed
before the customary limit had been reached, yet, while it lasted, he
worked exclusively and uninterruptedly in the realm of ideas and
fancy.

Of no one else, perhaps, can it be said so truthfully that "he had
thrown away the fear of that which was earthly and had escaped out of
the narrow gloomy life into the realm of the ideal." And it may be
observed, in closing, that he had lived surrounded only by the most
exalted ideas and the most brilliant visions which it is possible for
a mortal to appropriate and to create. One who thus departs from earth
cannot be regarded as otherwise than happy.




THE EARLY ROMANTIC SCHOOL

By JAMES TAFT HATFIELD, PH.D.

Professor of the German Language and Literature, Northwestern
University.

The latter half of the eighteenth century has been styled the Age of
Enlightenment, a convenient name for a period in which there was a
noticeable attempt to face the obvious, external facts of life in a
clear-eyed and courageous way. The centralizing of political power in
the hands of Louis XIV. of France and his successors had been
accompanied by a "standardizing" of human affairs which favored
practical efficiency and the easier running of the social machine, but
which was far from helpful to the self-expression of distinctly-marked
individuals.

The French became sovereign arbiters of taste and form, but their
canons of art were far from nature and the free impulses of mankind.
The particular development of this spirit of clarity in Berlin, the
centre of German influence, lay in the tendency to challenge all
historic continuity, and to seek uniformity based upon practical
needs.

Rousseau's revolutionary protests against inequality and
artificiality--particularly his startling treatise _On the Origin and
Foundations of Inequality among Men_ (1754)--and his fervent preaching
of the everlasting superiority of the heart to the head, constitute
the most important factor in a great revolt against regulated social
institutions, which led, at length, to the "Storm and Stress" movement
in Germany, that boisterous forerunner of Romanticism, yet so unlike
it that even Schlegel compared its most typical representatives to the
biblical herd of swine which stampeded--into oblivion. Herder,
proclaiming the vital connection between the soul of a whole nation
and its literature, and preaching a religion of the feelings rather
than a gospel of "enlightenment;" young Goethe, by his daring and
untrammeled Shakespearian play, _Goetz von Berlichingen_, and by his
open defiance, announced in _Werther_, of the authority of all
artistic rules and standards; and Buerger, asserting the right of the
common man to be the only arbiter of literary values, were, each in
his own way, upsetting the control of an artificial "classicism."
Immanuel Kant, whose deep and dynamic thinking led to a revolution
comparable to a cosmic upheaval in the geological world, compelled his
generation to discover a vast new moral system utterly disconcerting
to the shallow complacency of those who had no sense of higher values
than "practical efficiency."

When, in 1794, Goethe and Schiller, now matured and fully seasoned by
a deep-going classical and philosophical discipline, joined their
splendid forces and devoted their highest powers to the building up of
a comprehensive esthetic philosophy, the era was fully come for new
constructive efforts on German soil. Incalculably potent was the
ferment liberated by Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_ (1795-1796)--its
attacking the problem of life from the emotional and esthetic side;
its defense of the "call" of the individual as outweighing the whole
social code; its assertion that genius outranks general laws, and
imagination every-day rules; its abundance of "poetic" figures taking
their part in the romance.

The birth of the Romantic School can be pretty definitely set at about
1796; its cradle was in the quaint university town of Jena, at that
time the home of Schiller and his literary-esthetic enterprises, and
only a few miles away from Goethe in Weimar. Five names embody about
all that was most significant in the earlier movement: Fichte, the
brothers Friedrich and Wilhelm Schlegel, Tieck, and Novalis.

The discussion of Fichte belonging to another division of this work,
it is enough to recall here that he was already professor of
philosophy at Jena when the Schlegel brothers made their home there
in 1796, and that it was while there that he published his _Doctrine
of Science_, the charter of independence of the Romantic School,
announcing the annihilation of physical values, proclaiming the soul
as above things perceived, the inner spirit as that alembic in which
all objects are produced. With almost insolent freshness Fichte
asserted a re-valuation of all values: what had been "enlightenment"
was now to be called shallowness; "ancient crudities" were to be
reverenced as deeper perceptions of truth; "fine literature" was to be
accounted a frivolous thing. Fichte made a stirring appeal to young
men, especially, as being alone able to perceive the meaning of
science and poetry.

To take part in the contagion of these ideas, there settled in Jena in
1796 the two phenomenal Schlegel brothers. It is not easy or necessary
to separate, at this period, the activities of their agile minds. From
their early days, as sons in a most respectable Lutheran parsonage in
North Germany, both had shown enormous hunger for cultural
information, both had been voracious in exploiting the great libraries
within their reach. It is generally asserted that they were lacking in
essential virility and stamina; as to the brilliancy of their
acquisitions, their fineness of appreciation, and their wit, there can
be no question whatever. Madame de Stael called them "the fathers of
modern criticism," a title which has not been challenged by the best
authorities of our time.

Friedrich von Schlegel (1772-1829), the younger of the two, is counted
to be the keener and more original mind. He had a restless and
unsettled youth, mostly spent in studies; after various
disappointments, he determined to make classical antiquity his
life-work; while mastering the body of ancient literature, he was
assimilating, with much the same sort of eagerness, the philosophical
systems of Kant and Fichte. His first notable publication was an
esthetic-philosophic essay, in the ample style of Schiller's later
discourses, _Concerning the Study of Greek Poetry_. He found in the
Greeks of the age of Sophocles the ideal of a fully developed
humanity, and exhibited throughout the discussion a remarkable mastery
of the whole field of classical literature. Just at this time he
removed to Jena to join his older brother, Wilhelm, who was connected
with Schiller's monthly _The Hours_ and his annual _Almanac of the
Muses_. By a strange condition of things Friedrich was actively
engaged at the moment in writing polemic reviews for the organs of
Reichardt, one of Schiller's most annoying rivals in literary
journalism; these reviews became at once noticeable for their depth
and vigorous originality, particularly that one which gave a new and
vital characterization of Lessing. In 1797 he moved to Berlin, where
he gathered a group about him, including Tieck, and in this way
established the external and visible body of the Romantic School,
which the brilliant intellectual atmosphere of the Berlin salons, with
their wealth of gifted and cultured women, did much to promote. In
1799 both he and Tieck joined the Romantic circle at Jena.

In Berlin he published in 1798 the first volume of the _Athenaeum_,
that journal which in a unique way represents the pure Romantic ideal
at its actual fountain-head. It survived for three years, the last
volume appearing in 1800. Its aim was to "collect all rays of human
culture into one focus," and, more particularly, to confute the claim
of the party of "enlightenment" that the earlier ages of human
development were poor and unworthy of respect on the part of the
closing eighteenth century. A very large part of the journal was
written by the two brothers, Friedrich furnishing the most aggressive
contributions, more notably being responsible for the epigrammatic
_Fragments_, which became, in their, detached brevity and
irresponsibility, a very favorite model for the form of Romantic
doctrine. "I can talk daggers," he had said when younger, and he wrote
the greater part of these, though some were contributed by Wilhelm
Schlegel, by his admirable wife Caroline, by Schleiermacher, and
Novalis. The root of this form lies in French thinking and
expression--especially the short deliverances of Chamfort, the
epigrammatist of the French Revolution. These Orphic-apocalyptic
sentences are a sort of foundation for a new Romantic bible. They are
absolutely disconnected, they show a mixture and interpenetration of
different spheres of thought and observation, with an unexpected
deference to the appraisals of classic antiquity. Their range is
unlimited: philosophy and psychology, mathematics and esthetics,
philosophy and natural science, sociology and society, literature and
the theatre are all largely represented in their scope.

Friedrich Schlegel's epigrammatic wit is the direct precursor of
Heine's clever conceits in prose: one is instantly reminded of him by
such _Athenaeum_-fragments as "Kant, the Copernicus of Philosophy;"
"Plato's philosophy is a worthy preface to the religion of the
future;" "So-called 'happy marriages' are related to love, as a
correct poem to an improvised song;" "In genuine prose all words
should be printed in italics;" "Catholicism is naive Christianity;
Protestantism is sentimental." The sheer whimsicality of phrase seems
to be at times its own excuse for being, as in an explanation of
certain elegiac poems as "the sensation of misery in the contemplation
of the silliness of the relations of banality to craziness;" but there
are many sentences which go deep below the surface--none better
remembered, perhaps, than the dictum, "The French Revolution, Fichte's
_Doctrine of Science_, and Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_ are the greatest
symptoms of our age."

In the _Athenaeum_ both brothers give splendid testimony to their
astonishing and epoch-making gift in transferring classical and
Romance metrical forms into elegant, idiomatic German; they give
affectionate attention to the insinuating beauty of elegiac verse, and
secure charming effects in some of the most alien Greek forms, not to
mention _terza rima, ottava rima_, the Spanish gloss, and not a few
very notable sonnets.

The literary criticisms of the _Athenaeum_ are characteristically free
and aggressive, particularly in the frequent sneers at the flat
"homely" poetry of sandy North Germany. At the end of the second
volume, the "faked" _Literary Announcements_ are as daring as any
attempts of American newspaper humor. When the sum of the contents and
tendency of the journal is drawn, it is a strange mixture of
discriminating philosophy, devoted Christianity, Greek sensuousness,
and pornographic mysticism. There is a never-ending esthetic coquetry
with the flesh, with a serious defense of some very Greek practices
indeed. All of this is thoroughly typical of the spirit of the
Romantic school, and it is by no means surprising that Friedrich's
first book, the novel _Lucinda_ (1799), should stand as the supreme
unsavory classic in this field. That excellent divine, Schleiermacher,
exalted this document of the Rights of the Flesh as "a paean of Love,
in all its completeness," but it is a feeble, tiresome performance,
absolutely without structure, quite deserving the saucy epigram on
which it was pilloried by the wit of the time:

  Pedantry once of Fancy begged the dole
  Of one brief kiss; she pointed him to Shame.
  He, impotent and wanton, then Shame's favors stole.
  Into the world at length a dead babe came--
  "_Lucinda_" was its name.

The preaching of "religion," "womanliness," and the "holy fire of
divine enjoyment" makes an unedifying _melange_: "The holiest thing in
any human being is his own mind, his own power, his own will;" "You do
all according to your own mind, and refuse to be swayed by what is
usual and proper." Schleiermacher admired in it that "highest wisdom
and profoundest religion" which lead people to "yield to the rhythm of
fellowship and friendship, and to disturb no harmony of love." In more
prosaic diction, the upshot of its teaching was the surrender to
momentary feelings, quite divorced from Laws or Things. The only
morality is "full Humanity;" "Nature alone is worthy of honor, and
sound health alone is worthy of love;" "Let the discourse of love,"
counsels Julius, "be bold and free, not more chastened than a Roman
elegy"--which is certainly not very much--and the skirmishes of
inclination are, in fact, set forth with an almost antique simplicity.
Society is to be developed only by "wit," which is seriously put into
comparison with God Almighty. As to practical ethics, one is told that
the most perfect life is but a pure vegetation; the right to indolence
is that which really makes the discrimination between choice and
common beings, and is the determining principle of nobility. "The
divine art of being indolent" and "the blissful bosom of
half-conscious self-forgetfulness" naturally lead to the thesis that
the empty, restless exertion of men in general is nothing but Gothic
perversity, and "boots naught but _ennui_ to ourselves and others."
Man is by nature "a serious beast; one must labor to counteract this
shameful tendency." Schleiermacher ventured, it is true, to raise the
question as to whether the hero ought not to have some trace of the
chivalrous about him, or ought not to do something effective in the
outer world--and posterity has fully supported this inquiry.

Friedrich's next most important move was to Paris (1802), where he
gave lectures on philosophy, and attempted another journal. Here he
began his enthusiastic studies of the Sanskrit language and
literature, which proved to have an important influence on the
development of modern philology. This is eminently true of his work
_On the Language and Wisdom of the Indians_ (1808). In 1804 he removed
to Cologne, where he entered with great eagerness into the work of
re-discovering the medieval Lower Rhenish School of religious art and
Gothic architecture. In 1808 he, with his wife Dorothea (the daughter
of Moses Mendelssohn, who years before this time had left her home and
family to become his partner for life), entered the Roman Catholic
church, the interests of which engaged much of his energies for the
remainder of his life.

[Illustration: #A HERMIT WATERING HORSES# MORITZ VON SCHWIND]

He lived most of the time in Vienna, partly engaged in the literary
service of the Austrian government, partly in lecturing on history and
literature. He died in 1829 in Dresden, whither he had gone to deliver
a course of lectures.

Friedrich Schlegel's philosophy of life was based upon the theory of
supremacy of the artist, the potency of poetry, with its incidental
corollaries of disregard for the Kantian ideal of Duty, and aversion
to all Puritanism and Protestantism. "There is no great world but that
of artists," he declared in the _Athenaeum_; "artists form a higher
caste; they should separate themselves, even in their way of living,
from other people." Poetry and philosophy formed in his thought an
inseparable unit, forever joined, "though seldom together--like Castor
and Pollux." His interest is in "Humanity," that is to say, a superior
type of the species, with a corresponding contempt for "commonness,"
especially for the common man as a mere machine of "duty." On
performances he set no great store: "Those countenances are most
interesting to me in which Nature seems to have indicated a great
design without taking time to carry it out."

August Wilhelm von Schlegel (1767-1845), more simply known as
"Wilhelm," was the more balanced, dignified, and serene nature, and
possessed in a far higher degree than Friedrich the art of steering
his course smoothly through life. Of very great significance in his
training were his university years at Goettingen, and his acquaintance
there with the poet Buerger, that early apostle of revolt from a formal
literature, whose own life had become more and more discredited and
was destined to go out in wretchedness and ignominy; the latter's
fecundating activities had never been allowed full scope, but
something of his spirit of adventure into new literary fields was
doubtless caught by the younger man. Buerger's attempts at naturalizing
the sonnet, for instance, are interesting in view of the fact that
Wilhelm Schlegel became the actual creator of this literary form among
the Germans. Schlegel's own pursuits as a student were prevailingly
in the field of Hellenism, in which his acquisitions were astounding;
his influence was especially potent in giving a philological character
to much of the work of the Romanticists. In Goettingen he became
acquainted with one of the most gifted women which Germany has ever
produced, Caroline, the daughter of the Goettingen professor Michaelis,
at the time a young widow in the home of her father, and destined to
become not only his wife, but the Muse of much of his most important
work. This office she performed until the time of their unfortunate
separation.

After finishing his university studies, Wilhelm was for a while
private tutor in a wealthy family at Amsterdam, where conditions of
living were most agreeable, but where a suitable stimulus to the
inborn life of his mind was lacking. He accordingly gave up this
position and returned, with little but hopes, to Germany. Then came a
call which was both congenial and honorable. Schiller's attention had
been drawn, years before, to a review of his own profound
philosophical poem, _The Artists_, by an unknown young man, whom he at
once sought to secure as a regular contributor to his literary
journal, _The New Thalia_. Nothing came of this, chiefly because of
Schlegel's intimate relations to Buerger at the time. Schiller had
published, not long before, his annihilatory review of Buerger's poems,
which did so much to put that poet out of serious consideration for
the remainder of his days. In the meantime Schiller had addressed
himself to his crowning enterprise, the establishing of a literary
journal which should be the final dictator of taste and literary
criticism throughout the German-speaking world. In 1794 the plan for
_The Hours_ was realized under favorable auspices, and in the same
year occurred the death of Buerger. In 1796 Schiller invited Wilhelm to
become one of the regular staff of _The Hours_, and this invitation
Schlegel accepted, finding in it the opportunity to marry Caroline,
with whom he settled in Jena in July of that year. His first
contribution to _The Hours_ was a masterful and extended treatise on
_Dante_, which was accompanied by translations which were clearly the
most distinguished in that field which the German language had ever
been able to offer. Schlegel also furnished elaborated poems, somewhat
in Schiller's grand style, for the latter's _Almanac of the Muses_.
During the years of his residence at Jena (which continued until 1801)
Schlegel, with the incalculable assistance of his wife, published the
first eight volumes of those renderings of Shakespeare's plays into
German which doubtless stand at the very summit of the art of
transferring a poet to an alien region, and which have, in actual
fact, served to make the Bard of Avon as truly a fellow-citizen of the
Germans as of the Britons. Wilhelm's brother Friedrich had remained
but a year with him in Jena, before his removal to Berlin and his
establishment of the _Athenaeum_. Although separated from his brother,
Wilhelm's part in the conduct of the journal was almost as important
as Friedrich's, and, in effect, they conducted the whole significant
enterprise out of their own resources. The opening essay, _The
Languages_, is Wilhelm's, and properly, for at this time he was by far
the better versed in philological and literary matters. His cultural
acquisitions, his tremendous spoils of reading, were greater, and his
judgment more trustworthy. In all his work in the _Athenaeum_ he
presents a seasoned, many-sided sense of all poetical, phonetic and
musical values: rhythm, color, tone, the lightest breath and aroma of
an elusive work of art. One feels that Wilhelm overhauls the whole
business of criticism, and clears the field for coming literary
ideals. Especially telling is his demolition of Klopstock's violent
"Northernism," to which he opposes a far wider philosophy of grammar
and style. The universality of poetry, as contrasted with a narrow
"German" clumsiness, is blandly defended, and a joyous abandon is
urged as something better than the meticulous anxiety of chauvinistic
partisanism. In all his many criticisms of literature there are charm,
wit, and elegance, an individuality and freedom in the reviewer, who,
if less penetrating than his brother, displays a far more genial
breadth and humanity, and more secure composure. His translations,
more masterly than those of Friedrich, carry out Herder's demand for
complete absorption and re-creation.

In 1801 Schlegel went to Berlin, where for three successive winters he
lectured on art and literature. His subsequent translations of
Calderon's plays (1803-1809) and of Romance lyrics served to
naturalize a large treasure of southern poetry upon German soil. In
1804, after having separated from his wife, he became attached to the
household of Madame de Stael, and traversed Europe with her. It is
through this association that she was enabled to write her brilliant
work, _On Germany_. In 1808 he delivered a series of lectures on
dramatic art and literature in Vienna, which enjoyed enormous
popularity, and are still reckoned the crowning achievement of his
career; perhaps the most significant of these is his discourse on
Shakespeare. In the first volume of the _Athenaeum_, Shakespeare's
universality had already been regarded as "the central point of
romantic art." As Romanticist, it was Schlegel's office to portray the
independent development of the modern English stage, and to defend
Shakespeare against the familiar accusations of barbaric crudity and
formlessness. In surveying the field, it was likewise incumbent upon
him to demonstrate in what respects the classic drama differed from
the independently developed modern play, and his still useful
generalization regards antique art as limited, clear, simple, and
perfected--as typified by a work of sculpture; whereas romantic art
delights in mingling its subjects--as a painting, which embraces many
objects and looks out into the widest vistas. Apart from the clarity
and smoothness of these Vienna discourses, their lasting merit lies in
their searching observation of the import of dramatic works from their
inner soul, and in a most discriminating sense of the relation of all
their parts to an organic whole.

In 1818 Schlegel accepted a professorship at the University of Bonn,
in which place he exercised an incalculable influence upon one of the
rising stars of German literature, young Heinrich Heine, who derived
from him (if we may judge from his own testimony at the time; Heine's
later mood is a very different matter) an inspiration amounting to
captivation. The brilliant young student discovered here a stimulating
leader whose wit, finish, and elegance responded in full measure to
the hitherto unsatisfied cravings of his own nature. Although Heine
had become a very altered person at the time of writing his _Romantic
School_ (1836), this book throws a scintillating illumination upon
certain sides of Schlegel's temperament, and offers a vivid impression
of his living personality.

In these last decades of his life Schlegel turned, as had his younger
brother, to the inviting field of Sanskrit literature and philology,
and extracted large and important treasures which may still be
reckoned among mankind's valued resources. When all discount has been
made on the side of a lack of specific gravity in Wilhelm Schlegel's
character, it is only just to assert that throughout his long and
prolific life he wrought with incalculable effect upon the
civilization of modern Europe as a humanizer of the first importance.

Ludwig Tieck (1773-1853) is reckoned by many students of the Romantic
period to be the best and most lasting precipitate which the entire
movement has to show. For full sixty years a most prolific writer, and
occupied in the main with purely literary production, it is not
strange that he came to be regarded as the poetic mouthpiece of the
school.

His birth was in a middle-class family of Berlin. A full university
training at Halle, Goettingen and Erlangen was accorded him, during
which he cannot be said to have distinguished himself by any triumph
in the field of formal studies, but in the course of which he
assimilated at first hand the chief modern languages of culture,
without any professional guidance. At an early stage in his growth he
discovered and fed full upon Shakespeare. As a university student he
also fell in love with the homely lore of German folk-poetry. In 1794
he came back to Berlin, and turned to rather banal hack-writing for
the publisher Nicolai, chief of all exponents of rationalism.
Significant was his early rehabilitation of popular folk-tales and
chapbooks, as in _The Wonderful Love-Story of Beautiful Magelone and
Count Peter of Provence_ (1797). The stuff was that of one of the
prose chivalry-stories of the middle ages, full of marvels, seeking
the remote among strange hazards by land and sea. The tone of Tieck's
narrative is childlike and naive, with rainbow-glows of the bliss of
romantic love, glimpses of the poetry and symbolism of Catholic
tradition, and a somewhat sugary admixture of the spirit of the
_Minnelied_, with plenty of refined and delicate sensuousness. With
the postulate that song is the true language of life, the story is
sprinkled with lyrics at every turn. The whole adventure is into the
realm of dreams and vague sensations.

Tieck must have been liberally baptized with Spree-water, for the
instantaneous, corrosive Berlin wit was a large part of his endowment.
His cool irony associated him more closely to the Schlegels than to
Novalis, with his life-and-death consecrations. His absurd
play-within-a-play, _Puss in Boots_ (1797), is delicious in its
bizarre ragout of satirical extravaganzas, where the naive and the
ironic lie side by side, and where the pompous seriousness of certain
complacent standards is neatly excoriated.

Such publications as the two mentioned were hailed with rejoicing by
the Schlegels, who at once adopted Tieck as a natural ally. Even more
after their own hearts was the long novel, _Franz Sternbald's
Wanderings_ (1798), a vibrant confession, somewhat influenced by
_Wilhelm Meister_, of the Religion of Art (or the Art of Religion):
"Devout worship is the highest and purest joy in Art, a joy of which
our natures are capable only in their purest and most exalted
hours."

[Illustration: #A WANDERER LOOKS INTO A LANDSCAPE# MORITZ VON SCHWIND]

Sternbald, a pupil of Albrecht Duerer, makes a roving journey to the
Low Countries, the Rhine, and Italy, in order to deepen his artistic
nature. The psychology of the novel is by no means always true to the
spirit of the sixteenth century; in fact a good part of the story
reflects aristocratic French chateau-life in the eighteenth century.
The intensities of romantic friendship give a sustained thrill, and
the style is rhythmic, though the action is continually interrupted by
episodes, lyrics, and discourses. In the unworldliness, the delicacy
of sensibility, and the somewhat vague outlines of the story one may
be reminded, at times, of _The Marble Faun_. Its defense of German
Art, as compared with that of the Italian Renaissance, is its chief
message.

This novel has been dwelt upon because of its direct influence upon
German painting and religion. A new verb, "_sternbaldisieren_," was
coined to parody a new movement in German art toward the medieval,
religious spirit. It is this book which Heine had in mind when he
ridiculed Tieck's "silly plunge into medieval naivete." Overbeck and
Cornelius in Rome, with their pre-Raphaelite, old-German and
catholicizing tendencies, became the leaders of a productive school.
Goethe scourged it for its "mystic-religious" aspirations, and
demanded a more vigorous, cheerful and progressive outlook for German
painting.

Having already formed a personal acquaintance with Friedrich Schlegel
in Berlin, Tieck moved to Jena in 1799, came into very close relations
with Fichte, the Schlegels, and Novalis, and continued to produce
works in the spirit of the group, notably the tragedy _Life and Death
of Saint Genoveva_ (1800). His most splendid literary feat at this
period, however, was the translation of _Don Quixote_ (1799-1801), a
triumph over just those subtle difficulties which are well-nigh
insurmountable, a rendering which went far beyond any mere literalness
of text, and reproduced the very tone and aura of its original.

In 1803 he published a graceful little volume of typical
_Minnelieder_, renewed from the middle high-German period. The note of
the book (in which Runge's copperplate outlines are perhaps as
significant as the poems) is spiritualized sex-love: the utterance of
its fragrance and delicacy, its unique place in the universe as a
pathway to the Divine--a point of view to which the modern mind is
prone to take some exceptions, considering a religion of erotics
hardly firm enough ground to support an entire philosophy of living.
All the motives of the old court-lyric are well represented--the
torments and rewards of love, the charm of spring, the refinements of
courtly breeding--and the sophisticated metrical forms are handled
with great virtuosity. Schiller, it is true, compared them to the
chatter of sparrows, and Goethe also paid his compliments to the
"sing-song of the Minnesingers," but it was this same little book
which first gave young Jakob Grimm the wish to become acquainted with
these poets in their original form.

That eminently "Romantic" play, _Emperor Octavian_ (1804), derived
from a familiar medieval chap-book, lyric in tone and loose in form,
is a pure epitome of the movement, and the high-water mark of Tieck's
apostleship and service. Here Tieck shows his intimate sense of the
poetry of inanimate nature; ironic mockery surrenders completely to
religious devotion; the piece is bathed in--

  The light that never was on sea or land,
  The consecration and the poet's dream.

It is in the prologue to this play that personified Romance declares
her descent from Faith, her father, and Love, her mother, and
introduces the action by the command:

  "Moonshine-lighted magic night
  Holding every sense in thrall;
  World, which wondrous tales recall,
  Rise, in ancient splendors bright!"

During a year's residence in Italy Tieck applied himself chiefly to
reading old-German manuscripts, in the Library of the Vatican, and
wavered upon the edge of a decision to devote himself to Germanic
philology.

[Illustration: #A CHAPEL IN THE FOREST# MORITZ VON SCHWIND]

The loss to science is not serious, for Tieck hardly possessed the
grasp and security which could have made him a peer of the great
pioneers in this field. From the time of his leaving for Italy,
Tieck's importance for the development of Romanticism becomes
comparatively negligible.

After a roving existence of years, during which he lived in Vienna,
Munich, Prague and London, he made a settled home in Dresden. Here he
had an enviable place in the very considerable literary and artistic
group, and led an existence of almost suspiciously "reasonable"
well-being, from a Romantic view-point. The "dramatic evenings" at his
home, in which he read plays aloud before a brilliant gathering, were
a feature of social life. For seventeen years he had an influential
position as "dramaturg" of the Royal Theatre, it being his duty to
pass on plays to be performed and to decide upon suitable actors for
the parts.

During his long residence in Dresden Tieck produced a very large
number of short stories (_Novellen_) which had a decided vogue, though
they differ widely from his earlier writings in dealing with real,
contemporary life.

It is pleasant to record that the evening of Tieck's long life was
made secure from anxieties by a call to Berlin from Friedrich Wilhelm
IV., the "Romantic king." His last eleven years were spent there in
quiet and peace, disturbed only by having to give dramatic readings
before a self-sufficient court circle which was imperfectly equipped
for appreciating the merits of Tieck's performances.

The early Romantic movement found its purest expression in the person
and writings of Friedrich von Hardenberg, better known under his
assumed literary name Novalis (1772-1801). Both his father, Baron von
Hardenberg (chief director of the Saxon salt-works), and his mother
belonged to the Moravians, that devoted group of mystical pietists
whose sincere consecration to the things of the spirit has achieved a
deathless place in the annals of the religious history of the
eighteenth century, and, more particularly, determined the beginnings
and the essential character of the world-wide Methodist movement. His
gentle life presents very little of dramatic incident: he was a
reserved, somewhat unsocial boy, greatly devoted to study and to the
reading of poetry. He was given a most thorough education, and, while
completing his university career, became acquainted with Friedrich
Schlegel, and remained his most intimate friend. He also came to know
Fichte, and eagerly absorbed his _Doctrine of Science_. A little later
he came into close relations with Wilhelm Schlegel and Tieck in Jena.
He experienced a seraphic love for a delicate girl of thirteen, whose
passing away at the age of fifteen served to transport the youth's
interests almost exclusively to the invisible world: "Life is a
sickness of the spirit, a passionate Doing." His chief conversation
lay in solitude, in seeking for a mystic inner solution of the secrets
of external nature. He loved to discourse on these unseen realms, and
to create an ideal connection between them all. The testimony of his
friend Tieck, who in company with Friedrich Schlegel edited his works
in a spirit of almost religious piety, runs: "The common life
environed him like some tale of fiction, and that realm which most men
conceive as something far and incomprehensible was the very Home of
his Soul." He was not quite twenty-nine years old at the time of his
peaceful death, which plunged the circle of his Romantic friends into
deepest grief.

The envelope of his spiritual nature was so tenuous that he seemed to
respond to all the subtler influences of the universe; a sensitive
chord attuned to poetic values, he appeared to exercise an almost
mediumistic refraction and revelation of matters which lie only in the
realm of the transcendental--

  "Weaving about the commonplace of things
  The golden haze of morning's blushing glow."

In reading Novalis, it is hardly possible to discriminate between
discourse and dreaming; his passion was for remote, never-experienced
things--

  "Ah, lonely stands, and merged in woe,
  Who loves the past with fervent glow!"

His homesickness for the invisible world became an almost sensuous
yearning for the joys of death.

In the first volume of the _Athenaeum_ (1798) a place of honor was
given to his group of apothegms, _Pollen_ (rather an unromantic
translation for "_Bluethenstaub_"); these were largely supplemented by
materials found after his death, and republished as _Fragments_. In
the last volume of the same journal (1800) appeared his _Hymns to
Night_. Practically all of his other published works are posthumous:
his unfinished novel, _Henry of Ofterdingen_; a set of religious
hymns; the beginnings of a "physical novel," _The Novices at Sais_.

Novalis's aphoristic "seed-thoughts" reveal Fichte's transcendental
idealistic philosophy as the fine-spun web of all his observations on
life. The external world is but a shadow; the universe is in us;
there, or nowhere, is infinity, with all its systems, past or future;
the world is but a precipitate of human nature.

_The Novices at Sais_, a mystical contemplation of nature reminding us
of the discourses of Jakob Boehme, has some suggestion of the
symbolistic lore of parts of Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_, and proves a
most racking riddle to the uninitiated. The penetration into the
meaning of the Veiled Image of Nature is attempted from the point of
view that all is symbolic: only poetic, intuitive souls may enter in;
the merely physical investigator is but searching through a
charnel-house. Nature, the countenance of Divinity, reveals herself to
the childlike spirit; to such she will, at her own good pleasure,
disclose herself spontaneously, though gradually. This seems to be the
inner meaning of the episodic tale, _Hyacinth and Rose-Blossom_. The
rhythmic prose _Hymns to Night_ exhale a delicate melancholy, moving
in a vague haze, and yet breathing a peace which comes from a
knowledge of the deeper meanings of things, divined rather than
experienced. Their stealing melody haunts the soul, however dazed the
mind may be with their vagueness, and their exaltation of death above
life. In his _Spiritual Poems_ we feel a simple, passionate intensity
of adoration, a yearning sympathy for the hopeless and the
heavy-laden; in their ardent assurance of love, peace, and rest, they
are surely to be reckoned among the most intimate documents in the
whole archives of the "varieties of religious experience."

The unfinished novel _Henry of Ofterdingen_ reaches a depth of
obscurity which is saved from absurdity only by the genuinely fervent
glow of a soul on the quest for its mystic ideals: "The blue flower it
is that I yearn to look upon!" No farcical romance of the nursery
shows more truly the mingled stuff that dreams are made on, yet the
intimation that the dream is not all a dream, that the spirit of an
older day is symbolically struggling for some expression in words,
gave it in its day a serious importance at which our own age can
merely marvel. It brings no historical conviction; it is altogether
free from such conventional limits as Time and Space. Stripped of its
dreamy diction, there is even a tropical residue of sensuousness, to
which the English language is prone to give a plainer name. It
develops into a fantastic _melange_ which no American mind can
possibly reckon with; what its effect would be upon a person relegated
to reading it in close confinement, it would not be safe to assert,
but it is quite certain that "this way madness lies."

To generalize about the Romantic movement, may seem about as practical
as to attempt to make a trigonometrical survey of the Kingdom of
Dreams. No epoch in all literary history is so hopelessly entangled in
the meshes of subtle philosophical speculation, derived from the most
complex sources. To deal with the facts of classic art, which is
concerned with seeking a clearly-defined perfection, is a simple
matter compared with the unbounded and undefined concepts of a school
which waged war upon "the deadliness of ascertained facts" and
immersed itself in vague intimations of glories that were to be. Its
most authorized exponent declared it to be "the delineation of
sentimental matter in fantastic form." A more elaborated authoritative
definition is given in the first volume of the _Athenaeum_:

"Romantic poetry is a progressive universal-poetry. Its aim is not
merely to reunite all the dispersed classes of poetry, and to place
poetry in touch with philosophy and rhetoric; it aims and ought to aim
to mingle and combine poetry and prose, genius and criticism, artistic
and natural poetry; to make poetry lively and social, to make life and
society poetic; to poetize wit, to saturate all the forms of art with
worthy materials of culture and enliven them by the sallies of humor.
It embraces everything that is poetic, from the greatest and most
inclusive system of art, to the sigh, the kiss, that the poetic child
utters in artless song. Other classes of poetry are complete, and may
now be exhaustively dissected; romantic poetry is still in process of
becoming--in fact this is its chief characteristic, that it forever
can merely become, but never be completed. It can never be exhausted
by any theory, and only an intuitive criticism could dare to attempt
to characterize its ideals. It alone is endless, as it alone is free,
and asserts as its first law that the whim of the poet tolerates no
law above itself. Romantic poetry is the only sort which is more than
a class, and, as it were, the art of poetry itself."

We may in part account for Romanticism by recalling that it was the
product of an age which was no longer in sympathy with its own tasks,
an age of political miseries and restrained powers, which turned away
from its own surroundings and sought to be free from all contact with
them, striving to benumb its sensations by an auto-intoxication of
dreams.

Romanticism is built upon the imposing corner-stone of the unique
importance of the Individual: "To become God, to be man, to develop
one's own being, these are expressions for the same thing." As
personality is supreme, it is natural that there should follow a
contempt for the mediocrity of current majorities, standards and
opinions. It abhorred universal abstractions, as opposed to the truth
and meaning of individual phenomena. It stoutly believed in an
inexpugnable right to Illusions, and held clarity and earnestness to
be foes of human happiness. "The poem gained great applause, because
it had so strange, so well-nigh unintelligible a sound. It was like
music itself, and for that very reason attracted so irresistibly.
Although the hearers were awake, they were entertained _as though in a
dream_."

Hence a purely lyric attitude toward life, which was apprehended only
on transcendent, musical valuations. Poetry was to be the heart and
centre of actual living; modern life seemed full of "prose and
pettiness" as compared with the Middle Ages; it was the doctrine of
this Mary in the family of Bethany to leave to the Martha of dull
externalists the care of many things, while she "chose the better
part" in contemplative lingering at the vision of what was essentially
higher. A palpitant imagination outranks "cold intelligence;"
sensation, divorced from all its bearings or functions, is its own
excuse for being. Of responsibility, hardly a misty trace; realities
are playthings and to be treated allegorically.

The step was not a long one to the thesis that "disorder and confusion
are the pledge of true efficiency"--such being one of the
"seed-thoughts" of Novalis. In mixing all species, Romanticism amounts
to unchartered freedom, "_die gesunde, kraeftige Ungezogenheit_." It is
no wonder that so many of its literary works remain unfinished
fragments, and that many of its exponents led unregulated lives.

"Get you irony, and form yourself to urbanity" is the counsel of
Friedrich Schlegel. The unbridgeable chasm between Ideal and Life
could not be spanned, and the baffled idealist met this hopelessness
with the shrug of irony. The every-day enthusiasm of the common life
invited only a sneer, often, it is true, associated with flashing wit.

Among its more pleasing manifestations, Romanticism shows a remarkable
group of gifted, capable women, possibly because this philosophy of
intuition corresponds to the higher intimations of woman's soul. Other
obvious fruits of the movement were the revival of the poetry and
dignity of the Middle Ages, both in art and life--that colorful,
form-loving musical era which the Age of Enlightenment had so crassly
despised. That this yearning for the beautiful background led to
reaction in politics and religion is natural enough; more edifying are
the rich fruits which scholarship recovered when Romanticism had
directed it into the domains of German antiquity and philology, and
the wealth of popular song. In addition to these, we must reckon the
spoils which these adventurers brought back from their quest into the
faery lands of Poetry in southern climes.

When all is said, and in spite of Romanticism's weak and unmanly
quitting of the field of duty, in spite of certain tendencies to
ignore and supersede the adamant foundations of morality upon which
the "humanities" as well as society rest, one cannot quite help hoping
that somehow good may be the final hint of it all. Like Mary Stuart,
it is, at least, somewhat better than its worst repute, as formulated
by its enemies. Estimates change; even the excellent Wordsworth was
held by the English reviewers to be fantastic and vague in his _Ode to
Duty_. We should not forget that the most shocking pronouncements of
the Romanticists were uttered half-ironically, to say the least. After
its excursion into the fantastic jungle of Romanticism, the world has
found it restful and restorative, to be sure, to return to the limited
perfection of the serene and approved classics; yet perchance it _is_
the last word of all philosophy that the astounding circumambient
Universe is almost entirely unperceived by our senses and reasoning
powers.

Let us confess, and without apology, that the country which claims a
Hawthorne, a Poe, and a youthful Longfellow, can never surrender
unconditionally its hold upon the "True Romance:"

  "Through wantonness if men profess
  They weary of Thy parts,
  E'en let them die at blasphemy
  And perish with their arts;
  But we that love, but we that prove
  Thine excellence august,
  While we adore discover more
  Thee perfect, wise, and just....

  A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law
  And Man's infirmity;
  A shadow kind to dumb and blind
  The shambles where we die;
  A sum to trick th' arithmetic
  Too base of leaguing odds;
  The spur of trust, the curb of lust--
  Thou handmaid of the Gods!"




AUGUST WILHELM SCHLEGEL

       *       *       *       *       *

LECTURES ON DRAMATIC ART[11] (1809)

TRANSLATED BY JOHN BLACK

LECTURE XXII

Comparison of the English and Spanish Theatres--Spirit of the Romantic
Drama--Shakespeare--His age and the circumstances of his Life.

In conformity with the plan which we laid down at the first, we shall
now proceed to treat of the English and Spanish theatres. We have
been, on various occasions, compelled in passing to allude cursorily,
sometimes to the one and sometimes to the other, partly for the sake
of placing, by means of contrast, many ideas in a clearer light, and
partly on account of the influence which these stages have had on the
theatres of other countries. Both the English and Spaniards possess a
very rich dramatic literature, both have had a number of prolific and
highly talented dramatists, among whom even the least admired and
celebrated, considered as a whole, display uncommon aptitude for
dramatic animation and insight into the essence of theatrical effect.
The history of their theatres has no connection with that of the
Italians and French, for they developed themselves wholly out of the
abundance of their own intrinsic energy, without any foreign
influence: the attempts to bring them back to an imitation of the
ancients, or even of the French, have either been attended with no
success, or not been made till a late period in the decay of the
drama. The formation of these two stages, again, is equally
independent of each other; the Spanish poets were altogether
unacquainted with the English; and in the older and most important
period of the English theatre I could discover no trace of any
knowledge of Spanish plays (though their novels and romances were
certainly known), and it was not till the time of Charles II. that
translations from Calderon first made their appearance.

So many things among men have been handed down from century to century
and from nation to nation, and the human mind is in general so slow to
invent, that originality in any department of mental exertion is
everywhere a rare phenomenon. We are desirous of seeing the result of
the efforts of inventive geniuses when, regardless of what in the same
line has elsewhere been carried to a high degree of perfection, they
set to work in good earnest to invent altogether for themselves; when
they lay the foundation of the new edifice on uncovered ground, and
draw all the preparations, all the building materials, from their own
resources. We participate, in some measure, in the joy of success,
when we see them advance rapidly from their first helplessness and
need to a finished mastery in their art. The history of the Grecian
theatre would afford us this cheering prospect could we witness its
rudest beginnings, which were not preserved, for they were not even
committed to writing; but it is easy, when we compare AEschylus and
Sophocles, to form some idea of the preceding period. The Greeks
neither inherited nor borrowed their dramatic art from any other
people; it was original and native, and for that very reason was it
able to produce a living and powerful effect. But it ended with the
period when Greeks imitated Greeks; namely, when the Alexandrian poets
began learnedly and critically to compose dramas after the model of
the great tragic writers. The reverse of this was the case with the
Romans; they received the form and substance of their dramas from the
Greeks; they never attempted to act according to their own discretion,
or to express their own way of thinking; and hence they occupy so
insignificant a place in the history of dramatic art. Among the
nations of modern Europe, the English and Spaniards alone (for the
German stage is but forming) possess as yet a theatre entirely
original and national, which, in its own peculiar shape, has
arrived at maturity.

[Illustration: #AUGUST WILHELM SCHLEGEL#]

Those critics who consider the authority of the ancients, as models,
to be such that in poetry, as in all the other arts, there can be no
safety out of the pale of imitation, affirm that, as the nations in
question have not followed this course, they have brought nothing but
irregular works on the stage, which, though they may possess
occasional passages of splendor and beauty, must yet, as a whole, be
forever reprobated as barbarous and wanting in form. We have already,
in the introductory part of these Lectures, stated our sentiments
generally on this way of thinking; but we must now examine the subject
somewhat more closely.

If the assertion be well founded, all that distinguishes the works of
the greatest English and Spanish dramatists, a Shakespeare and a
Calderon, must rank them far below the ancients; they could in no wise
be of importance for theory, and would at most appear remarkable, on
the assumption that the obstinacy of these nations in refusing to
comply with the rules may have afforded a more ample field to the
poets to display their native originality, though at the expense of
art. But even this assumption, on a closer examination, appears
extremely questionable. The poetic spirit requires to be limited, that
it may move with a becoming liberty within its proper precincts, as
has been felt by all nations on the first invention of metre; it must
act according to laws derivable from its own essence, otherwise its
strength will evaporate in boundless vacuity.

The works of genius cannot therefore be permitted to be without form;
but of this there is no danger. However, that we may answer this
objection of want of form, we must understand the exact meaning of the
term "form," since most critics, and more especially those who insist
on a stiff regularity, interpret it merely in a mechanical, and not in
an organical sense. Form is mechanical when, through external force,
it is imparted to any material merely as an accidental addition
without reference to its quality; as, for example, when we give a
particular shape to a soft mass that it may retain the same after its
induration. Organical form, again, is innate; it unfolds itself from
within, and requires its determination contemporaneously with the
perfect development of the germ. We everywhere discover such forms in
nature throughout the whole range of living powers, from the
crystallization of salts and minerals to plants and flowers, and from
these again to the human body. In the fine arts, as well as in the
domain of nature, the supreme artist, all genuine forms are organical,
that is, determined by the quality of the work. In a word, the form is
nothing but a significant exterior, the speaking physiognomy of each
thing, which, as long as it is not disfigured by any destructive
accident, gives a true evidence of its hidden essence.

Hence it is evident that the spirit of poetry, which, though
imperishable, migrates, as it were, through different bodies, must, so
often as it is newly born in the human race, mold to itself, out of
the nutrimental substance of an altered age, a body of a different
conformation. The forms vary with the direction taken by the poetical
sense; and when we give to the new kinds of poetry the old names, and
judge of them according to the ideas conveyed by these names, the
application which we make of the authority of classical antiquity is
altogether unjustifiable. No one should be tried before a tribunal to
which he is not amenable. We may safely admit that most of the English
and Spanish dramatic works are neither tragedies nor comedies in the
sense of the ancients; they are romantic dramas. That the stage of a
people in its foundation and formation, who neither knew nor wished to
know anything of foreign models, will possess many peculiarities, and
not only deviate from, but even exhibit a striking contrast to, the
theatres of other nations who had a common model for imitation before
their eyes, is easily supposable, and we should only be astonished
were it otherwise.

[Illustration: #CAROLINE SCHLEGEL#]

But when in two nations, differing so widely as the English and
Spanish in physical, moral, political, and religious respects, the
theatres (which, without being known to one another, arose about the
same time) possess, along with external and internal diversities, the
most striking features of affinity, the attention even of the most
thoughtless cannot but be turned to this phenomenon; and the
conjecture will naturally occur that the same, or, at least, a kindred
principle must have prevailed in the development of both. This
comparison, however, of the English and Spanish theatre, in their
common contrast with every dramatic literature which has grown up out
of an imitation of the ancients, has, so far as we know, never yet
been attempted. Could we raise from the dead a countryman, a
contemporary and intelligent admirer of Shakespeare, and another of
Calderon, and introduce to their acquaintance the works of the poet to
which in life they were strangers, they would both, without doubt,
considering the subject rather from a national than a general point of
view, enter with difficulty into the above idea and have many
objections to urge against it. But here a reconciling criticism[12]
must step in; and this, perhaps, may be best exercised by a German,
who is free from the national peculiarities of either Englishmen or
Spaniards, yet by inclination friendly to both, and prevented by no
jealousy from acknowledging the greatness which has been earlier
exhibited in other countries than his own.

The similarity of the English and Spanish theatres does not consist
merely in the bold neglect of the Unities of Place and Time, or in the
commixture of comic and tragic elements; that they were unwilling or
unable to comply with the rules and with right reason (in the meaning
of certain critics these terms are equivalent), may be considered as
an evidence of merely negative properties. The ground of the
resemblance lies far deeper, in the inmost substance of the fictions
and in the essential relations through which every deviation of form
becomes a true requisite, which, together with its validity, has also
its significance. What they have in common with each other is the
spirit of the romantic poetry, giving utterance to itself in a
dramatic shape. However, to explain ourselves with due precision, the
Spanish theatre, in our opinion, down to its decline and fall in the
commencement of the eighteenth century, is almost entirely romantic;
the English is completely so in Shakespeare alone, its founder and
greatest master; but in later poets the romantic principle appears
more or less degenerated, or is no longer perceivable, although the
march of dramatic composition introduced by virtue of it has been,
outwardly at least, pretty generally retained. The manner in which the
different ways of thinking of the two nations, one a northern and the
other a southern, have been expressed; the former endowed with a
gloomy, the latter with a glowing imagination; the one nation
possessed of a scrutinizing seriousness disposed to withdraw within
itself, the other impelled outwardly by the violence of passion--the
mode in which all this has been accomplished will be most
satisfactorily explained at the close of this section, when we come to
institute a parallel between Shakespeare and Calderon, the only two
poets who are entitled to be called great.

Of the origin and essence of the romantic I treated in my first
Lecture, and I shall here, therefore, merely briefly mention the
subject. The ancient art and poetry rigorously separate things which
are dissimilar; the romantic delights in indissoluble mixtures; all
contrarieties--nature and art, poetry and prose, seriousness and
mirth, recollection and anticipation, spirituality and sensuality,
terrestrial and celestial, life and death, are by it blended in the
most intimate combination. As the oldest law-givers delivered their
mandatory instructions and prescriptions in measured melodies; as this
is fabulously ascribed to Orpheus, the first softener of the yet
untamed race of mortals; in like manner the whole of ancient poetry
and art is, as it were, a rhythmical _nomos_ (law), a harmonious
promulgation of the permanently established legislation of a world
submitted to a beautiful order and reflecting in itself the eternal
images of things. Romantic poetry, on the other hand, is the
expression of the secret attraction to a chaos which lies concealed in
the very bosom of the ordered universe, and is perpetually striving
after new and marvelous births; the life-giving spirit of primal love
broods here anew on the face of the waters. The former is more simple,
clear, and like to nature in the self-existent perfection of her
separate works; the latter, notwithstanding its fragmentary
appearance, approaches nearer to the secret of the universe. For
Conception can only comprise each object separately, but nothing in
truth can ever exist separately and by itself; Feeling perceives all
in all at one and the same time.

Respecting the two species of poetry with which we are here
principally occupied, we compared the ancient Tragedy to a group in
sculpture, the figures corresponding to the characters, and their
grouping to the action; and to these two, in both productions of art,
is the consideration exclusively directed, as being all that is
properly exhibited. But the romantic drama must be viewed as a large
picture, where not merely figure and motion are exhibited in larger,
richer groups, but where even all that surrounds the figures must also
be portrayed; where we see not merely the nearest objects, but are
indulged with the prospect of a considerable distance; and all this
under a magical light which assists in giving to the impression the
particular character desired.

Such a picture must be bounded less perfectly and less distinctly than
the group; for it is like a fragment cut out of the optic scene of
the world. However, the painter, by the setting of his foreground, by
throwing the whole of his light into the centre, and by other means of
fixing the point of view, will learn that he must neither wander
beyond the composition nor omit anything within it.

In the representation of figure, Painting cannot compete with
Sculpture, since the former can exhibit it only by a deception and
from a single point of view; but, on the other hand, it communicates
more life to its imitations by colors which in a picture are made to
imitate the lightest shades of mental expression in the countenance.
The look, which can be given only very imperfectly by Sculpture,
enables us to read much deeper in the mind and perceive its lightest
movements. Its peculiar charm, in short, consists in this, that it
enables us to see in bodily objects what is least corporeal, namely,
light and air.

The very same description of beauties are peculiar to the romantic
drama. It does not (like the Old Tragedy) separate seriousness and the
action, in a rigid manner, from among the whole ingredients of life;
it embraces at once the whole of the chequered drama of life with all
its circumstances; and while it seems only to represent subjects
brought accidentally together, it satisfies the unconscious
requisitions of fancy, buries us in reflections on the inexpressible
signification of the objects which we view blended by order, nearness
and distance, light and color, into one harmonious whole; and thus
lends, as it were, a soul to the prospect before us.

The change of time and of place (supposing its influence on the mind
to be included in the picture and that it comes to the aid of the
theatrical perspective, with reference to what is indicated in the
distance, or half-concealed by intervening objects); the contrast of
gayety and gravity (supposing that in degree and kind they bear a
proportion to each other); finally, the mixture of the dialogical and
the lyrical elements (by which the poet is enabled, more or less
perfectly, to transform his personages into poetical beings)--these,
in my opinion, are not mere licenses, but true beauties in the
romantic drama. In all these points, and in many others also, the
English and Spanish works, which are preeminently worthy of this title
of Romantic, fully resemble each other, however different they may be
in other respects.

Of the two we shall first notice the English theatre, because it
arrived at maturity earlier than the Spanish. In both we must occupy
ourselves almost exclusively with a single artist, with Shakespeare in
the one and Calderon in the other; but not in the same order with
each, for Shakespeare stands first and earliest among the English; any
remarks we may have to make on earlier or contemporary antiquities of
the English stage may be made in a review of his history. But Calderon
had many predecessors; he is at once the summit and almost the close
of dramatic art in Spain.

The wish to speak with the brevity which the limits of my plan demand,
of a poet to the study of whom I have devoted many years of my life,
places me in no little embarrassment. I know not where to begin; for I
should never be able to end, were I to say all that I have felt and
thought, on the perusal of his works. With the poet, as with the man,
a more than ordinary intimacy prevents us, perhaps, from putting
ourselves in the place of those who are first forming an acquaintance
with him: we are too familiar with his most striking peculiarities to
be able to pronounce upon the first impression which they are
calculated to make on others. On the other hand, we ought to possess,
and to have the power of communicating, more correct ideas of his mode
of procedure, of his concealed or less obvious views, and of the
meaning and import of his labors, than others whose acquaintance with
him is more limited.

Shakespeare is the pride of his nation. A late poet has, with
propriety, called him "the genius of the British isles." He was the
idol of his contemporaries during the interval, indeed, of puritanical
fanaticism, which broke out in the next generation and rigorously
proscribed all liberal arts and literature, and, during the reign of
the second Charles, when his works were either not acted at all, or,
if so, very much changed and disfigured, his fame was awhile obscured,
only to shine forth again about the beginning of the last century with
more than its original brightness; but since then it has only
increased in lustre with the course of time; and for centuries to come
(I speak it with the greatest confidence) it will, like an Alpine
avalanche, continue to gather strength at every moment of its
progress. Of the future extension of his fame, the enthusiasm with
which he was naturalized in Germany, the moment that he was known, is
a significant earnest. In the South of Europe,[13] his language and
the great difficulty of translating him with fidelity will be,
perhaps, an invincible obstacle to his general diffusion. In England,
the greatest actors vie with one another in the impersonation of his
characters; the printers in splendid editions of his works; and the
painters in transferring his scenes to the canvas. Like Dante,
Shakespeare has received the perhaps inevitable but still cumbersome
honor of being treated like a classical author of antiquity. The
oldest editions have been carefully collated, and, where the readings
seemed corrupt, many corrections have been suggested; and the whole
literature of his age has been drawn forth from the oblivion to which
it had been consigned, for the sole purpose of explaining the phrases
and illustrating the allusions of Shakespeare. Commentators have
succeeded one another in such number that their labors alone, with the
critical controversies to which they have given rise, constitute of
themselves no inconsiderable library. These labors deserve both our
praise and gratitude--more especially the historical investigations
into the sources from which Shakespeare drew the materials of his
plays and also into the previous and contemporary state of the
English stage, as well as other kindred subjects of inquiry. With
respect, however, to their merely philological criticisms, I am
frequently compelled to differ from the commentators; and where, too,
considering him simply as a poet, they endeavor to enter into his
views and to decide upon his merits, I must separate myself from them
entirely. I have hardly ever found either truth or profundity in their
remarks; and these critics seem to me to be but stammering
interpreters of the general and almost idolatrous admiration of his
countrymen. There may be people in England who entertain the same
views of them with myself, at least it is a well-known fact that a
satirical poet has represented Shakespeare, under the hands of his
commentators, by Actaeon worried to death by his own dogs; and,
following up the story of Ovid, designated a female writer on the
great poet as the snarling Lycisca.

We shall endeavor, in the first place, to remove some of these false
views, in order to clear the way for our own homage, that we may
thereupon offer it the more freely without let or hindrance.

From all the accounts of Shakespeare which have come down to us it is
clear that his contemporaries knew well the treasure they possessed in
him, and that they felt and understood him better than most of those
who succeeded him. In those days a work was generally ushered into the
world with Commendatory Verses; and one of these, prefixed to an early
edition of Shakespeare, by an unknown author, contains some of the
most beautiful and happy lines that were ever applied to any poet.[14]
An idea, however, soon became prevalent that Shakespeare was a rude
and wild genius, who poured forth at random, and without aim or
object, his unconnected compositions. Ben Jonson, a younger
contemporary and rival of Shakespeare, who labored in the sweat of his
brow, but with no great success, to expel the romantic drama from the
English stage and to form it on the model of the ancients, gave it as
his opinion that Shakespeare did not blot enough, and that, as he did
not possess much school-learning, he owed more to nature than to art.
The learned, and sometimes rather pedantic Milton was also of this
opinion, when he says--

  Our sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child,
  Warbles his native wood-notes wild.

Yet it is highly honorable to Milton that the sweetness of
Shakespeare, the quality which of all others has been least allowed,
was felt and acknowledged by him. The modern editors, both in their
prefaces, which may be considered as so many rhetorical exercises in
praise of the poet, and in their remarks on separate passages, go
still farther. Judging them by principles which are not applicable to
them, not only do they admit the irregularity of his pieces, but, on
occasion, they accuse him of bombast, of a confused, ungrammatical,
and conceited mode of writing, and even of the most contemptible
buffoonery. Pope asserts that he wrote both better and worse than any
other man. All the scenes and passages which did not square with the
littleness of his own taste, he wished to place to the account of
interpolating players; and he was on the right road, had his opinion
been taken, of giving us a miserable dole of a mangled Shakespeare. It
is, therefore, not to be wondered at if foreigners, with the exception
of the Germans latterly, have, in their ignorance of him, even
improved upon these opinions.[15] They speak in general of
Shakespeare's plays as monstrous productions, which could have been
given to the world only by a disordered imagination in a barbarous
age; and Voltaire crowns the whole with more than usual assurance
when he observes that _Hamlet_, the profound masterpiece of the
philosophical poet, "seems the work of a drunken savage." That
foreigners, and, in particular, Frenchmen, who ordinarily speak the
most strange language of antiquity and the middle ages, as if
cannibalism had been terminated in Europe only by Louis XIV., should
entertain this opinion of Shakespeare, might be pardonable; but that
Englishmen should join in calumniating that glorious epoch of their
history,[16] which laid the foundation of their national greatness, is
incomprehensible.

Shakespeare flourished and wrote in the last half of the reign of
Queen Elizabeth and first half of that of James I.; and, consequently,
under monarchs who were learned themselves and held literature in
honor. The policy of modern Europe, by which the relations of its
different states have been so variously interwoven with one another,
commenced a century before. The cause of the Protestants was decided
by the accession of Elizabeth to the throne; and the attachment to the
ancient belief cannot therefore be urged as a proof of the prevailing
darkness. Such was the zeal for the study of the ancients that even
court ladies, and the queen herself, were acquainted with Latin and
Greek, and taught even to speak the former--a degree of knowledge
which we should in vain seek for in the courts of Europe at the
present day. The trade and navigation which the English carried on
with all the four quarters of the world made them acquainted with the
customs and mental productions of other nations; and it would appear
that they were then more indulgent to foreign manners than they are
in the present day. Italy had already produced nearly all that still
distinguishes her literature, and, in England, translations in verse
were diligently, and even successfully, executed from the Italian.
Spanish literature also was not unknown, for it is certain that _Don
Quixote_ was read in England soon after its first appearance. Bacon,
the founder of modern experimental philosophy, and of whom it may be
said that he carried in his pocket all that even in this eighteenth
century merits the name of philosophy, was a contemporary of
Shakespeare. His fame as a writer did not, indeed, break forth into
its glory till after his death; but what a number of ideas must have
been in circulation before such an author could arise! Many branches
of human knowledge have, since that time, been more extensively
cultivated, but such branches as are totally unproductive to
poetry--chemistry, mechanics, manufactures, and rural and political
economy--will never enable a man to become a poet. I have
elsewhere[17] examined into the pretensions of modern enlightenment,
as it is called, which looks with such contempt on all preceding ages;
I have shown that at bottom it is all small, superficial, and
unsubstantial. The pride of what has been called "the existing
maturity of human intensity" has come to a miserable end; and the
structures erected by those pedagogues of the human race have fallen
to pieces like the baby-houses of children.

With regard to the tone of society in Shakespeare's day, it is
necessary to remark that there is a wide difference between true
mental cultivation and what is called polish. That artificial polish
which puts an end to everything like free original communication and
subjects all intercourse to the insipid uniformity of certain rules,
was undoubtedly wholly unknown to the age of Shakespeare, as in a
great measure it still is at the present day in England. It possessed,
on the other hand, a fulness of healthy vigor, which showed itself
always with boldness, and sometimes also with coarseness. The spirit
of chivalry was not yet wholly extinct, and a queen, who was far more
jealous in exacting homage to her sex than to her throne, and who,
with her determination, wisdom, and magnanimity, was in fact well
qualified to inspire the minds of her subjects with an ardent
enthusiasm, inflamed that spirit to the noblest love of glory and
renown. The feudal independence also still survived in some measure;
the nobility vied with one another in splendor of dress and number of
retinue, and every great lord had a sort of small court of his own.
The distinction of ranks was as yet strongly marked--a state of things
ardently to be desired by the dramatic poet. In conversation they took
pleasure in quick and unexpected answers; and the witty sally passed
rapidly like a ball from mouth to mouth, till the merry game could no
longer be kept up. This, and the abuse of the play on words (of which
King James was himself very fond, and we need not therefore wonder at
the universality of the mode), may, doubtless, be considered as
instances of a bad taste; but to take them for symptoms of rudeness
and barbarity is not less absurd than to infer the poverty of a people
from their luxurious extravagance. These strained repartees are
frequently employed by Shakespeare, with the view of painting the
actual tone of the society in his day; it does not, however, follow
that they met with his approbation; on the contrary, it clearly
appears that he held them in derision. Hamlet says, in the scene with
the gravedigger, "By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken
note of it: the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant
comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe." And
Lorenzo, in the _Merchant of Venice_, alluding to Launcelot:

  O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
  The fool hath planted in his memory
  An army of good words: and I do know
  A many fools, that stand in better place,
  Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
  Defy the matter.

Besides, Shakespeare, in a thousand places, lays great and marked
stress on a correct and refined tone of society, and lashes every
deviation from it, whether of boorishness or affected foppery; not
only does he give admirable discourses on it, but he represents it in
all its shades and modifications by rank, age, or sex. What foundation
is there, then, for the alleged barbarity of his age, its offences
against propriety? But if this is to be admitted as a test, then the
ages of Pericles and Augustus must also be described as rude and
uncultivated; for Aristophanes and Horace, who were both considered as
models of urbanity, display, at times, the coarsest indelicacy. On
this subject, the diversity in the moral feeling of ages depends on
other causes. Shakespeare, it is true, sometimes introduces us to
improper company; at others, he suffers ambiguous expressions to
escape in the presence of women, and even from women themselves. This
species of indelicacy was probably not then unusual. He certainly did
not indulge in it merely to please the multitude, for in many of his
pieces there is not the slightest trace of this sort to be found; and
in what virgin purity are many of his female parts worked out! When we
see the liberties taken by other dramatic poets in England in his
time, and even much later, we must account him comparatively chaste
and moral. Neither must we overlook certain circumstances in the
existing state of the theatre. The female parts were not acted by
women, but by boys; and no person of the fair sex appeared in the
theatre without a mask. Under such a carnival disguise, much might be
heard by them, and much might be ventured to be said in their
presence, which in other circumstances would have been absolutely
improper. It is certainly to be wished that decency should be observed
on all public occasions, and consequently also on the stage. But even
in this it is possible to go too far. That carping censoriousness
which scents out impurity in every bold sally, is, at best, but an
ambiguous criterion of purity of morals; and beneath this hypocritical
guise there often lurks the consciousness of an impure imagination.
The determination to tolerate nothing which has the least reference to
the sensual relation between the sexes, may be carried to a pitch
extremely oppressive to a dramatic poet and highly prejudicial to the
boldness and freedom of his compositions. If such considerations were
to be attended to, many of the happiest parts of Shakespeare's plays,
for example, in _Measure for Measure_, and _All's Well that Ends
Well_, which, nevertheless, are handled with a due regard to decency,
must be set aside as sinning against this would-be propriety.

Had no other monuments of the age of Elizabeth come down to us than
the works of Shakespeare, I should, from them alone, have formed the
most favorable idea of its state of social culture and enlightenment.
When those who look through such strange spectacles as to see nothing
in them but rudeness and barbarity cannot deny what I have now
historically proved, they are usually driven to this last resource,
and demand, "What has Shakespeare to do with the mental culture of his
age? He had no share in it. Born in an inferior rank, ignorant and
uneducated, he passed his life in low society, and labored to please a
vulgar audience for his bread, without ever dreaming of fame or
posterity."

In all this there is not a single word of truth, though it has been
repeated a thousand times. It is true we know very little of the
poet's life; and what we do know consists for the most part of
raked-up and chiefly suspicious anecdotes, of about such a character
as those which are told at inns to inquisitive strangers who visit the
birthplace or neighborhood of a celebrated man. Within a very recent
period some original documents have been brought to light, and, among
them, his will, which give us a peep into his family concerns. It
betrays more than ordinary deficiency of critical acumen in
Shakespeare's commentators, that none of them, so far as we know, has
ever thought of availing himself of his sonnets for tracing the
circumstances of his life. These sonnets paint most unequivocally the
actual situation and sentiments of the poet; they make us acquainted
with the passions of the man; they even contain remarkable confessions
of his youthful errors. Shakespeare's father was a man of property,
whose ancestors had held the office of alderman and bailiff in
Stratford; and in a diploma from the Heralds' Office for the renewal
or confirmation of his coat of arms, he is styled _gentleman_. Our
poet, the oldest son but third child, could not, it is true, receive
an academic education, as he married when hardly eighteen, probably
from mere family considerations. This retired and unnoticed life he
continued to lead but a few years; and he was either enticed to London
from wearisomeness of his situation, or banished from home, as it is
said, in consequence of his irregularities. There he assumed the
profession of a player, which he considered at first as a degradation,
principally, perhaps, because of the wild excesses[18] into which he
was seduced by the example of his comrades. It is extremely probable
that the poetical fame which, in the progress of his career, he
afterward acquired, greatly contributed to ennoble the stage and to
bring the player's profession into better repute. Even at a very early
age he endeavored to distinguish himself as a poet in other walks than
those of the stage, as is proved by his juvenile poems of _Adonis and
Lucrece_. He quickly rose to be a sharer or joint proprietor, and also
manager, of the theatre for which he wrote. That he was not admitted
to the society of persons of distinction is altogether incredible. Not
to mention many others, he found a liberal friend and kind patron in
the Earl of Southampton, the friend of the unfortunate Essex. His
pieces were not only the delight of the great public, but also in
great favor at court; the two monarchs under whose reigns he wrote
were, according to the testimony of a contemporary, quite "taken" with
him.[19] Many plays were acted at court; and Elizabeth appears herself
to have commanded the writing of more than one to be acted at her
court festivals. King James, it is well known, honored Shakespeare so
far as to write to him with his own hand. All this looks very unlike
either contempt or banishment into the obscurity of a low circle. By
his labors as a poet, player, and stage-manager, Shakespeare acquired
a considerable property, which, in the last years of his too short
life, he enjoyed in his native town in retirement and in the society
of a beloved daughter. Immediately after his death a monument was
erected over his grave, which may be considered sumptuous for those
times.

In the midst of such brilliant success, and with such distinguished
proofs of respect and honor from his contemporaries, it would be
singular indeed if Shakespeare, notwithstanding the modesty of a great
mind, which he certainly possessed in a peculiar degree, should never
have dreamed of posthumous fame. As a profound thinker he had quite
accurately taken the measure of the circle of human capabilities, and
he could say to himself with confidence that many of his productions
would not easily be surpassed. What foundation then is there for the
contrary assertion, which would degrade the immortal artist to the
situation of a daily laborer for a rude multitude? Merely this, that
he himself published no edition of his whole works. We do not reflect
that a poet, always accustomed to labor immediately for the stage, who
has often enjoyed the triumph of overpowering assembled crowds of
spectators and drawing from them the most tumultuous applause, who the
while was not dependent on the caprice of crotchety stage directors,
but left to his own discretion to select and determine the mode of
theatrical representation, naturally cares much less for the closet of
the solitary reader. During the first formation of a national theatre,
more especially, we find frequent examples of such indifference. Of
the almost innumerable pieces of Lope de Vega, many undoubtedly were
never printed, and are consequently lost; and Cervantes did not print
his earlier dramas, though he certainly boasts of them as meritorious
works. As Shakespeare, on his retiring from the theatre, left his
manuscripts behind with his fellow-managers, he may have relied on
theatrical tradition for handing them down to posterity, which would
indeed have been sufficient for that purpose if the closing of the
theatres, under the tyrannical intolerance of the Puritans, had not
interrupted the natural order of things. We know, besides, that the
poets used then to sell the exclusive copyright of their pieces to the
theatre:[20] it is therefore not improbable that the right of property
in his unprinted pieces was no longer vested in Shakespeare, or had
not, at least, yet reverted to him. His fellow-managers entered on the
publication seven years after his death (which probably cut short his
own intention), as it would appear on their own account and for their
own advantage.

LECTURE XXIII

Ignorance or Learning of Shakespeare--Costume as observed by Shakespeare,
and how far necessary, or may be dispensed with in the Drama--Shakespeare
the greatest drawer of Character--Vindication of the genuineness of his
pathos--Play on words--Moral delicacy--Irony--Mixture of the Tragic and
Comic--The part of the Fool or Clown--Shakespeare's Language and
Versification.

Our poet's want of scholarship has been the subject of endless
controversy, and yet it is surely a very easy matter to decide.
Shakespeare was poor in dead school-cram, but he possessed a rich
treasury of living and intuitive knowledge. He knew a little Latin,
and even something of Greek, though it may be not enough to read with
ease the writers in the original. With modern languages also, the
French and Italian, he had, perhaps, but a superficial acquaintance.
The general direction of his mind was not to the collection of words
but of facts. With English books, whether original or translated, he
was extensively acquainted: we may safely affirm that he had read all
that his native language and literature then contained that could be
of any use to him in his poetical avocations. He was sufficiently
intimate with mythology to employ it, in the only manner he could
wish, in the way of symbolical ornament. He had formed a correct
notion of the spirit of Ancient History, and more particularly of that
of the Romans; and the history of his own country was familiar to him
even in detail. Fortunately for him it had not as yet been treated in
a diplomatic and pragmatic spirit, but merely in the chronicle-style;
in other words, it had not yet assumed the appearance of dry
investigations respecting the development of political relations,
diplomatic negotiations, finances, etc., but exhibited a visible image
of the life and movement of an age prolific of great deeds.
Shakespeare, moreover, was a nice observer of nature; he knew the
technical language of mechanics and artisans; he seems to have been
well traveled in the interior of his own country, while of others he
inquired diligently of traveled navigators respecting their
peculiarity of climate and customs. He thus became accurately
acquainted with all the popular usages, opinions, and traditions which
could be of use in poetry.

The proofs of his ignorance, on which the greatest stress is laid, are
a few geographical blunders and anachronisms. Because in a comedy
founded on an earlier tale, he makes ships visit Bohemia, he has been
the subject of much laughter. But I conceive that we should be very
unjust toward him, were we to conclude that he did not, as well as
ourselves, possess the useful but by no means difficult knowledge that
Bohemia is nowhere bounded by the sea. He could never, in that case,
have looked into a map of Germany, but yet describes elsewhere, with
great accuracy, the maps of both Indies, together with the discoveries
of the latest navigators.[21] In such matters Shakespeare is faithful
only to the details of the domestic stories. In the novels on which he
worked, he avoided disturbing the associations of his audience, to
whom they were known, by novelties--the correction of errors in
secondary and unimportant particulars. The more wonderful the story,
the more it ranged in a purely poetical region, which he transfers at
will to an indefinite distance. These plays, whatever names they bear,
take place in the true land of romance and in the very century of
wonderful love stories. He knew well that in the forest of Ardennes
there were neither the lions and serpents of the torrid zone, nor the
shepherdesses of Arcadia; but he transferred both to it,[22] because
the design and import of his picture required them. Here he considered
himself entitled to take the greatest liberties. He had not to do with
a hair-splitting, hypercritical age like ours, which is always seeking
in poetry for something else than poetry; his audience entered the
theatre, not to learn true chronology, geography, and natural history,
but to witness a vivid exhibition. I will undertake to prove that
Shakespeare's anachronisms are, for the most part, committed of set
purpose and deliberately. It was frequently of importance to him to
move the exhibited subjects out of the background of time and bring it
quite near us. Hence in _Hamlet_, though avowedly an old Northern
story, there runs a tone of modish society, and in every respect the
customs of the most recent period. Without those circumstantialities
it would not have been allowable to make a philosophical inquirer of
Hamlet, on which trait, however, the meaning of the whole is made to
rest. On that account he mentions his education at a university,
though, in the age of the true Hamlet of history, universities were
not in existence. He makes him study at Wittenberg, and no selection
of a place could have been more suitable. The name was very popular:
the story of _Dr. Faustus of Wittenberg_ had made it well known; it
was of particular celebrity in Protestant England, as Luther had
taught and written there shortly before, and the very name must have
immediately suggested the idea of freedom in thinking. I cannot even
consider it an anachronism that Richard the Third should speak of
Machiavelli. The word is here used altogether proverbially the
contents, at least, of the book entitled _Of the Prince_ (_Del
Principe_) have been in existence ever since the existence of tyrants;
Machiavelli was merely the first to commit them to writing.

That Shakespeare has accurately hit the essential custom, namely, the
spirit of ages and nations, is at least acknowledged generally by the
English critics; but many sins against external costume may be easily
remarked. Yet here it is necessary to bear in mind that the Roman
pieces were acted upon the stage of that day in the European dress.
This was, it is true, still grand and splendid, not so silly and
tasteless as it became toward the end of the seventeenth century.
(Brutus and Cassius appeared in the Spanish cloak; they wore, quite
contrary to the Roman custom, the sword by their side in time of
peace, and, according to the testimony of an eye witness,[23] it was,
in the dialogue where Brutus stimulates Cassius to the conspiracy,
drawn, as if involuntarily, half out of the sheath). This does in no
way agree with our way of thinking: we are not content without the
toga.

The present, perhaps, is not an inappropriate place for a few general
observations on costume, considered with reference to art. It has
never been more accurately observed than in the present day; art has
become a slop-shop for pedantic antiquities. This is because we live
in a learned and critical, but by no means poetical age. The ancients
before us used, when they had to represent the religions of other
nations which deviated very much from their own, to bring them into
conformity with the Greek mythology. In Sculpture, again, the same
dress, namely, the Phrygian, was adopted, once for all, for every
barbaric tribe. Not that they did not know that there were as many
different dresses as nations; but in art they merely wished to
acknowledge the great contrast between barbarian and civilized: and
this, they thought, was rendered most strikingly apparent in the
Phrygian garb. The earlier Christian painters represent the Savior,
the Virgin Mary, the Patriarchs, and the Apostles in an ideal dress,
but the subordinate actors or spectators of the action in the dresses
of their own nation and age. Here they were guided by a correct
feeling: the mysterious and sacred ought to be kept at an
awe-inspiring distance, but the human cannot be rightly understood if
seen without its usual accompaniments. In the middle ages all heroical
stories of antiquity, from Theseus and Achilles down to Alexander,
were metamorphosed into true tales of chivalry. What was related to
themselves spoke alone an intelligible language to them; of
differences and distinctions they did not care to know. In an old
manuscript of the _Iliad_, I saw a miniature illumination representing
Hector's funeral procession, where the coffin is hung with noble coats
of arms and carried into a Gothic church. It is easy to make merry
with this piece of simplicity, but a reflecting mind will see the
subject in a very different light. A powerful consciousness of the
universal validity and the solid permanency of their own manner of
being, an undoubting conviction that it has always so been and will
ever continue so to be in the world--these feelings of our ancestors
were symptoms of a fresh fulness of life; they were the marrow of
action in reality as well as in fiction. Their plain and affectionate
attachment to everything around them, handed down from their fathers,
is by no means to be confounded with the obstreperous conceit of ages
of mannerism, for they, out of vanity, introduce the fleeting modes
and fashion of the day into art, because to them everything like noble
simplicity seems boorish and rude. The latter impropriety is now
abolished: but, on the other hand, our poets and artists, if they
would hope for our approbation, must, like servants, wear the livery
of distant centuries and foreign nations. We are everywhere at home
except at home. We do ourselves the justice to allow that the present
mode of dressing, forms of politeness, etc., are altogether
unpoetical, and art is therefore obliged to beg, as an alms, a
poetical costume from the antiquaries. To that simple way of thinking,
which is merely attentive to the inward truth of the composition,
without stumbling at anachronisms or other external inconsistencies,
we cannot, alas! now return; but we must envy the poets to whom it
offered itself; it allowed them a great breadth and freedom in the
handling of their subject.

Many things in Shakespeare must be judged of according to the above
principles, respecting the difference between the essential and the
merely learned costume. They will also in their measure admit of an
application to Calderon.

So much with respect to the spirit of the age in which Shakespeare
lived, and his peculiar mental culture and knowledge. To me he appears
a profound artist, and not a blind and wildly luxuriant genius. I
consider, generally speaking, all that has been said on the subject a
mere fable, a blind and extravagant error. In other arts the assertion
refutes itself; for in them acquired knowledge is an indispensable
condition of clever execution. But even in such poets as are usually
given out as careless pupils of nature, devoid of art or school
discipline, I have always found, on a nearer consideration of the
works of real excellence they may have produced, even a high
cultivation of the mental powers, practice in art, and views both
worthy in themselves and maturely considered. This applies to Homer as
well as to Dante. The activity of genius is, it is true, natural to
it, and, in a certain sense, unconscious; and, consequently, the
person who possesses it is not always at the moment able to render an
account of the course which he may have pursued; but it by no means
follows that the thinking power had not a great share in it. It is
from the very rapidity and certainty of the mental process, from the
utmost clearness of understanding, that thinking in a poet is not
perceived as something abstracted, does not wear the appearance of
reflex meditation. That notion of poetical inspiration, which many
lyrical poets have brought into circulation, as if they were not in
their senses, and, like Pythia when possessed by the divinity,
delivered oracles unintelligible to themselves--this notion (a mere
lyrical invention) is least of all applicable to dramatic composition,
one of the most thoughtful productions of the human mind. It is
admitted that Shakespeare has reflected, and deeply reflected, on
character and passion, on the progress of events and human destinies,
on the human constitution, on all the things and relations of the
world; this is an admission which must be made, for one alone of
thousands of his maxims would be a sufficient refutation of any who
should attempt to deny it. So that it was only for the structure of
his own pieces that he had no thought to spare? This he left to the
dominion of chance, which blew together the atoms of Epicurus. But
supposing that, devoid of any higher ambition to approve himself to
judicious critics and posterity, and wanting in that love of art which
longs for self-satisfaction in the perfection of its works, he had
merely labored to please the unlettered crowd; still this very object
alone and the pursuit of theatrical effect would have led him to
bestow attention to the structure and adherence of his pieces. For
does not the impression of a drama depend in an especial manner on the
relation of the parts to one another? And, however beautiful a scene
may be in itself, if yet it be at variance with what the spectators
have been led to expect in its particular place, so as to destroy the
interest which they had hitherto felt, will it not be at once
reprobated by all who possess plain common sense and give themselves
up to nature? The comic intermixtures may be considered merely as a
sort of interlude, designed to relieve the straining of the mind after
the stretch of the more serious parts, so long as no better purpose
can be found in them; but in the progress of the main action, in the
concatenation of the events, the poet must, if possible, display even
more expenditure of thought than in the composition of individual
character and situations, otherwise he would be like the conductor of
a puppet-show who has so entangled his wires that the puppets receive
from their mechanism quite different movements from those which he
actually intended.

The English critics are unanimous in their praise of the truth and
uniform consistency of his characters, of his heartrending pathos, and
his comic wit. Moreover, they extol the beauty and sublimity of his
separate descriptions, images, and expressions. This last is the most
superficial and cheap mode of criticising works of art. Johnson
compares him who should endeavor to recommend this poet by passages
unconnectedly torn from his works, to the pedant in Hierocles, who
exhibited a brick as a sample of his house. And yet how little, and
how very unsatisfactorily does he himself speak of the pieces
considered as a whole! Let any man, for instance, bring together the
short characters which he gives at the close of each play, and see if
the aggregate will amount to that sum of admiration which he himself,
at his outset, has stated as the correct standard for the appreciation
of the poet. It was, generally speaking, the prevailing tendency of
the time which preceded our own, and which has showed itself
particularly in physical science, to consider everything having life
as a mere accumulation of dead parts, to separate what exists only in
connection and cannot otherwise be conceived, instead of penetrating
to the central point and viewing all the parts as so many irradiations
from it. Hence nothing is so rare as a critic who can elevate himself
to the comprehensive contemplation of a work of art. Shakespeare's
compositions, from the very depth of purpose displayed in them, have
been especially liable to the misfortune of being misunderstood.
Besides, this prosaic species of criticism requires always that the
poetic form should be applied to the details of execution; but when
the plan of the piece is concerned, it never looks for more than the
logical connection of causes and effects, or some partial and trite
moral by way of application; and all that cannot be reconciled
therewith is declared superfluous, or even a pernicious appendage. On
these principles we must even strike out from the Greek tragedies most
of the choral songs, which also contribute nothing to the development
of the action, but are merely an harmonious echo of the impressions
the poet aims at conveying. In this they altogether mistake the rights
of poetry and the nature of the romantic drama, which, for the very
reason that it is and ought to be picturesque, requires richer
accompaniments and contrasts for its main groups. In all Art and
Poetry, but more especially in the romantic, the Fancy lays claims to
be considered as an independent mental power governed according to its
own laws.

In an essay on _Romeo and Juliet_,[24] written a number of years ago,
I went through the whole of the scenes in their order and demonstrated
the inward necessity of each with reference to the whole; I showed why
such a particular circle of characters and relations was placed around
the two lovers; I explained the signification of the mirth here and
there scattered, and justified the use of the occasional heightening
given to the poetical colors. From all this it seemed to follow
unquestionably that, with the exception of a few criticisms, now
become unintelligible or foreign to the present taste (imitations of
the tone of society of that day), nothing could be taken away, nothing
added, nothing otherwise arranged, without mutilating and disfiguring
the perfect work. I would readily undertake to do the same for all the
pieces of Shakespeare's maturer years, but to do this would require a
separate book. Here I am reduced to confine my observations to tracing
his great designs with a rapid pencil; but still I must previously be
allowed to deliver my sentiments in a general manner on the subject of
his most eminent peculiarities.

Shakespeare's knowledge of mankind has become proverbial: in this his
superiority is so great that he has justly been called the master of
the human heart. A readiness to remark the mind's fainter and
involuntary utterances, and the power to express with certainty the
meaning of these signs, as determined by experience and reflection,
constitute "the observer of men;" but tacitly to draw from these still
further conclusions and to arrange the separate observations according
to grounds of probability into a just and valid combination--this, it
may be said, is to know men. The distinguishing property of the
dramatic poet who is great in characterization, is something
altogether different here, and which, take it which way we will,
either includes in it this readiness and this acuteness, or dispenses
with both. It is the capability of transporting himself so completely
into every situation, even the most unusual, that he is enabled, as
plenipotentiary of the whole human race, without particular
instructions for each separate case, to act and speak in the name of
every individual. It is the power of endowing the creatures of his
imagination with such self-existent energy that they afterward act in
each conjuncture according to general laws of nature: the poet, in his
dreams, institutes, as it were, experiments which are received with as
much authority as if they had been made on waking objects. The
inconceivable element herein, and what moreover can never be learned,
is, that the characters appear neither to do nor to say anything on
the spectator's account merely; and yet that the poet, simply by means
of the exhibition, and without any subsidiary explanation,
communicates to his audience the gift of looking into the inmost
recesses of their minds. Hence Goethe has ingeniously compared
Shakespeare's characters to watches with crystalline plates and cases,
which, while they point out the hours as correctly as other watches,
enable us at the same time to perceive the inward springs whereby all
this is accomplished.

Nothing, however, is more foreign to Shakespeare than a certain
anatomical style of exhibition, which laboriously enumerates all the
motives by which a man is determined to act in this or that particular
manner. This rage of supplying motives, the mania of so many modern
historians, might be carried at length to an extent which would
abolish everything like individuality, and resolve all character into
nothing but the effect of foreign or external influences, whereas we
know that it often announces itself most decidedly in earliest
infancy. After all, a man acts so because he is so. And what each man
is, that Shakespeare reveals to us most immediately: he demands and
obtains our belief even for what is singular, and deviates from the
ordinary course of nature. Never perhaps was there so comprehensive a
talent for characterization as Shakespeare. It not only grasps every
diversity of rank, age, and sex, down to the lispings of infancy; not
only do the king and the beggar, the hero and the pickpocket, the sage
and the idiot, speak and act with equal truthfulness; not only does he
transport himself to distant ages and foreign nations, and portray
with the greatest accuracy (a few apparent violations of costume
excepted) the spirit of the ancient Romans, of the French in the wars
with the English, of the English themselves during a great part of
their history, of the Southern Europeans (in the serious part of many
comedies), the cultivated society of the day, and the rude barbarism
of a Norman fore-time; his human characters have not only such depth
and individuality that they do not admit of being classed under common
names, and are inexhaustible even in conception: no, this Prometheus
not merely forms men, he opens the gates of the magical world of
spirits, calls up the midnight ghost, exhibits before us the witches
with their unhallowed rites, peoples the air with sportive fairies and
sylphs; and these beings, though existing only in the imagination,
nevertheless possess such truth and consistency that even with such
misshapen abortions as Caliban, he extorts the assenting conviction
that, were there such beings, they would so conduct themselves. In a
word, as he carries a bold and pregnant fancy into the kingdom of
nature, on the other hand he carries nature into the region of fancy
which lie beyond the confines of reality. We are lost in astonishment
at the close intimacy he brings us into with the extraordinary, the
wonderful, and the unheard-of.

Pope and Johnson appear strangely to contradict each other, when the
first says, "all the characters of Shakespeare are individuals," and
the second, "they are species." And yet perhaps these opinions may
admit of reconciliation. Pope's expression is unquestionably the more
correct. A character which should be merely a personification of a
naked general idea could neither exhibit any great depth nor any great
variety. The names of genera and species are well known to be merely
auxiliaries for the understanding, that we may embrace the infinite
variety of nature in a certain order. The characters which Shakespeare
has so thoroughly delineated have undoubtedly a number of individual
peculiarities, but at the same time they possess a significance which
is not applicable to them alone: they generally supply materials for a
profound theory of their most prominent and distinguishing property.
But even with the above correction, this opinion must still have its
limitations. Characterization is merely one ingredient of the dramatic
art, and not dramatic poetry itself. It would be improper in the
extreme, if the poet were to draw our attention to superfluous traits
of character at a time when it ought to be his endeavor to produce
other impressions. Whenever the musical or the fanciful preponderates,
the characteristical necessarily falls into the background. Hence many
of the figures of Shakespeare exhibit merely external designations,
determined by the place which they occupy in the whole: they are like
secondary persons in a public procession, to whose physiognomy we
seldom pay much attention; their only importance is derived from the
solemnity of their dress and the duty in which they are engaged.
Shakespeare's messengers, for instance, are for the most part mere
messengers, and yet not common, but poetical messengers: the message
which they have to bring is the soul which suggests to them their
language. Other voices, too, are merely raised to pour forth these as
melodious lamentations or rejoicings, or to dwell in reflection on
what has taken place; and in a serious drama without chorus this must
always be more or less the case, if we would not have it prosaic.

If Shakespeare deserves our admiration for his characters, he is
equally deserving of it for his exhibition of passion, taking this
word in its widest signification, as including every mental condition,
every tone, from indifference or familiar mirth to the wildest rage
and despair. He gives us the history of minds; he lays open to us, in
a single word, a whole series of their anterior states. His passions
do not stand at the same height, from first to last, as is the case
with so many tragic poets, who, in the language of Lessing, are
thorough masters of the legal style of love. He paints, with
inimitable veracity, the gradual advance from the first origin; "he
gives," as Lessing says, "a living picture of all the slight and
secret artifices by which a feeling steals into our souls, of all the
imperceptible advantages which it there gains, of all the stratagems
by which it makes every other passion subservient to itself, till it
becomes the sole tyrant of our desires and our aversions." Of all the
poets, perhaps, he alone has portrayed the mental diseases,
melancholy, delirium, lunacy, with such inexpressible and, in every
respect, definite truth, that the physician may enrich his
observations from them in the same manner as from real cases.

And yet Johnson has objected to Shakespeare that his pathos is not
always natural and free from affectation. There are, it is true,
passages, though comparatively speaking very few, where his poetry
exceeds the bounds of actual dialogue, where a too soaring
imagination, a too luxuriant wit, rendered a complete dramatic
forgetfulness of himself impossible. With this exception, the censure
originated in a fanciless way of thinking, to which everything appears
unnatural that does not consort with its own tame insipidity. Hence an
idea has been formed of simple and natural pathos, which consists in
exclamations destitute of imagery and nowise elevated above everyday
life. But energetical passions electrify all the mental powers, and
will consequently, in highly-favored natures, give utterance to
themselves in ingenious and figurative expressions. It has been often
remarked that indignation makes a man witty; and as despair
occasionally breaks out into laughter, it may sometimes also give vent
to itself in antithetical comparisons.

Besides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly weighed.
Shakespeare, who was always sure of his power to excite, when he
wished, sufficiently powerful emotions, has occasionally, by indulging
in a freer play of fancy, purposely tempered the impressions when too
painful, and immediately introduced a musical softening of our
sympathy.[25] He had not those rude ideas of his art which many
moderns seem to have, as if the poet, like the clown in the proverb,
must strike twice on the same place. An ancient rhetorician delivered
a caution against dwelling too long on the excitation of pity; for
nothing, he said, dries so soon as tears; and Shakespeare acted
conformably to this ingenious maxim without having learned it. The
paradoxical assertion of Johnson that "Shakespeare had a greater
talent for comedy than tragedy, and that in the latter he has
frequently displayed an affected tone," is scarcely deserving of
lengthy notice. For its refutation, it is unnecessary to appeal to the
great tragical compositions of the poet, which, for overpowering
effect, leave far behind them almost everything that the stage has
seen besides; a few of their less celebrated scenes would be quite
sufficient. What to many readers might lend an appearance of truth to
this assertion are the verbal witticisms, that playing upon words,
which Shakespeare not unfrequently introduces into serious and sublime
passages and even into those also of a peculiarly pathetic nature.

I have already stated the point of view in which we ought to consider
this sportive play upon words. I shall here, therefore, merely deliver
a few observations respecting the playing upon words in general, and
its poetical use. A thorough investigation would lead us too far from
our subject, and too deeply into considerations on the essence of
language, and its relation to poetry, or rhyme, etc.

There is in the human mind a desire that language should exhibit the
object which it denotes, sensibly, by its very sound, which may be
traced even as far back as in the first origin of poetry. As, in the
shape in which language comes down to us, this is seldom perceptibly
the case, an imagination which has been powerfully excited is fond of
laying hold of any congruity in sound which may accidentally offer
itself, that by such means he may, for the nonce, restore the lost
resemblance between the word and the thing. For example, how common
was it and is it to seek in the name of a person, however arbitrarily
bestowed, a reference to his qualities and fortunes--to convert it
purposely into a significant name. Those who cry out against the play
upon words as an unnatural and affected invention, only betray their
own ignorance of original nature. A great fondness for it is always
evinced among children, as well as with nations of simple manners,
among whom correct ideas of the derivation and affinity of words have
not yet been developed, and do not, consequently, stand in the way of
this caprice. In Homer we find several examples of it; the Books of
Moses, the oldest written memorial of the primitive world, are, as is
well known, full of them. On the other hand, poets of a very
cultivated taste, like Petrarch, or orators, like Cicero, have
delighted in them. Whoever, in _Richard the Second_, is disgusted with
the affecting play of words of the dying John of Gaunt on his own
name, should remember that the same thing occurs in the _Ajax_ of
Sophocles. We do not mean to say that all playing upon words is on all
occasions to be justified. This must depend on the disposition of
mind, whether it will admit of such a play of fancy, and whether the
sallies, comparisons, and allusions, which lie at the bottom of them,
possess internal solidity. Yet we must not proceed upon the principle
of trying how the thought appears after it is deprived of the
resemblance in sound, any more than we are to endeavor to feel the
charm of rhymed versification after depriving it of its rhyme. The
laws of good taste on this subject must, moreover, vary with the
quality of the languages. In those which possess a great number of
homonymes, that is, words possessing the same, or nearly the same,
sound, though quite different in their derivation and signification,
it is almost more difficult to avoid, than to fall on such a verbal
play. It has, however, been feared, lest a door might be opened to
puerile witticism, if they were not rigorously proscribed. But I
cannot, for my part, find that Shakespeare had such an invincible and
immoderate passion for this verbal witticism. It is true, he sometimes
makes a most lavish use of this figure; at others, he has employed it
very sparingly; and at times (for example, in _Macbeth_) I do not
believe a vestige of it is to be found. Hence, in respect to the use
or the rejection of the play upon words, he must have been guided by
the measure of the objects and the different style in which they
required to be treated, and probably have followed here, as in
everything else, principles which, fairly examined, will bear a strict
examination.

The objection that Shakespeare wounds our feelings by the open display
of the most disgusting moral odiousness, unmercifully harrows up the
mind, and tortures even our eyes by the exhibition of the most
insupportable and hateful spectacles, is one of greater and graver
importance. He has, in fact, never varnished over wild and
bloodthirsty passions with a pleasing exterior--never clothed crime
and want of principle with a false show of greatness of soul; and in
that respect he is every way deserving of praise. Twice he has
portrayed downright villains, and the masterly way in which he has
contrived to elude impressions of too painful a nature may be seen in
Iago and Richard the Third. I allow that the reading, and still more
the sight, of some of his pieces, is not advisable to weak nerves, any
more than was the _Eumenides_ of AEschylus; but is the poet, who can
reach an important object only by a bold and hazardous daring, to be
checked by considerations for such persons? If the effeminacy of the
present day is to serve as a general standard of what tragical
composition may properly exhibit to human nature, we shall be forced
to set very narrow limits indeed to art, and the hope of anything like
powerful effect must at once and forever be renounced. If we wish to
have a grand purpose, we must also wish to have the grand means, and
our nerves ought in some measure to accommodate themselves to painful
impressions, if, by way of requital, our mind is thereby elevated and
strengthened. The constant reference to a petty and puny race must
cripple the boldness of the poet. Fortunately for his art, Shakespeare
lived in an age extremely susceptible of noble and tender impressions,
but which had yet inherited enough of the firmness of a vigorous olden
time not to shrink with dismay from every strong and forcible
painting. We have lived to see tragedies of which the catastrophe
consists in the swoon of an enamored princess: if Shakespeare falls
occasionally into the opposite extreme, it is a noble error,
originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength. And this tragical
Titan, who storms the heavens and threatens to tear the world off its
hinges, who, more terrible than AEschylus, makes our hair stand on end
and congeals our blood with horror, possessed at the same time the
insinuating loveliness of the sweetest poesy; he toys with love like a
child, and his songs die away on the ear like melting sighs. He unites
in his soul the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most
opposite and even apparently irreconcilable properties subsist in him
peaceably together. The world of spirits and nature have laid all
their treasures at his feet: in strength a demi-god, in profundity of
view a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom a guardian spirit of a higher
order, he lowers himself to mortals as if unconscious of his
superiority, and is as open and unassuming as a child.

If the delineation of all his characters, separately considered,
is inimitably bold and correct, he surpasses even himself in so
combining and contrasting them that they serve to bring out one
anothers' peculiarities. This is the very perfection of dramatic
characterization: for we can never estimate a man's true worth if we
consider him altogether abstractedly by himself; we must see him in
his relations with others; and it is here that most dramatic poets are
deficient. Shakespeare makes each of his principal characters the
glass in which the others are reflected, and by like means enables us
to discover what could not be immediately revealed to us. What in
others is most profound, is with him but surface. Ill-advised should
we be were we always to take men's declarations respecting themselves
and others for sterling coin. Ambiguity of design with much propriety
he makes to overflow with the most praiseworthy principles; and sage
maxims are not infrequently put in the mouth of stupidity, to show how
easily such commonplace truisms may be acquired. Nobody ever painted
so truthfully as he has done the facility of self-deception, the half
self-conscious hypocrisy toward ourselves, with which even noble minds
attempt to disguise the almost inevitable influence of selfish motives
in human nature. This secret irony of the characterization commands
admiration as the profound abyss of acuteness and sagacity; but it is
the grave of enthusiasm. We arrive at it only after we have had the
misfortune to see human nature through and through, and after no
choice remains but to adopt the melancholy truth that "no virtue or
greatness is altogether pure and genuine," or the dangerous error that
"the highest perfection is attainable." Here we therefore may perceive
in the poet himself, notwithstanding his power to excite the most
fervent emotions, a certain cool indifference, but still the
indifference of a superior mind, which has run through the whole
sphere of human existence and survived feeling.

The irony in Shakespeare has not merely a reference to the separate
characters, but frequently to the whole of the action. Most poets who
portray human events in a narrative or dramatic form themselves take a
part, and exact from their readers a blind approbation or condemnation
of whatever side they choose to support or oppose. The more zealous
this rhetoric is, the more certainly it fails of its effect. In every
case we are conscious that the subject itself is not brought
immediately before us, but that we view it through the medium of a
different way of thinking. When, however, by a dextrous manoeuvre, the
poet allows us an occasional glance at the less brilliant reverse of
the medal, then he makes, as it were, a sort of secret understanding
with the select circle of the more intelligent of his readers or
spectators; he shows them that he had previously seen and admitted the
validity of their tacit objections; that he himself is not tied down
to the represented subject, but soars freely above it; and that, if he
chose, he could unrelentingly annihilate the beautiful and
irresistibly attractive scenes which his magic pen has produced. No
doubt, wherever the proper tragic enters, everything like irony
immediately ceases; but from the avowed raillery of Comedy, to the
point where the subjection of mortal beings to an inevitable destiny
demands the highest degree of seriousness, there are a multitude of
human relations which unquestionably may be considered in an ironical
view, without confounding the eternal line of separation between good
and evil. This purpose is answered by the comic characters and scenes
which are interwoven with the serious parts in most of those pieces of
Shakespeare where romantic fables or historical events are made the
subject of a noble and elevating exhibition. Frequently an intentional
parody of the serious part is not to be mistaken in them; at other
times the connection is more arbitrary and loose, and the more so, the
more marvelous the invention of the whole and the more entirely it has
become a light reveling of the fancy. The comic intervals everywhere
serve to prevent the pastime from being converted into a business, to
preserve the mind in the possession of its serenity, and to keep off
that gloomy and inert seriousness which so easily steals upon the
sentimental, but not tragical, drama. Most assuredly Shakespeare did
not intend thereby, in defiance to his own better judgment, to humor
the taste of the multitude: for in various pieces, and throughout
considerable portions of others, and especially when the catastrophe
is approaching, and the mind consequently is more on the stretch and
no longer likely to give heed to any amusement which would distract
their attention, he has abstained from all such comic intermixtures.
It was also an object with him, that the clowns or buffoons should not
occupy a more important place than that which he had assigned them: he
expressly condemns the extemporizing with which they loved to enlarge
their parts.[26] Johnson founds the justification of the species of
drama in which seriousness and mirth are mixed, on this, that in real
life the vulgar is found close to the sublime, that the merry and the
sad usually accompany and succeed each other. But it does not follow
that, because both are found together, therefore they must not be
separable in the compositions of art. The observation is in other
respects just, and this circumstance invests the poet with a power to
adopt this procedure, because everything in the drama must be
regulated by the conditions of theatrical probability; but the mixture
of such dissimilar, and apparently contradictory, ingredients, in the
same works, can be justifiable only on principles reconcilable with
the views of art which I have already described. In the dramas of
Shakespeare the comic scenes are the antechamber of the poetry, where
the servants remain; these prosaic attendants must not raise their
voices so high as to deafen the speakers in the presence-chamber;
however, in those intervals when the ideal society has retired they
deserve to be listened to; their bold raillery, their presumption of
mockery, may afford many an insight into the situation and
circumstances of their masters.

Shakespeare's comic talent is equally wonderful with that which he has
shown in the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal elevation, and
possesses equal extent and profundity; in all that I have hitherto
said, I only wished to guard against admitting that the former
preponderated. He is highly inventive in comic situations and motives:
it will be hardly possible to show whence he has taken any of them,
whereas, in the serious part of his dramas, he has generally laid hold
of some well-known story. His comic characterization is equally true,
various, and profound, with his serious. So little is he disposed to
caricature, that rather, it may be said, many of his traits are almost
too nice and delicate for the stage, that they can be made available
only by a great actor and fully understood only by an acute audience.
Not only has he delineated many kinds of folly, but even of sheer
stupidity has he contrived to give a most diverting and entertaining
picture. There is also in his pieces a peculiar species of the
farcical, which apparently seems to be introduced more arbitrarily,
but which, however, is founded on imitation of some actual custom.
This is the introduction of the merrymaker, the fool with his cap and
bells and motley dress, called more commonly in England "clown," who
appears in several comedies, though not in all, but, of the tragedies,
in _Lear_ alone, and who generally merely exercises his wit in
conversation with the principal persons, though he is also sometimes
incorporated into the action. In those times it was not only usual for
princes to have their court fools, but many distinguished families,
among their other retainers, kept such an exhilarating house-mate as a
good antidote against the insipidity and wearisomeness of ordinary
life, and as a welcome interruption of established formalities. Great
statesmen, and even ecclesiastics, did not consider it beneath their
dignity to recruit and solace themselves after important business with
the conversation of their fools; the celebrated Sir Thomas More had
his fool painted along with himself by Holbein. Shakespeare appears to
have lived immediately before the time when the custom began to be
abolished; in the English comic authors who succeeded him the clown is
no longer to be found. The dismissal of the fool has been extolled as
a proof of refinement; and our honest forefathers have been pitied for
taking delight in such a coarse and farcical amusement. For my part, I
am rather disposed to believe that the practice was dropped from the
difficulty in finding fools able to do full justice to their
parts:[27] on the other hand, reason, with all its conceit of itself,
has become too timid to tolerate such bold irony; it is always careful
lest the mantle of its gravity should be disturbed in any of its
folds; and rather than allow a privileged place to folly beside
itself, it has unconsciously assumed the part of the ridiculous; but,
alas! a heavy and cheerless ridicule.[28] It would be easy to make a
collection of the excellent sallies and biting sarcasms which have
been preserved of celebrated court fools. It is well known that they
frequently told such truths to princes as are never now told to
them.[29] Shakespeare's fools, along with somewhat of an overstraining
for wit, which cannot altogether be avoided when wit becomes a
separate profession, have for the most part an incomparable humor and
an infinite abundance of intellect, enough indeed to supply a whole
host of ordinary wise men.

I have still a few observations to make on the diction and
versification of our poet. The language is here and there somewhat
obsolete, but on the whole much less so than in most of the
contemporary writers--a sufficient proof of the goodness of his
choice. Prose had as yet been but little cultivated, as the learned
generally wrote in Latin--a favorable circumstance for the dramatic
poet; for what has he to do with the scientific language of books? He
had not only read, but studied, the earlier English poets; but he drew
his language immediately from life itself, and he possessed a masterly
skill in blending the dialogical element with the highest poetical
elevation. I know not what certain critics mean, when they say that
Shakespeare is frequently ungrammatical. To make good their assertion,
they must prove that similar constructions never occur in his
contemporaries, the direct contrary of which can, however, be easily
shown. In no language is everything determined on principle; much is
always left to the caprice of custom, and if this has since changed,
is the poet to be made answerable for it? The English language had not
then attained to that correct insipidity which has been introduced
into the more recent literature of the country, to the prejudice,
perhaps, of its originality. As a field when first brought under the
plough produces, along with the fruitful shoots, many luxuriant weeds,
so the poetical diction of the day ran occasionally into extravagance,
but an extravagance originating in the exuberance of its vigor. We may
still perceive traces of awkwardness, but nowhere of a labored and
spiritless display of art. In general, Shakespeare's style yet remains
the very best model, both in the vigorous and sublime, and the
pleasing and tender. In his sphere he has exhausted all the means and
appliances of language. On all he has impressed the stamp of his
mighty spirit. His images and figures, in their unsought, nay,
uncapricious singularity, have often a sweetness altogether peculiar.
He becomes occasionally obscure from too great fondness for compressed
brevity; but still, the labor of poring over Shakespeare's lines will
invariably meet an ample requital.

The verse in all his plays is generally the rhymeless iambic of ten or
eleven syllables, only occasionally intermixed with rhymes, but more
frequently alternating with prose. No one piece is written entirely in
prose; for even in those which approach the most to the pure Comedy,
there is always something added which gives them a more poetical hue
than usually belongs to this species. Many scenes are wholly in prose,
in others verse and prose succeed each other alternately. This can
appear an impropriety only in the eyes of those who are accustomed to
consider the lines of a drama like so many soldiers drawn up rank and
file on a parade, with the same uniform, arms, and accoutrements, so
that when we see one or two we may represent to ourselves thousands as
being every way like them.

In the use of verse and prose Shakespeare observes very nice
distinctions according to the ranks of the speakers, but still more
according to their characters and disposition of mind. A noble
language, elevated above the usual tone, is suitable only to a certain
decorum of manners, which is thrown over both vices and virtues and
which does not even wholly disappear amidst the violence of passion.
If this is not exclusively possessed by the higher ranks, it still,
however, belongs naturally more to them than to the lower; and
therefore, in Shakespeare, dignity and familiarity of language,
poetry, and prose, are in this manner distributed among the
characters. Hence his tradesmen, peasants, soldiers, sailors,
servants, but more especially his fools and clowns, speak, almost
without exception, in the tone of their actual life. However, inward
dignity of sentiment, wherever it is possessed, invariably displays
itself with a nobleness of its own, and stands not in need, for that
end, of the artificial elegancies of education and custom; it is a
universal right of man, of the highest as well as the lowest; and
hence also, in Shakespeare, the nobility of nature and morality is
ennobled above the artificial nobility of society. Not infrequently
also he makes the very same persons express themselves at times in the
sublimest language, and at others in the lowest; and this inequality
is in like manner founded in truth. Extraordinary situations, which
intensely occupy the head and throw mighty passions into play, give
elevation and tension to the soul: it collects all its powers and
exhibits an unusual energy, both in its operations and in its
communications by language. On the other hand, even the greatest men
have their moments of remissness, when to a certain degree they forget
the dignity of their character in unreserved relaxation. This very
tone of mind is necessary before they can receive amusement from the
jokes of others, or, what surely cannot dishonor even a hero, from
passing jokes themselves. Let any person, for example, go carefully
through the part of Hamlet. How bold and powerful the language of his
poetry when he conjures the ghost of his father, when he spurs himself
on to the bloody deed, when he thunders into the soul of his mother!
How he lowers his tone down to that of common life, when he has to do
with persons whose station demands from him such a line of conduct;
when he makes game of Polonius and the courtiers, instructs the
player, and even enters into the jokes of the grave-digger. Of all the
poet's serious leading characters there is none so rich in wit and
humor as Hamlet; hence he it is of all of them that makes the greatest
use of the familiar style. Others, again, never do fall into it;
either because they are constantly surrounded by the pomp of rank, or
because a uniform seriousness is natural to them; or, in short,
because through the whole piece they are under the dominion of a
passion calculated to excite, and not, like the sorrow of Hamlet, to
depress the mind. The choice of the one form or the other is
everywhere so appropriate, and so much founded in the nature of the
thing, that I will venture to assert, even where the poet in the very
same speech makes the speaker leave prose for poetry, or the converse,
this could not be altered without danger of injuring or destroying
some beauty or other. The blank verse has this advantage, that its
tone may be elevated or lowered; it admits of approximation to the
familiar style of conversation, and never forms such an abrupt
contrast as that, for example, between plain prose and the rhyming
Alexandrines.

Shakespeare's iambics are sometimes highly harmonious and
full-sounding; always varied and suitable to the subject, at one time
distinguished by ease and rapidity, at another they move along with
ponderous energy. They never fall out of the dialogical character,
which may always be traced even in the continued discourses of
individuals, excepting when the latter run into the lyrical. They are
a complete model of the dramatic use of this species of verse, which,
in English, since Milton, has been also used in epic poetry; but in
the latter it has assumed a quite different turn. Even the
irregularities of Shakespeare's versification are expressive; a verse
broken off, or a sudden change of rhythmus, coincides with some pause
in the progress of the thought, or the entrance of another mental
disposition. As a proof that he purposely violated the mechanical
rules, from a conviction that a too symmetrical versification does not
suit with the drama, and, on the stage has in the long run a tendency
to lull the spectators to sleep, we may observe that his earlier
pieces are the most diligently versified, and that, in the later
works, when through practice he must have acquired a greater facility,
we find the strongest deviations from the regular structure of the
verse. As it served with him merely to make the poetical elevation
perceptible, he therefore claimed the utmost possible freedom in the
use of it.

The views or suggestions of feeling by which he was guided in the use
of rhyme may likewise be traced with almost equal certainty. Not
infrequently scenes, or even single speeches, close with a few rhyming
lines, for the purpose of more strongly marking the division, and of
giving it more rounding. This was injudiciously imitated by the
English tragic poets of a later date; they suddenly elevated the tone
in the rhymed lines, as if the person began all at once to speak in
another language. The practice was welcomed by the actors from its
serving as a signal for clapping when they made their exit. In
Shakespeare, on the other hand, the transitions are more easy: all
changes of forms are brought about insensibly, and as if of
themselves. Moreover, he is generally fond of heightening a series of
ingenious and antithetical sayings by the use of rhyme. We find other
passages in continued rhyme, where solemnity and theatrical pomp were
suitable, as, for instance, in the mask,[30] as it is called, in _The
Tempest_ and in the play introduced in _Hamlet_. Of other pieces, for
instance, the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and _Romeo and Juliet_, the
rhymes form a considerable part; either because he may have wished to
give them a glowing color, or because the characters appropriately
utter in a more musical tone their complaints or suits of love. In
these cases he has even introduced rhymed strophes, which approach to
the form of the sonnet, then usual in England. The assertion of
Malone, that Shakespeare in his youth was fond of rhyme, but that he
afterward rejected it, is sufficiently refuted by his own chronology
of the poet's works. In some of the earliest, for instance in the
second and third part of _Henry the Sixth_, there are hardly any
rhymes; in what is stated to be his last piece, _Twelfth Night, or
What You Will_, and in _Macbeth_, which is proved to have been
composed under the reign of King James, we find them in no
inconsiderable number. Even in the secondary matters of form
Shakespeare was not guided by humor and accident, but, like a genuine
artist, acted invariably on good and solid grounds. This we might also
show of the kinds of verse which he least frequently used (for
instance, of the rhyming verses of seven and eight syllables), were we
not afraid of dwelling too long on merely technical peculiarities.

In England the manner of handling rhyming verse, and the opinion as to
its harmony and elegance, have, in the course of two centuries,
undergone a much greater change than is the case with the rhymeless
iambic or blank verse. In the former, Dryden and Pope have become
models; these writers have communicated the utmost smoothness to
rhyme, but they have also tied it down to a harmonious uniformity. A
foreigner, to whom antiquated and new are the same, may perhaps feel
with greater freedom the advantages of the more ancient manner.
Certain it is, the rhyme of the present day, from the too great
confinement of the couplet, is unfit for the drama. We must not
estimate the rhyme of Shakespeare by the mode of subsequent times, but
by a comparison with his contemporaries or with Spenser. The
comparison will, without doubt, turn out to his advantage. Spenser is
often diffuse; Shakespeare, though sometimes hard, is always brief and
vigorous. He has more frequently been induced by the rhyme to leave
out something necessary than to insert anything superfluous. Many of
his rhymes, however, are faultless: ingenious with attractive ease,
and rich without false brilliancy. The songs interspersed (those, I
mean, of the poet himself) are generally sweetly playful and
altogether musical; in imagination, while we merely read them, we hear
their melody.

The whole of Shakespeare's productions bear the certain stamp of his
original genius, but yet no writer was ever further removed from
everything like a mannerism derived from habit or personal
peculiarities. Rather is he, such is the diversity of tone and color
which vary according to the quality of his subjects he assumes, a very
Proteus. Each of his compositions is like a world of its own, moving
in its own sphere. They are works of art, finished in one pervading
style, which revealed the freedom and judicious choice of their
author. If the formation of a work throughout, even in its minutest
parts, in conformity with a leading idea; if the domination of one
animating spirit over all the means of execution, deserves the name of
correctness (and this, excepting in matters of grammar, is the only
proper sense of the term); we shall then, after allowing to
Shakespeare all the higher qualities which demand our admiration, be
also compelled, in most cases, to concede to him the title of a
correct poet.

It would be in the highest degree instructive to follow, if we could,
in his career step by step, an author who at once founded and carried
his art to perfection, and to go through his works in the order of
time. But, with the exception of a few fixed points, which at length
have been obtained, all the necessary materials for this are still
wanting. The diligent Malone has, indeed, made an attempt to arrange
the plays of Shakespeare in chronological order; but he himself gives
out only the result of his labors as hypothetical, and it could not
possibly be attended with complete success, since he excluded from his
inquiry a considerable number of pieces which have been ascribed to
the poet, though rejected as spurious by all the editors since Rowe,
but which, in my opinion, must, if not wholly, at least in great
measure be attributed to him.




_FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL_

       *       *       *       *       *

INTRODUCTION TO LUCINDA

By CALVIN THOMAS

Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures, Columbia University

Friedrich Schlegel's _Lucinda_, published in 1799, was an explosion of
youthful radicalism--a rather violent explosion which still
reverberates in the histories of German Romanticism. It is a book
about the metaphysics of love and marriage, the emancipation of the
flesh, the ecstasies and follies of the enamored state, the nature and
the rights of woman, and other such matters of which the world was
destined to hear a great deal during the nineteenth century. Not by
accident, but by intention, the little book was shocking, formless,
incoherent--a riot of the ego without beginning, middle, or end. Now
and then it passed the present limits of the printable in its
exploitation of the improper and the unconventional.

Yet the book was by no means the wanton freak of a prurient
imagination; it had a serious purpose and was believed by its author
to present the essentials of a new and beautiful theory of life, art
and religion. The great Schleiermacher, one of the profoundest of
German theologians and an eloquent friend of religion, called
_Lucinda_ a "divine book" and its author a "priest of love and
wisdom." "Everything in this work," he declared, "is at once human and
divine; a magic air of divinity rises from its deep springs and
permeates the whole temple." Today no man in his senses would praise
the book in such terms. Yet, with all its crudities of style and its
aberrations of taste, _Lucinda_ reveals, not indeed the whole form and
pressure of the epoch that gave it birth, but certain very interesting
aspects of it.

[Illustration: #FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL# E. HADER]

Then, too, it marks a curious stage in the development of the
younger Schlegel, a really profound thinker and one of the notable men
of his day. This explains why a considerable portion of the much
discussed book is here presented for the first time in an English
dress.

The earliest writings of Friedrich Schlegel--he was born in
1772--relate to Greek literature, a field which he cultivated with
enthusiasm and with ample learning. In particular he was interested in
what his Greek poets and philosophers had to say of the position of
women in society; of the _hetairai_ as the equal and inspiring
companions of men; of a more or less refined sexual love, untrammeled
by law and convention, as the basis of a free, harmonious and
beautiful existence. Among other things, he seems to have been much
impressed by Plato's notion that the _genus homo_ was one before it
broke up into male and female, and that sexual attraction is a desire
to restore the lost unity. In a very learned essay _On Diotima_,
published in 1797--Diotima is the woman of whose relation to Socrates
we get a glimpse in Plato's _Symposium_--there is much that
foreshadows _Lucinda_. Let two or three sentences suffice. "What is
uglier than the overloaded femininity, what is more loathesome than
the exaggerated masculinity, that rules in our customs, our opinions,
and even in our better art?" "Precisely the tyrannical vehemence of
the man, the flabby self-surrender of the woman, is in itself an ugly
exaggeration." "Only the womanhood that is independent, only the
manhood that is gentle, is good and beautiful."

In 1796 Friedrich Schlegel joined his brother at Jena, where Fichte
was then expounding his philosophy. It was a system of radical
idealism, teaching that the only reality is the absolute Ego, whose
self-assertion thus becomes the fundamental law of the world. The
Fichtean system had not yet been fully worked out in its metaphysical
bearings, but the strong and engaging personality of its author gave
it, for a little while, immense prestige and influence. To Friedrich
Schlegel it seemed the gospel of a new era sort of French Revolution
in philosophy. Indeed he proclaimed that the three greatest events of
the century were the French Revolution, Fichte's philosophy, and
Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_. This last, which appeared in 1796 and
contained obvious elements of autobiography, together with poems and
disquisitions on this and that, was admired by him beyond all measure.
He saw in it the exemplar and the program of a wonderful new art which
he proposed to call "Romantic Poetry."

But gray theory would never have begotten _Lucinda_. Going to Berlin
in 1797, Schlegel made the acquaintance of Dorothea Veit, daughter of
Moses Mendelsohn and wife of a Berlin banker. She was nine years his
senior. A strong attachment grew up between them, and presently the
lady was persuaded to leave her husband and become the paramour of
Schlegel. Even after the divorce was obtained Schlegel refused for
some time to be married in church, believing that he had a sort of
duty to perform in asserting the rights of passion over against social
convention. For several years the pair lived in wild wedlock before
they were regularly married. In 1808 they both joined the Catholic
Church, and from that time on nothing more was heard of Friedrich
Schlegel's radicalism. He came to hold opinions which were for the
most part the exact opposite of those he had held in his youth. The
vociferous friend of individual liberty became a reactionary champion
of authority. Of course he grew ashamed of _Lucinda_ and excluded it
from his collected works.

Such was the soil in which the naughty book grew. It was an era of lax
ideas regarding the marriage tie. Wilhelm Schlegel married a divorced
woman who was destined in due time to transfer herself without legal
formalities to Schelling. Goethe had set the example by his conscience
marriage with Christiane Vulpius. It remains only to be said that the
most of Friedrich Schlegel's intimates, including his brother Wilhelm,
advised against the publication of _Lucinda_. But here, as in the
matter of his marriage, the author felt that he had a duty to
perform: it was necessary to declare independence of Mrs. Grundy's
tyranny and shock people for their own good. But the reader of today
will feel that the worst shortcomings of the book are not its
immoralities, but its sins against art.

It will be observed that while _Lucinda_ was called by its author a
"novel," it hardly deserves that name. There is no story, no
development of a plot. The book consists of disconnected glimpses in
the form of letters, disquisitions, rhapsodies, conversations, etc.,
each with a more or less suggestive heading. Two of these
sections--one cannot call them chapters--are omitted in the
translation, namely, "Allegory of Impudence" and, "Apprenticeship of
Manhood."




LUCINDA (1799)

By FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL

TRANSLATED BY PAUL BERNARD THOMAS

PROLOGUE

Smiling with emotion Petrarch opens the collection of his immortal
romanzas with a prefatory survey. The clever Boccaccio talks with
flattering courtesy to all women, both at the beginning and at the end
of his opulent book. The great Cervantes too, an old man in agony, but
still genial and full of delicate wit, drapes the motley spectacle of
his lifelike writings with the costly tapestry of a preface, which in
itself is a beautiful and romantic painting.

Uproot a stately plant from its fertile, maternal soil, and there will
still cling lovingly to it much that can seem superfluous only to a
niggard.

But what shall my spirit bestow upon its offspring, which, like its
parent, is as poor in poesy as it is rich in love?

Just one word, a parting trope: It is not alone the royal eagle who
may despise the croaking of the raven; the swan, too, is proud and
takes no note of it. Nothing concerns him except to keep clean the
sheen of his white pinions. He thinks only of nestling against Leda's
bosom without hurting her, and of breathing forth into song everything
that is mortal within him.

[Illustration: #THE CREATION# _From the Painting by Moritz von
Schwind_]

CONFESSIONS OF AN AWKWARD MAN

JULIUS TO LUCINDA

Human beings and what they want and do, seemed to me, when I thought
of it, like gray, motionless figures; but in the holy solitude all
around me everything was light and color. A fresh, warm breath of life
and love fanned me, rustling and stirring in all the branches of the
verdant grove. I gazed and enjoyed it all, the rich green, the white
blossoms and the golden fruit. And in my mind's eye I saw, too, in
many forms, my one and only Beloved, now as a little girl, now as a
young lady in the full bloom and energy of love and womanhood, and now
as a dignified mother with her demure babe in her arms. I breathed the
spring and I saw clearly all about me everlasting youth. Smiling I
said to myself: "Even if this world is not the best and most useful of
places, it is certainly the most beautiful."

From this feeling or thought nothing could have turned me, neither
general despair nor personal fear. For I believed that the deep
secrets of nature were being revealed to me; I felt that everything
was immortal and that death was only a pleasant illusion. But I really
did not think very much about it, since I was not particularly in a
mood for mental synthesis and analysis. But I gladly lost myself in
all those blendings and intertwinings of joy and pain from which
spring the spice of life and the flower of feeling--spiritual pleasure
as well as sensual bliss. A subtle fire flowed through my veins. What
I dreamed was not of kissing you, not of holding you in my arms; it
was not only the wish to relieve the tormenting sting of my desire,
and to cool the sweet fire by gratification. It was not for your lips
that I longed, or for your eyes, or for your body; no, it was a
romantic confusion of all of these things, a marvelous mingling of
memories and desires. All the mysteries of caprice in man and woman
seemed to hover about me, when suddenly in my solitude your real
presence and the glowing rapture in your face completely set me afire.
Wit and ecstasy now began their alternating play, and were the common
pulse of our united life. There was no less abandon than religion in
our embrace. I besought you to yield to my frenzy and implored you to
be insatiable. And yet with calm presence of mind I watched for the
slightest sign of joy in you, so that not one should escape me to
impair the harmony. I not only enjoyed, but I felt and enjoyed the
enjoyment.

You are so extraordinarily clever, dearest Lucinda, that you have
doubtless long ere this begun to suspect that this is all nothing but
a beautiful dream. And so, alas, it is; and I should indeed feel very
disconsolate about it if I could not cherish the hope that at least a
part of it may soon be realized. The truth of the matter is this: Not
long ago I was standing by the window--how long I do not know, for
along with the other rules of reason and morality, I completely forgot
about the lapse of time. Well, I was standing by the window and
looking out into the open; the morning certainly deserves to be called
beautiful, the air is still and quite warm, and the verdure here
before me is fresh. And even as the wide land undulates in hills and
dales, so the calm, broad, silvery river winds along in great bends
and sweeps, until it and the lover's fantasy, cradled upon it like the
swan, pass away into the distance and lose themselves in the
immeasurable. My vision doubtless owes the grove and its southern
color-effect to the huge mass of flowers here beside me, among which I
see a large number of oranges. All the rest is readily explained by
psychology. It was an illusion, dear friend, all an illusion, all
except that, not long ago, I was standing, by the window and doing
nothing, and that I am now sitting here and doing something--something
which is perhaps little more than nothing, perhaps even less.

I had written thus far to you about the things I had said to myself,
when, in the midst of my tender thoughts and profound feelings about
the dramatic connection of our embraces, a coarse and unpleasant
occurrence interrupted me. I was just on the point of unfolding to you
in clear and precise periods the exact and straightforward history of
our frivolities and of my dulness. I was going to expound to you, step
by step, in accordance with natural laws, the misunderstandings that
attack the hidden centre of the loveliest existence, and to confess to
you the manifold effects of my awkwardness. I was about to describe
the apprenticeship of my manhood, a period which, taken as a whole or
in parts, I can never look back upon without a great deal of inward
amusement, a little melancholy, and considerable self-satisfaction.
Still, as a refined lover and writer, I will endeavor to refashion the
coarse occurrence and adapt it to my purpose. For me and for this
book, however, for my love of it and for its inner development, there
is no better adaptation of means to ends than this, namely, that right
at the start I begin by abolishing what we call orderly arrangement,
keep myself entirely aloof from it, frankly claiming and asserting the
right to a charming confusion. This is all the more necessary,
inasmuch as the material which our life and love offers to my spirit
and to my pen is so incessantly progressive and so inflexibly
systematic. If the form were also of that character, this, in its way,
unique letter would then acquire an intolerable unity and monotony,
and would no longer produce the desired effect, namely, to fashion and
complete a most lovely chaos of sublime harmonies and interesting
pleasures. So I use my incontestable right to a confused style by
inserting here, in the wrong place, one of the many incoherent sheets
which I once filled with rubbish, and which you, good creature,
carefully preserved without my knowing it. It was written in a mood of
impatient longing, due to my not finding you where I most surely
expected to find you--in your room, on our sofa--in the haphazard
words suggested by the pen you had lately been using.

The selection is not difficult. For since, among the dreamy fancies
which are here confided to you in permanent letters, the recollection
of this most beautiful world is the most significant, and has a
certain sort of resemblance to what they call thought, I choose in
preference to anything else a dithyrambic fantasy on the most lovely
of situations. For once we know to a certainty that we live in a most
beautiful world, the next need is obvious, namely, to inform ourselves
fully, either through ourselves or through others, about the most
lovely situation in this most beautiful world.


DITHYRAMBIC FANTASY ON THE LOVELIEST OF SITUATIONS

A big tear falls upon the holy sheet which I found here instead of
you. How faithfully and how simply you have sketched it, the old and
daring idea of my dearest and most intimate purpose! In you it has
grown up, and in this mirror I do not shrink from loving and admiring
myself. Only here I see myself in harmonious completeness. For your
spirit, too, stands distinct and perfect before me, not as an
apparition which appears and fades away again, but as one of the forms
that endure forever. It looks at me joyously out of its deep eyes and
opens its arms to embrace my spirit. The holiest and most evanescent
of those delicate traits and utterances of the soul, which to one who
does not know the highest seem like bliss itself, are merely the
common atmosphere of our spiritual breath and life.

The words are weak and vague. Furthermore, in this throng of
impressions I could only repeat anew the one inexhaustible feeling of
our original harmony. A great future beckons me on into the
immeasurable; each idea develops a countless progeny. The extremes of
unbridled gayety and of quiet presentiment live together within me. I
remember everything, even the griefs, and all my thoughts that have
been and are to be bestir themselves and arise before me. The blood
rushes wildly through my swollen veins, my mouth thirsts for the
contact of your lips, and my fancy seeks vainly among the many forms
of joy for one which might at last gratify my desire and give it rest.
And then again I suddenly and sadly bethink me of the gloomy time when
I was always waiting without hope, and madly loving without knowing
it; when my innermost being overflowed with a vague longing, which it
breathed forth but rarely in half-suppressed sighs.

Oh, I should have thought it all a fairy-tale that there could be such
joy, such love as I now feel, and such a woman, who could be my most
tender Beloved, my best companion, and at the same time a perfect
friend. For it was in friendship especially that I sought for what I
wanted, and for what I never hoped to find in any woman. In you I
found it all, and more than I could wish for; but you are so unlike
the rest. Of what custom or caprice calls womanly, you know nothing.
The womanliness of your soul, aside from minor peculiarities, consists
in its regarding life and love as the same thing. For you all feeling
is infinite and eternal; you recognize no separations, your being is
an indivisible unity. That is why you are so serious and so joyous,
why you regard everything in such a large and indifferent way; that is
why you love me, all of me, and will surrender no part of me to the
state, to posterity, or to manly pleasures. I am all yours; we are
closest to each other and we understand each other. You accompany me
through all the stages of manhood, from the utmost wantonness to the
most refined spirituality. In you alone I first saw true pride and
true feminine humility.

The most extreme suffering, if it is only surrounded, without
separating us, would seem to me nothing but a charming antithesis to
the sublime frivolity of our marriage. Why should we not take the
harshest whim of chance for an excellent jest and a most frolicsome
caprice, since we, like our love, are immortal? I can no longer say
_my_ love and _your_ love; they are both alike in their perfect
mutuality. Marriage is the everlasting unity and alliance of our
spirits, not only for what we call this world and that world, but for
the one, true, indivisible, nameless, endless world of our entire
being, so long as we live. Therefore, if it seemed the proper time, I
would drain with you a cup of poison, just as gladly and just as
easily as that last glass of champagne we drank together, when I said:
"And so let us drink out the rest of our lives." With these words I
hurriedly quaffed the wine, before its noble spirit ceased to sparkle.
And so I say again, let us live and love. I know you would not wish to
survive me; you would rather follow your dying husband into his
coffin. Gladly and lovingly would you descend into the burning abyss,
even as the women of India do, impelled by a mad law, the cruel,
constraining purpose of which desecrates and destroys the most
delicate sanctities of the will.

On the other side, perhaps, longing will be more completely realized.
I often wonder over it; every thought, and whatever else is fashioned
within us, seems to be complete in itself, as single and indivisible
as a person. One thing crowds out another, and that which just now was
near and present soon sinks back into obscurity. And then again come
moments of sudden and universal clarity, when several such spirits of
the inner world completely fuse together into a wonderful wedlock, and
many a forgotten bit of our ego shines forth in a new light and even
illuminates the darkness of the future with its bright lustre. As it
is in a small way, so is it also, I think, in a large way. That which
we call a life is for the complete, inner, immortal man only a single
idea, an indivisible feeling. And for him there come, too, moments of
the profoundest and fullest consciousness, when all lives fall
together and mingle and separate in a different way. The time is
coming when we two shall behold in one spirit that we are blossoms of
one plant, or petals of one flower. We shall then know with a smile
that what we now call merely hope was really memory.

Do you know how the first seed of this idea germinated in my soul
before you and took root in yours? Thus does the religion of love
weave our love ever and ever more closely and firmly together, just as
a child, like an echo, doubles the happiness of its gentle parents.

Nothing can part us; and certainly any separation would only draw me
more powerfully to you. I bethink me how at our last embrace, you
vehemently resisting, I burst into simultaneous tears and laughter. I
tried to calm myself, and in a sort of bewilderment I would not
believe that I was separated from you until the surrounding objects
convinced me of it against my will. But then my longing grew again
irresistible, until on its wings I sank back into your arms. Suppose
words or a human being to create a misunderstanding between us! The
poignant grief would be transient and quickly resolve itself into
complete harmony. How could separation separate us, when presence
itself is to us, as it were, too present? We have to cool and mitigate
the consuming fire with jests, and thus for us the most witty of the
forms and situations of joy is also the most beautiful. One among all
is at once the wittiest and the loveliest: when we exchange roles and
with childish delight try to see who can best imitate the other;
whether you succeed best with the tender vehemence of a man, or I with
the yielding devotion of a woman. But, do you know, this sweet game
has for me quite other charms than its own. It is not merely the
delight of exhaustion or the anticipation of revenge. I see in it a
wonderful and profoundly significant allegory of the development of
man and woman into complete humanity. * * *

       *       *       *       *       *

That was my dithyrambic fantasy on the loveliest situation in the
loveliest of worlds. I know right well what you thought of it and how
you took it at that time. And I think I know just as well what you
will think of it and how you will take it here, here in this little
book, in which you expect to find genuine history, plain truth and
calm reason; yes, even morality, the charming morality of love. "How
can a man wish to write anything which it is scarcely permissible to
talk about, which ought only to be felt?" I replied: "If a man feels
it, he must wish to talk about it, and what a man wishes to talk about
he may write."

I wanted first to demonstrate to you that there exists in the original
and essential nature of man a certain awkward enthusiasm which likes
to utter boldly that which is delicate and holy, and sometimes falls
headlong over its own honest zeal and speaks a word that is divine to
the point of coarseness.

This apology would indeed save me, but perhaps only at the enormous
expense of my manhood itself; for whatever you may think of my manhood
in particular, you have nevertheless a great deal against the sex in
general. Meantime I will by no means make common cause with them, but
will rather excuse and defend my liberty and audacity by means of the
example of the little innocent Wilhelmina, since she too is a lady
whom I love most tenderly. So I will straightway attempt a little
sketch of her character.

SKETCH OF LITTLE WILHELMINA

When one regards the remarkable child, not from the viewpoint of any
one-sided theory, but, as is proper, in a large, impartial way, one
can boldly say--and it is perhaps the best thing one could possibly
say of her--that for her years she is the cleverest person of her
time. And that is indeed saying a great deal; for how seldom do we
find harmonious culture in people two years old? The strongest of the
many strong proofs of her inward perfection is her serene
self-complacency. After she has eaten she always spreads both her
little arms out on the table, and resting her cunning head on them
with amusing seriousness, she makes big eyes and casts cute glances at
the family all around her. Then she straightens up and with the most
vivid expression of irony on her face, smiles at her own cuteness and
our inferiority. She is full of buffoonery and has a nice
appreciation of it. When I imitate her gestures, she immediately
copies my imitation; thus we have created a mimic language of our own
and make each other understand by means of pantomime hieroglyphics.

For poetry, I think, she has far more inclination than for philosophy;
so also she likes to ride better than to walk, which last she does
only in case of necessity. The ugly cacophony of our mother-tongue
here in the north melts on her tongue into the sweet and mellow
euphony of Italian and Hindu speech. She is especially fond of rhymes,
as of everything else that is beautiful; she never grows tired of
saying and singing over and over again to herself, one after the
other, all her favorite little verses--as it were, a classic selection
of her little pleasures. Poetry binds the blossoms of all things
together into a light garland, and so little Wilhelmina talks in rhyme
about regions, times, events, persons, toys and things to eat--all
mixed together in a romantic chaos, every word a picture. And she does
all that without any qualifications or artistic transitions, which
after all only aid the understanding and impede the free flight of the
fancy.

For her fancy everything in nature is alive and animate. I often
recall with pleasure the first time she ever saw and felt of a doll.
She was not more than a year old. A divine smile lighted up her little
face, as she pressed an affectionate kiss on the painted wooden lips.
Surely there lies deep in the nature of man an impulse to eat anything
he loves, to lift to his mouth every new object and there, if
possible, reduce it to its original, constituent parts. A wholesome
thirst for knowledge impels him to seize the object, penetrate into
its interior and bite it to pieces. On the other hand, touching stops
at the surface, while grasping affords only imperfect, mediate
knowledge. Nevertheless it is a very interesting spectacle, when a
bright child catches sight of another child, to watch her feel of it
and strive to orient herself by means of those antennae of the reason.
The strange baby creeps quietly away and hides himself, while the
little philosopher follows him up and goes busily on with her manual
investigation.

But, to be sure, mind, wit and originality are just as rare in
children as in adults. All this, however, does not belong here, and is
leading me beyond the bounds of my purpose. For this sketch proposes
merely to portray an ideal, an ideal which I would ever keep before my
eyes, so that in this little artistic volume of beautiful and elegant
philosophy I may not wander away from the delicate line of propriety;
and so that you will forgive me in advance for the audacious liberties
that I am going to take, or at least you will be able to judge them
from a higher viewpoint.

Am I wrong, think you, in seeking for morality in children--for
delicacy and prettiness of thought and word?

Now look! Dear little Wilhelmina often finds inexpressible delight in
lying on her back and kicking her little legs in the air, unconcerned
about her clothes or about the judgment of the world. If Wilhelmina
does that, what is there that I may not do, since I, by Heaven, am a
man and under no obligation to be more modest than this most modest of
all feminine creatures? Oh, enviable freedom from prejudice! Do you,
too, dear friend, cast it from you, all the remnants of false modesty;
just as I have often torn off your odious clothes and scattered them
about in lovely anarchy. And if, perhaps, this little romance of my
life should seem to you too wild, just think to yourself: He is only a
child--and take his innocent wantonness with motherly forbearance and
let him caress you.

If you will not be too particular about the plausibility and inner
significance of an allegory, and are prepared for as much awkwardness
in it as one might expect in the confessions of an awkward man,
provided only that the costume is correct, I should like to relate to
you here one of my waking dreams, inasmuch as it leads to the same
result as my sketch of little Wilhelmina.[31]

AN IDYL OF IDLENESS

"Behold, I am my own teacher, and a god hath planted all sorts of
melodies in my soul." This I may boldly say, now that I am not talking
about the joyous science of poetry, but about the godlike art of
idleness. And with whom indeed should I rather talk and think about
idleness than with myself. So I spoke also in that immortal hour when
my guardian genius inspired me to preach the high gospel of true joy
and love: "Oh, idleness, idleness! Thou art the very soul of innocence
and inspiration. The blessed spirits do breathe thee, and blessed
indeed is he who hath and cherisheth thee, thou sacred jewel, thou
sole and only fragment of godlikeness brought forth by us from
Paradise."

When I thus communed with myself I was sitting, like a pensive maiden
in a thoughtless romance, by the side of a brook, watching the
wavelets as they passed. They flowed by as smooth and quiet and
sentimental as if Narcissus were about to see his reflection on the
clear surface and become intoxicated with beautiful egoism. They might
also have enticed me to lose myself deeper and deeper in the inner
perspective of my mind, were not my nature so perpetually unselfish
and practical that even my speculations never concern themselves about
anything but the general good. So I fell to thinking, among other
things, while my mind was relaxed by a comfortable laziness and my
limbs by the powerful heat, of the possibility of a lasting embrace. I
thought out ways of prolonging the time of our being together and of
avoiding in the future those childishly pathetic expressions of pain
over sudden parting, and of finding pleasure, as hitherto, in the
comic side of Fate's inevitable and unchangeable decree that separate
we must. And only after the power of my reason, laboring over the
unattainableness of my ideal, broke and relaxed, did I give myself
over to a stream of thoughts. I listened eagerly to all the motley
fairy-tales with which imagination and desire, like irresistible
sirens in my breast, charmed my senses. It did not occur to me to
criticise the seductive illusion as ignoble, although I well knew that
it was for the most part a beautiful lie. The soft music of the
fantasy seemed to fill the gaps in my longing. I gratefully observed
this and resolved to repeat for us in the future by my own
inventiveness that which good fortune had given me, and to begin for
you this poem of truth. And thus the original germ of this wonderful
growth of caprice and love came into being. And just as freely as it
sprouted did I intend it should grow up and run wild; and never from
love of order and economy shall I trim off any of its profuse
abundance of superfluous leaves and shoots.

Like a wise man of the East, I had fallen into a holy lethargy and
calm contemplation of the everlasting substances, more especially of
yours and mine. Greatness in repose, most people say, is the highest
aim of plastic art. And so, without any distinct purpose and without
any unseemly effort, I thought out and bodied forth our everlasting
substances in this dignified style. I looked back and saw how gentle
sleep overcame us in the midst of our embrace. Now and then one of us
would open an eye, smile at the sweet slumber of the other, and wake
up just enough to venture a jesting remark and a gentle caress. But
ere the wanton play thus begun was ended, we would both sink back into
the blissful lap of half-conscious self-forgetfulness.

With the greatest indignation I then thought of the bad men who would
abolish sleep. They have probably never slept, and likewise never
lived. Why are gods gods, except because they deliberately do nothing;
because they understand that art and are masters of it? And how the
poets, the sages and the saints strive to be like the gods, in that
respect as in others! How they vie with one another in praise of
solitude, of leisure, of liberal freedom from care and of inactivity!
And they are right in doing so; for everything that is good and
beautiful in life is already there and maintains itself by its own
strength. Why then this vague striving and pushing forward without
rest or goal? Can this storm and stress give form and nourishing juice
to the everliving plant of humankind, that grows and fashions itself
in quiet? This empty, restless activity is only a bad habit of the
north and brings nothing but ennui for oneself and for others. And
with what does it begin and end except with antipathy to the world in
general, which is now such a common feeling? Inexperienced vanity does
not suspect that it indicates only lack of reason and sense, but
regards it as a high-minded discontent with the universal ugliness of
the world and of life, of which it really has not yet the slightest
presentiment. It could not be otherwise; for industry and utility are
the death-angels which, with fiery swords, prevent the return of man
into Paradise. Only when composed and at ease in the holy calm of true
passivity can one think over his entire being and get a view of life
and the world.

How is it that we think and compose at all, except by surrendering
ourselves completely to the influence of some genius? Speaking and
fashioning are after all only incidentals in all arts and sciences;
thinking and imagining are the essentials, and they are only possible
in a passive state. To be sure it is intentional, arbitrary,
one-sided, but still a passive state. The more beautiful the climate
we live in, the more passive we are. Only the Italians know what it is
to walk, and only the Orientals to recline. And where do we find the
human spirit more delicately and sweetly developed than in India?
Everywhere it is the privilege of being idle that distinguishes the
noble from the common; it is the true principle of nobility. Finally,
where is the greater and more lasting enjoyment, the greater power and
will to enjoy? Among women, whose nature we call passive, or among
men, in whom the transition from sudden wrath to ennui is quicker than
that from good to evil?

Satisfied with the enjoyment of my existence, I proposed to raise
myself above all its finite, and therefore contemptible, aims and
objects. Nature itself seemed to confirm me in this undertaking, and,
as it were, to exhort me in many-voiced choral songs to further
idleness. And now suddenly a new vision presented itself. I imagined
myself invisible in a theatre. On one side I saw all the well-known
boards, lights and painted scenery; on the other a vast throng of
spectators, a veritable ocean of curious faces and sympathetic eyes.
In the foreground, on the right, was Prometheus, in the act of
fashioning men. He was bound by a long chain and was working very fast
and very hard. Beside him stood several monstrous fellows who were
constantly whipping and goading him on. There was also an abundance of
glue and other materials about, and he was getting fire out of a large
coal-pan. On the other side was a figure of the deified Hercules, with
Hebe in his lap. On the stage in the foreground a crowd of youthful
forms were laughing and running about, all of whom were very happy and
did not merely seem to live. The youngest looked like amorettes, the
older ones like images of women. But each one of them had his own
peculiar manner and a striking originality of expression; and they all
bore a certain resemblance to the Christian painters' and poets' idea
of the devil--one might have called them little Satans. One of the
smallest said:

"He who does not despise, cannot respect; one can only do either
boundlessly, and good tone consists only in playing with men. And so
is not a certain amount of malice an essential part of harmonious
culture?"

"Nothing is more absurd," said another, "than when the moralists
reproach you about your egoism. They are altogether wrong; for what
god, who is not his own god, can deserve respect from man? You are, to
be sure, mistaken in thinking that you have an ego; but if, in the
meantime, you identify it with your body, your name and your property,
you thereby at least make ready a place for it, in case by any chance
an ego should come."

"And this Prometheus you can all hold in deep reverence," said one of
the tallest. "He has made you all and is constantly making more like
you."

And in fact just as soon as each new man was finished, the devils put
him down with all the rest who were looking on, and immediately it was
impossible to distinguish him from the others, so much alike were they
all.

"The mistake he makes is in his method," continued the Sataniscus.
"How can one want to do nothing but fashion men? Those are not the
right tools he has."

And thereat he pointed to a rough figure of the God of the Gardens,
which stood in the back part of the stage between an Amor and a very
beautiful naked Venus.

"In regard to that our friend Hercules had better views, who could
occupy fifty maidens in a single night for the welfare of humanity,
and all of them heroic maids too. He did those labors of his, too, and
slew many a furious monster. But the goal of his career was always a
noble leisure, and for that reason he has gained entrance to Olympus.
Not so, however, with this Prometheus, the inventor of education and
enlightenment. To him you owe it that you can never be quiet and are
always on the move. Hence it is also, when you have absolutely nothing
to do, that you foolishly aspire to develop character and observe and
study one another. It is a vile business. But Prometheus, for having
misled man to toil, now has to toil himself, whether he wants to or
not. He will soon get very tired of it, and never again will he be
freed from his chains."

When the spectators heard this, they broke out into tears and jumped
upon the stage to assure their father of their heartfelt sympathy. And
thus the allegorical comedy vanished.

CONSTANCY AND PLAY

"Of course you are alone, Lucinda?"

"I do not know--perhaps--I think--"

"Please! please! dear Lucinda. You know very well that when little
Wilhelmina says 'please! please!' and you do not do at once what she
wants, she cries louder and louder until she gets her way."

"So it was to tell me that that you rushed into my room so out of
breath and frightened me so?"

"Do not be angry with me, sweet lady, I beg of you! Oh, my child!
Lovely creature! Be a good girl and do not reproach me!"

"Well, I suppose you will soon be asking me to close the door?"

"So? I will answer that directly. But first a nice long kiss, and then
another, and then some more, and after that more still."

"Oh! You must not kiss me that way--if you want me to keep my senses!
It makes one think bad thoughts."

"You deserve to. Are you really capable of laughing, my peevish lady?
Who would have thought so? But I know very well you laugh only because
you can laugh at me. You do not do it from pleasure. For who ever
looked so solemn as you did just now--like a Roman senator? And you
might have looked ravishing, dear child, with those holy dark eyes,
and your long black hair shining in the evening sunlight--if you had
not sat there like a judge on the bench. Heavens! I actually started
back when I saw how you were looking at me. A little more and I should
have forgotten the most important thing, and I am all confused. But
why do you not talk? Am I disagreeable to you?"

"Well, that _is_ funny, you surly Julius. As if you ever let any one
say anything! Your tenderness flows today like a spring shower."

"Like your talk in the night."

"Oh sir, let my neckcloth be."

"Let it be? Not a bit of it! What is the use of a miserable, stupid
neckcloth? Prejudice! Away with it!"

"If only no one disturbs us!"

"There she goes again, looking as if she wanted to cry! You are well,
are you not? What makes your heart beat so? Come, let me kiss it! Oh,
yes, you spoke a moment ago about closing the door. Very well, but not
that way, not here. Come, let us run down through the garden to the
summer-house, where the flowers are. Come! Oh, do not make me wait
so!"

"As you wish, sir."

"I cannot understand--you are so odd today."

"Now, my dear friend, if you are going to begin moralizing, we might
just as well go back again. I prefer to give you just one more kiss
and run on ahead of you."

"Oh, not so fast, Lucinda! My moralizing will not overtake you. You
will fall, love!"

"I did not wish to make you wait any longer. Now we are here. And you
came pretty fast yourself."

"And you are very obedient! But this is no time to quarrel."

"Be still! Be still!"

"See! Here is a soft, cosy place, with everything as it should be.
This time, if you do not--well, there will be no excuse for you."

"Will you not at least lower the curtain first?"

"You are right. The light will be much more charming so. How beautiful
your skin shines in the red light! Why are you so cold, Lucinda?"

"Dearest, put the hyacinths further away, their odor sickens me."

"How solid and firm, how soft and smooth! That is harmonious
development."

"Oh no, Julius! Please don't! I beg of you! I will not allow it!"

"May I not feel * * *. Oh, let me listen to the beating of your heart!
Let me cool my lips in the snow of your bosom! Do not push me away! I
will have my revenge! Hold me tighter! Kiss upon kiss! No, not a lot
of short ones! One everlasting one! Take my whole soul and give me
yours! Oh, beautiful and glorious Together! Are we not children? Tell
me! How could you be so cold and indifferent at first, and then
afterward draw me closer to you, making a face the while as if
something were hurting you, as if you were reluctant to return my
ardor? What is the matter? Are you crying? Do not hide your face!
Look at me, dearest!"

"Oh, let me lie here beside you--I cannot look into your eyes. It was
very naughty of me, Julius! Can you ever forgive me, darling? You will
not desert me, will you? Can you still love me?"

"Come to me, sweet lady--here, close to my heart. Do you remember how
nice it was, not long ago, when you cried in my arms, and how it
relieved you? Tell me what the matter is now. You are not angry with
me?"

"I am angry with myself. I could beat myself! To be sure, it would
have served you right. And if ever again, sir, you conduct yourself so
like a husband, I shall take better care that you find me like a wife.
You may be assured of that. I cannot help laughing, it took me so by
surprise. But do not imagine, sir, that you are so terribly
lovable--this time it was by my own will that I broke my resolution."

"The first will and the last is always the best. It is just because
women usually say less than they mean that they sometimes do more than
they intend. That is no more than right; good will leads you women
astray. Good will is a very nice thing, but the bad part of it is that
it is always there, even when you do not want it."

"That is a beautiful mistake. But you men are full of bad will and you
persist in it."

"Oh no! If we seem to be obstinate, it is only because we cannot be
otherwise, not because our will is bad. We cannot, because we do not
will properly. Hence it is not bad will, but lack of will. And to whom
is the fault attributable but to you women, who have such a
super-abundance of good will and keep it all to yourselves, unwilling
to share it with us. But it happened quite against my will that we
fell a-talking about will--I am sure I do not know why we are doing
it. Still, it is much better for me to vent my feelings by talking
than by smashing the beautiful chinaware. It gave me a chance to
recover from my astonishment over your unexpected compunction, your
excellent discourse, and your laudable resolution. Really, this is one
of the strangest pranks that you have ever given me the honor of
witnessing; so far as I can remember, it has been several weeks since
you have talked by daylight in such solemn and unctuous periods as you
used in your little sermon today. Would you mind translating your
meaning into prose?"

"Really, have you forgotten already about yesterday evening and the
interesting company? Of course I did not know that."

"Oh! And so that is why you are so out of sorts--because I talked with
Amalia too much?"

"Talk as much as you please with anybody you please. But you must be
nice to me--that I insist on."

"You spoke so very loud; the stranger was standing close by, and I was
nervous and did not know what else to do."

"Except to be rude in your awkwardness."

"Forgive me! I plead guilty. You know how embarrassed I am with you in
society. It always hurts me to talk with you in the presence of
others."

"How nicely he manages to excuse himself!"

"The next time do not pass it over! Look out and be strict with me.
But see what you have done! Isn't it a desecration? Oh no! It isn't
possible, it is more than that. You will have to confess it--you were
jealous."

"All the evening you rudely forgot about me. I began to write it all
out for you today, but tore it up."

"And then, when I came?"

"Your being in such an awful hurry annoyed me."

"Could you love me if I were not so inflammable and electric? Are you
not so too? Have you forgotten our first embrace? In one minute love
comes and lasts for ever, or it does not come at all. Or do you think
that joy is accumulated like money and other material things, by
consistent behavior? Great happiness is like music coming out of the
air--it appears and surprises us and then vanishes again."

"And thus it was you appeared to me, darling! But you will not vanish,
will you? You shall not! I say it!"

"I will not, I will stay with you now and for all time. Listen! I feel
a strong desire to hold a long discourse with you on jealousy. But
first we ought to conciliate the offended gods."

"Rather, first the discourse and afterward the gods."

"You are right, we are not yet worthy of them. It takes you a long
time to get over it after you have been disturbed and annoyed about
something. How nice it is that you are so sensitive!"

"I am no more sensitive than you are--only in a different way."

"Well then, tell me! I am not jealous--how does it happen that you
are?"

"Am I, unless I have cause to be? Answer me that!"

"I do not know what you mean."

"Well, I am not really jealous. But tell me: What were you talking
about all yesterday evening?"

"So? It is Amalia of whom you are jealous? Is it possible? That
nonsense? I did not talk about anything with her, and that was the
funny part of it. Did I not talk just as long with Antonio, whom a
short time ago I used to see almost every day?"

"You want me to believe that you talk in the same way with the
coquettish Amalia that you do with the quiet, serious Antonio. Of
course! It is nothing more than a case of clear, pure friendship!"

"Oh no, you must not believe that--I do not wish you to. That is not
true. How can you credit me with being so foolish? For it is a very
foolish thing indeed for two people of opposite sex to form and
conceive any such relation as pure friendship. In Amalia's case it is
nothing more than playing that I love her. I should not care anything
about her at all, if she were not a little coquettish.

"Would that there were more like her in our circle! Just in fun, one
must really love all the ladies."

"Julius, I believe you are going completely crazy!"

"Now understand me aright--I do not really mean all of them, but all
of them who are lovable and happen to come one's way."

"That is nothing more than what the French call _galanterie_ and
_coquetterie_."

"Nothing more--except that I think of it as something beautiful and
clever. And then men ought to know what the ladies are doing and what
they want; and that is rarely the case. A fine pleasantry is apt to be
transformed in their hands into coarse seriousness."

"This loving just in fun is not at all a funny thing to look at."

"That is not the fault of the fun--it is just miserable jealousy.
Forgive me, dearest--I do not wish to get excited, but I must confess
that I cannot understand how any one can be jealous. For lovers do not
offend each other, but do things to please each other. Hence it must
come from uncertainty, absence of love, and unfaithfulness to oneself.
For me happiness is assured, and love is one with constancy. To be
sure, it is a different matter with people who love in the ordinary
way. The man loves only the race in his wife, the woman in her husband
only the degree of his ability and social position, and both love in
their children only their creation and their property. Under those
circumstances fidelity comes to be a merit, a virtue, and jealousy is
in order. For they are quite right in tacitly believing that there are
many like themselves, and that one man is about as good as the next,
and none of them worth very much."

"You look upon jealousy, then, as nothing but empty vulgarity and lack
of culture."

"Yes, or rather as mis-culture and perversity, which is just as bad or
still worse. According to that system the best thing for a man to do
is to marry of set purpose out of sheer obligingness and courtesy.
And certainly for such folk it must be no less convenient than
entertaining, to live out their lives together in a state of mutual
contempt. Women especially are capable of acquiring a genuine passion
for marriage; and when one of them finds it to her liking, it easily
happens that she marries half a dozen in succession, either
spiritually or bodily. And the opportunity is never wanting for a man
and wife to be delicate for a change, and talk a great deal about
friendship."

"You used to talk as if you regarded us women as incapable of
friendship. Is that really your opinion?"

"Yes, but the incapability, I think, lies more in the friendship than
in you. Whatever you love at all, you love indivisibly; for instance,
a sweetheart or a baby. With you even a sisterly relation would assume
this character."

"You are right there."

"For you friendship is too many-sided and one-sided. It has to be
absolutely spiritual and have definite, fixed bounds. This boundedness
would, only in a more refined way, be just as fatal to your character
as would sheer sensuality without love. For society, on the other
hand, it is too serious, too profound, too holy."

"Cannot people, then, talk with each other regardless of whether they
are men or women?"

"That might make society rather serious. At best, it might form an
interesting club. You understand what I mean: it would be a great
gain, if people could talk freely, and were neither too wild nor yet
too stiff. The finest and best part would always be lacking--that
which is everywhere the spirit and soul of good society--namely, that
playing with love and that love of play which, without the finer
sense, easily degenerates into jocosity. And for that reason I defend
the ambiguities too."

"Do you do that in play or by way of joke?"

"No! No! I do it in all seriousness."

"But surely not as seriously and solemnly as Pauline and her lover?"

"Heaven forbid! I really believe they would ring the church-bell when
they embrace each other, if it were only proper. Oh, it is true, my
friend, man is naturally a serious animal. We must work against this
shameful and abominable propensity with all our strength, and attack
it from all sides. To that end ambiguities are also good, except that
they are so seldom ambiguous. When they are not and allow only one
interpretation, that is not immoral, it is only obtrusive and vulgar.
Frivolous talk must be spiritual and dainty and modest, so far as
possible; for the rest as wicked as you choose."

"That is well enough, but what place have your ambiguities in
society?"

"To keep the conversations fresh, just as salt keeps food fresh. The
question is not _why_ we say them, but _how_ we say them. It would be
rude indeed to talk with a charming lady as if she were a sexless
Amphibium. It is a duty and an obligation to allude constantly to what
she is and is going to be. It is really a comical situation,
considering how indelicate, stiff and guilty society is, to be an
innocent girl."

"That reminds me of the famous Buffo, who, while he was always making
others laugh, was so sad and solemn himself."

"Society is a chaos which can be brought into harmonious order only by
wit. If one does not jest and toy with the elements of passion, it
forms thick masses and darkens everything."

"Then there must be passion in the air here, for it is almost dark."

"Surely you have closed your eyes, lady of my heart! Otherwise the
light in them would brighten the whole room."

"I wonder, Julius, who is the more passionate, you or I?"

"Both of us are passionate enough. If that were not so, I should not
want to live. And see! That is why I could reconcile myself to
jealousy. There is everything in love--friendship, pleasant
intercourse, sensuality, and even passion. Everything must be in it,
and one thing must strengthen, mitigate, enliven and elevate the
other."

"Let me embrace you, darling."

"But only on one condition can I allow you to be jealous. I have often
felt that a little bit of cultured and refined anger does not
ill-become a man. Perhaps it is the same way with you in regard to
jealousy."

"Agreed! Then I do not have to abjure it altogether."

"If only you always manifest it as prettily and as wittily as you did
today."

"Did I? Well, if next time you get into so pretty and witty a passion
about it, I shall say so and praise you for it."

"Are we not worthy now to conciliate the offended gods?"

"Yes, if your discourse is entirely finished; otherwise give me the
rest." [32]

METAMORPHOSES

The childlike spirit slumbers in sweet repose, and the kiss of the
loving goddess arouses in him only light dreams. The rose of shame
tinges his cheek; he smiles and seems to open his lips, but he does
not awaken and he knows not what is going on within him. Not until
after the charm of the external world, multiplied and reinforced by an
inner echo, has completely permeated his entire being, does he open
his eyes, reveling in the sun, and recall to mind the magic world
which he saw in the gleam of the pale moonlight. The wondrous voice
that awakened him is still audible, but instead of answering him it
echoes back from external objects. And if in childish timidity he
tries to escape from the mystery of his existence, seeking the unknown
with beautiful curiosity, he hears everywhere only the echo of his own
longing.

Thus the eye sees in the mirror of the river only the reflection of
the blue sky, the green banks, the waving trees, and the form of the
absorbed gazer. When a heart, full of unconscious love, finds itself
where it hoped to find love in return, it is struck with amazement.
But we soon allow ourselves to be lured and deceived by the charm of
the view into loving our own reflection. Then has the moment of
winsomeness come, the soul fashions its envelop again, and breathes
the final breath of perfection through form. The spirit loses itself
in its clear depth and finds itself again, like Narcissus, as a
flower.

Love is higher than winsomeness, and how soon would the flower of
Beauty wither without the complementary birth of requited love. This
moment the kiss of Amor and Psyche is the rose of life. The inspired
Diotima revealed to Socrates only a half of love. Love is not merely a
quiet longing for the infinite; it is also the holy enjoyment of a
beautiful present. It is not merely a mixture, a transition from the
mortal to the immortal, but it is a complete union of both. There is a
pure love, an indivisible and simple feeling, without the slightest
interference of restless striving. Every one gives the same as he
takes, one just like the other, all is balanced and completed in
itself, like the everlasting kiss of the divine children.

By the magic of joy the grand chaos of struggling forms dissolves into
a harmonious sea of oblivion. When the ray of happiness breaks in the
last tear of longing, Iris is already adorning the eternal brow of
heaven with the delicate tints of her many-colored rainbow. Sweet
dreams come true, and the pure forms of a new generation rise up out
of Lethe's waves, beautiful as Anadyomene, and exhibit their limbs in
the place of the vanished darkness. In golden youth and innocence time
and man change in the divine peace of nature, and evermore Aurora
comes back more beautiful than before.

Not hate, as the wise say, but love, separates people and fashions the
world; and only in its light can we find this and observe it. Only in
the answer of its Thou can every I completely feel its endless unity.
Then the understanding tries to unfold the inner germ of godlikeness,
presses closer and closer to the goal, is full of eagerness to fashion
the soul, as an artist fashions his one beloved masterpiece. In the
mysteries of culture the spirit sees the play and the laws of caprice
and of life. The statue of Pygmalion moves; a joyous shudder comes
over the astonished artist in the consciousness of his own
immortality, and, as the eagle bore Ganymede, a divine hope bears him
on its mighty pinion up to Olympus.

TWO LETTERS

I

Is it then really and truly so, what I have so often quietly wished
for and have never dared to express? I see the light of holy joy
beaming on your face, and you modestly give me the beautiful promise.
You are to be a mother!

Farewell, Longing, and thou, gentle Grief, farewell; the world is
beautiful again. Now I love the earth, and the rosy dawn of a new
spring lifts its radiant head over my immortal existence. If I had
some laurel, I would bind it around your brow to consecrate you to new
and serious duties; for there begins now for you another life.
Therefore, give to me the wreath of myrtle. It befits me to adorn
myself with the symbol of youthful innocence, since I now wander in
Nature's Paradise. Hitherto all that held us together was love and
passion. Now Nature has united us more firmly with an indissoluble
bond. Nature is the only true priestess of joy; she alone knows how to
tie the nuptial knot, not with empty words that bring no blessing, but
with fresh blossoms and living fruits from the fullness of her power.
In the endless succession of new forms creating Time plaits the wreath
of Eternity, and blessed is he whom Fortune selects to be healthy and
bear fruit. We are not sterile flowers among other living beings; the
gods do not wish to exclude us from the great concatenation of living
things, and are giving us plain tokens of their will.

So let us deserve our position in this beautiful world, let us bear
the immortal fruits which the spirit chooses to create, and let us
take our place in the ranks of humanity. I will establish myself on
the earth, I will sow and reap for the future as well as for the
present. I will utilize all my strength during the day, and in the
evening I will refresh myself in the arms of the mother, who will be
eternally my bride. Our son, the demure little rogue, will play around
us, and help me invent mischief at your expense.

       *       *       *       *       *

You are right; we must certainly buy the little estate. I am glad that
you went right ahead with the arrangements, without waiting for my
decision. Order everything just as you please; but, if I may say so,
do not have it too beautiful, nor yet too useful, and, above all
things, not too elaborate.

If you only arrange it all in accordance with your own judgment and do
not allow yourself to be talked into the proper and conventional,
everything will be quite right, and the way I want it to be; and I
shall derive immense enjoyment from the beautiful property. Hitherto I
have lived in a thoughtless way and without any feeling of ownership;
I have tripped lightly over the earth and have never felt at home on
it. Now the sanctuary of marriage has given me the rights of
citizenship in the state of nature. I am no longer suspended in the
empty void of general inspiration; I like the friendly restraint, I
see the useful in a new light, and find everything truly useful that
unites everlasting love with its object--in short everything that
serves to bring about a genuine marriage. External things imbue me
with profound respect, if, in their way, they are good for something;
and you will some day hear me enthusiastically praise the blessedness
of home and the merits of domesticity.

I understand now your preference for country life, I like you for it
and feel as you do about it. I can no longer endure to see these
ungainly masses of everything that is corrupt and diseased in mankind;
and when I think about them in a general way they seem to me like wild
animals bound by a chain, so that they cannot even vent their rage
freely. In the country, people can live side by side without
offensively crowding one another. If everything were as it ought to
be, beautiful mansions and cosy cottages would there adorn the green
earth, as do the fresh shrubs and flowers, and create a garden worthy
of the gods.

To be sure we shall find in the country the vulgarity that prevails
everywhere. There ought really to be only two social classes, the
culturing and the cultured, the masculine and the feminine; instead of
all artificial society, there should be a grand marriage of these two
classes and universal brotherhood of all individuals. In place of that
we see a vast amount of coarseness and, as an insignificant exception,
a few who are perverted by a wrong education. But in the open air the
one thing which is beautiful and good cannot be suppressed by the bad
masses and their show of omnipotence.

Do you know what period of our love seems to me particularly
beautiful? To be sure, it is all beautiful and pure in my memory, and
I even think of the first days with a sort of melancholy delight. But
to me the most cherished period of all is the last few days, when we
were living together on the estate. Another reason for living again in
the country.

One thing more. Do not have the grapevines trimmed too close. I say
this only because you thought they were growing too fast and
luxuriantly, and because it might occur to you to want a perfectly
clear view of the house on all sides. Also the green grass-plot must
stay as it is; that is where the baby is to crawl and play and roll
about.

Is it not true that the pain my sad letter caused you is now entirely
compensated? In the midst of all these giddy joys and hopes I can no
longer torment myself with care. You yourself suffered no greater pain
from it than I. But what does that matter, if you love me, really love
me in your very heart, without any reservation of alien thought? What
pain were worth mentioning when we gain by it a deeper and more fervid
consciousness of our love? And so, I am sure, you feel about it too.
Everything I am telling you, you knew long ago. There is absolutely no
delight, no love in me, the cause of which does not lie concealed
somewhere in the depths of your being, you everlastingly blessed
creature!

Misunderstandings are sometimes good, in that they lead us to talk of
what is holiest. The differences that now and then seem to arise are
not in us, not in either of us; they are merely between us and on the
surface, and I hope you will take this occasion to drive them off and
away from you.

And what is the cause of such little repulsions except our mutual and
insatiable desire to love and be loved? And without this
insatiableness there is no love. We live and love to annihilation. And
if it is love that first develops us into true and perfect beings,
that is the very life of life, then it need not fear opposition any
more than it fears life itself or humanity; peace will come to it only
after the conflict of forces.

I feel happy indeed that I love a woman who is capable of loving as
you do. "As you do" is a stronger expression than any superlative. How
can you praise my words, when I, without wishing to, hit upon some
that hurt you? I should like to say, I write too well to be able to
describe to you my inward state of mind. Oh, dearest! Believe me,
there is no question in you that has not its answer in me. Your love
cannot be any more everlasting than mine. Admirable, however, is your
beautiful jealousy of my fancy and its wild flights. That indicates
rightly the boundlessness of your constancy, and leads me to hope that
your jealousy is on the point of destroying itself by its own excess.

This sort of fancy--committed to writing--is no longer needed. I shall
soon be with you. I am holier and more composed than I was. I can only
see you in my mind and stand always before you. You yourself feel
everything without my telling you, and beam with joy, thinking partly
of the man you love and partly of your baby.

       *       *       *       *       *

Do you know, while I have been writing to you, no memory could have
profaned you; to me you are as everlastingly pure as the Holy Virgin
of the Immaculate Conception, and you have wanted nothing to make you
like the Madonna except the Child. Now you have that, now it is there
and a reality. I shall soon be carrying him on my arm, telling him
fairy-tales, giving him serious instruction and lessons as to how a
young man has to conduct himself in the world.

And then my mind reverts to the mother. I give you an endless kiss; I
watch your bosom heave with longing, and feel the mysterious throbbing
of your heart. When we are together again we will think of our youth,
and I will keep the present holy. You are right indeed; one hour later
is infinitely later.

It is cruel that I cannot be with you right now. From sheer impatience
I do all sorts of foolish things. From morning until night I do
nothing but rove around here in this glorious region. Sometimes I
hasten my steps, as if I had something terribly important to do, and
presently find myself in some place where I had not the least desire
to be. I make gestures as if I were delivering a forcible speech; I
think I am alone and suddenly find myself among people. Then I have to
smile when I realize how absent-minded I was.

I cannot write very long either; pretty soon I want to go out again
and dream away the beautiful evening on the bank of the quiet stream.

Today I forgot among other things that it was time to send my letter
off. Oh well, so much the more joy and excitement will you have when
you receive it.

       *       *       *       *       *

People are really very good to me. They not only forgive me for not
taking any part in their conversation, but also for capriciously
interrupting it. In a quiet way they seem even to derive hearty
pleasure from my joy. Especially Juliana. I tell her very little about
you, but she has a good intuition and surmises the rest. Certainly
there is nothing more amiable than pure, unselfish delight in love.

I really believe that I should love my friends here, even if they were
less admirable than they are. I feel a great change in my being, a
general tenderness and sweet warmth in all the powers of my soul and
spirit, like the beautiful exhaustion of the senses that follows the
highest life. And yet it is anything but weakness. On the contrary, I
know that from now on I shall be able to do everything pertaining to
my vocation with more liking and with fresher vigor. I have never felt
more confidence and courage to work as a man among men, to lead a
heroic life, and in joyous fraternal cooeperation to act for eternity.

That is my virtue; thus it becomes me to be like the gods. Yours is
gently to reveal, like Nature's priestess of joy, the mystery of love;
and, surrounded by worthy sons and daughters, to hallow this beautiful
life into a holy festival.

       *       *       *       *       *

I often worry about your health. You dress yourself too lightly and
are fond of the evening air; those are dangerous habits and are not
the only ones which you must break. Remember that a new order of
things is beginning for you. Hitherto I have praised your frivolity,
because it was opportune and in keeping with the rest of your nature.
I thought it feminine for you to play with Fortune, to flout caution,
to destroy whole masses of your life and environment. Now, however,
there is something that you must always bear in mind, and regard
above everything else. You must gradually train yourself--in the
allegorical sense, of course.

       *       *       *       *       *

In this letter everything is all mixed up in a motley confusion, just
as praying and eating and rascality and ecstasy are mixed up in life.
Well, good night. Oh, why is it that I cannot at least be with you in
my dreams--be really with you and dream in you. For when I merely
dream of you, I am always alone. You wonder why you do not dream of
me, since you think of me so much. Dearest, do you not also have your
long spells of silence about me?

       *       *       *       *       *

Amalia's letter gave me great pleasure. To be sure, I see from its
flattering tone that she does not consider me as an exception to the
men who need flattery. I do not like that at all. It would not be fair
to ask her to recognize my worth in our way. It is enough that there
is one who understands me. In her way she appreciates my worth so
beautifully. I wonder if she knows what adoration is? I doubt it, and
am sorry for her if she does not. Aren't you?

       *       *       *       *       *

Today in a French book about two lovers I came across the expression:
"They were the universe to each other." It struck me as at once
pathetic and comical, how that thoughtless phrase, put there merely as
a hyperbolical figure of speech, in our case was so literally true.
Still it is also literally true for a French passion of that kind.
They are the universe to each other, because they lose sense for
everything else. Not so with us. Everything we once loved we still
love all the more ardently. The world's meaning has now dawned upon
us. Through me you have learned to know the infinitude of the human
mind, and through you I have come to understand marriage and life, and
the gloriousness of all things.

Everything is animate for me, speaks to me, and everything is holy.
When people love each other as we do, human nature reverts to its
original godliness. The pleasure of the lover's embrace becomes
again--what it is in general--the holiest marvel of Nature. And that
which for others is only something to be rightly ashamed of, becomes
for us, what in and of itself it is, the pure fire of the noblest
potency of life.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are three things which our child shall certainly have--a great
deal of wanton spirit, a serious face, and a certain amount of
predisposition for art. Everything else I await with quiet
resignation. Son or daughter, as for that I have no special
preference. But about the child's bringing-up I have thought a great,
great deal. We must carefully avoid, I think, what is called
"education;" try harder to avoid it than, say, three sensible fathers
try, by anxious thought, to lace up their progeny from the very cradle
in the bands of narrow morality.

I have made some plans which I think will please you. In doing so I
have carefully considered your ideas. But you must not neglect the
Art! For your daughter, if it should be a daughter, would you prefer
portrait-or landscape-painting?

       *       *       *       *       *

You foolish girl, with your external things! You want to know what is
going on around me, and where and when and how I live and amuse
myself? Just look around you, on the chair beside you, in your arms,
close to your heart--that is where I am. Does not a ray of longing
strike you, creep up with sweet warmth to your heart, until it reaches
your mouth, where it would fain overflow in kisses?

And now you actually boast because you write me such warm letters,
while I only write to you often, you pedantic creature. At first I
always think of you as you describe it--that I am walking with you,
looking at you, listening to you, talking with you. Then again it is
sometimes quite different, especially when I wake up at night.

How can you have any doubt about the worthiness and divineness of
your letters? The last one sparkles and beams as if it had bright
eyes. It is not mere writing--it is music. I believe that if I were to
stay away from you a few more months, your style would become
absolutely perfect. Meanwhile I think it advisable for us to forget
about writing and style, and no longer to postpone the highest and
loveliest of studies. I have practically decided to set out in eight
days.

II

It is a remarkable thing that man does not stand in great awe of
himself. The children are justified, when they peep so curiously and
timidly at a company of unknown faces. Each individual atom of
everlasting time is capable of comprising a world of joy, and at the
same time of opening up a fathomless abyss of pain and suffering. I
understand now the old fairy-tale about the man whom the sorcerer
allowed to live a great many years in a few moments. For I know by my
own experience the terrible omnipotence of the fantasy.

Since the last letter from your sister--it is three days now--I have
undergone the sufferings of an entire life, from the bright sunlight
of glowing youth to the pale moonlight of sagacious old age. Every
little detail she wrote about your sickness, taken with what I had
already gleaned from the doctor and had observed myself, confirmed my
suspicion that it was far more dangerous than you thought; indeed no
longer dangerous, but decided, past hope. Lost in this thought and my
strength entirely exhausted on account of the impossibility of
hurrying to your side, my state of mind was really very disconsolate.
Now for the first time I understand what it really was, being new-born
by the joyful news that you are well again. For you are well again
now, as good as entirely well--that I infer from all the reports, with
the same confidence with which a few days ago I pronounced our
death-sentence.

I did not think of it as about to happen in the future, or even in
the present. Everything was already past. For a long time you had been
wrapt in the bosom of the cold earth; flowers had started to grow on
the beloved grave, and my tears had already begun to flow more gently.
Mute and alone I stood, and saw nothing but the features I had loved
and the sweet glances of the expressive eyes. The picture remained
motionless before me; now and then the pale face smiled and seemed
asleep, just as it had looked the last time I saw it. Then of a sudden
the different memories all became confused; with unbelievable rapidity
the outlines changed, reassumed their first form, and transformed
themselves again and again, until the wild vision vanished. Only your
holy eyes remained in the empty space and hung there motionless, even
as the friendly stars shine eternally over our poverty. I gazed
fixedly at the black lights, which shone with a well-known smile in
the night of my grief. Now a piercing pain from dark suns burned me
with an insupportable glare, now a beautiful radiance hovered about as
if to entice me. Then I seemed to feel a fresh breath of morning air
fan me; I held my head up and cried aloud: "Why should you torment
yourself? In a few minutes you can be with her!"

I was already hastening to you, when suddenly a new thought held me
back and I said to my spirit: "Unworthy man, you cannot even endure
the trifling dissonances of this ordinary life, and yet you regard
yourself as ready for and worthy of a higher life? Go away and do and
suffer as your calling is, and then present yourself again when your
orders have been executed."

Is it not to you also remarkable how everything on this earth moves
toward the centre, how orderly everything is, how insignificant and
trivial? So it has always seemed to me. And for that reason I
suspect--if I am not mistaken, I have already imparted my suspicion to
you--that the next life will be larger, and in the good as well as in
the bad, stronger, wilder, bolder and more tremendous.

The duty of living had conquered, and I found myself again amid the
tumult of human life, and of my and its weak efforts and faulty deeds.
A feeling of horror came over me, as when a person suddenly finds
himself alone in the midst of immeasurable mountains of ice.
Everything about me and in me was cold and strange, and even my tears
froze.

Wonderful worlds appeared and vanished before me in my uneasy dream. I
was sick and suffered great pain, but I loved my sickness and welcomed
the suffering. I hated everything earthly and was glad to see it all
punished and destroyed. I felt so alone and so strangely. And as a
delicate spirit often grows melancholy in the very lap of happiness
over its own joy, and at the very acme of its existence becomes
conscious of the futility of it all, so did I regard my suffering with
mysterious pleasure. I regarded it as the symbol of life in general; I
believed that I was seeing and feeling the everlasting discord by
means of which all things come into being and exist, and the lovely
forms of refined culture seemed dead and trivial to me in comparison
with this monstrous world of infinite strength and of unending
struggle and warfare, even into the most hidden depths of existence.

On account of this remarkable feeling sickness acquired the character
of a peculiar world complete in itself. I felt that its mysterious
life was richer and deeper than the vulgar health of the dreaming
sleep-walkers all around me. And with the sickliness, which was not at
all unpleasant, this feeling also clung to me and completely separated
me from other men, just as I was sundered from the earth by the
thought that your nature and my love had been too sacred not to take
speedy flight from earth and its coarse ties. It seemed to me that all
was right so, and that your unavoidable death was nothing more than a
gentle awakening after a light sleep.

I too thought that I was awake when I saw your picture, which evermore
transfigured itself into a cheerful diffused purity. Serious and yet
charming, quite you and yet no longer you, the divine form irradiated
by a wonderful light! Now it was like the terrible gleam of visible
omnipotence, now like a soft ray of golden childhood. With long, still
drafts my spirit drank from the cool spring of pure passion and became
secretly intoxicated with it. And in this blissful drunkenness I felt
a spiritual worthiness of a peculiar kind, because every earthly
sentiment was entirely strange to me, and the feeling never left me
that I was consecrated to death.

The years passed slowly by, and deeds and works advanced laboriously
to their goal, one after the other--a goal that seemed as little mine
as the deeds and works seemed to be what they are called. To me they
were merely holy symbols, and everything brought me back to my one
Beloved, who was the mediatrix between my dismembered ego and the one
eternal and indivisible humanity; all existence was an uninterrupted
divine service of solitary love.

Finally I became conscious that it was now nearly over. The brow was
no longer smooth and the locks were becoming gray. My career was
ended, but not completed. The best strength of life was gone, and
still Art and Virtue stood ever unattainable before me. I should have
despaired, had I not perceived and idolized both in you, gracious
Madonna, and you and your gentle godliness in myself.

Then you appeared to me, beckoning with the summons of Death. An
earnest longing for you and for freedom seized me; I yearned for my
dear old fatherland, and was about to shake off the dust of travel,
when I was suddenly called back to life by the promise and reassurance
of your recovery.

Then I became conscious that I had been dreaming; I shuddered at all
the significant suggestions and similarities, and stood anxiously by
the boundless deep of this inward truth.

Do you know what has become most obvious to me as a result of it
all? First, that I idolize you, and that it is a good thing that I do
so. We two are one, and only in that way does a human being become one
and a complete entity, that is, by regarding and poetically conceiving
himself as the centre of everything and the spirit of the world. But
why poetically conceive, since we find the germ of everything in
ourselves, and yet remain forever only a fragment of ourselves?

And then I now know that death can also be felt as beautiful and
sweet. I understand how the free creature can quietly long in the
bloom of all its strength for dissolution and freedom, and can
joyfully entertain the thought of return as a morning sun of hope.

A REFLECTION

It has often struck my mind how extraordinary it is that sensible and
dignified people can keep on, with such great seriousness and such
never-tiring industry, forever playing the little game in perpetual
rotation--a game which is of no use whatever and has no definite
object, although it is perhaps the earliest of all games. Then my
spirit inquired what Nature, who everywhere thinks so profoundly and
employs her cunning in such a large way, and who, instead of talking
wittily, behaves wittily, may think of those naive intimations which
refined speakers designate only by their namelessness.

And this namelessness itself has an equivocal significance. The more
modest and modern one is, the more fashionable does it become to put
an immodest interpretation upon it. For the old gods, on the contrary,
all life had a certain classic dignity whereby even the immodest
heroic art is rendered lifelike. The mass of such works and the great
inventive power displayed in them settles the question of rank and
nobility in the realm of mythology.

This number and this power are all right, but they are not the
highest. Where does the longed-for ideal lie concealed? Or does the
aspiring heart evermore find in the highest of all plastic arts only
new manners and never a perfected style?

Thinking has a peculiarity of its own in that, next to itself, it
loves to think about something which it can think about forever. For
that reason the life of the cultured and thinking man is a constant
study and meditation on the beautiful riddle of his destiny. He is
always defining it in a new way, for just that is his entire destiny,
to be defined and to define. Only in the search itself does the human
mind discover the secret that it seeks.

But what, then, is it that defines or is defined? Among men it is the
nameless. And what is the nameless among women?--The Indefinite.

The Indefinite is more mysterious, but the Definite has greater magic
power. The charming confusion of the Indefinite is more romantic, but
the noble refinement of the Definite has more of genius. The beauty of
the Indefinite is perishable, like the life of the flowers and the
everlasting youth of mortal feelings; the energy of the Definite is
transitory, like a genuine storm and genuine inspiration.

Who can measure and compare two things which have endless worth, when
both are held together in the real Definiteness, which is intended to
fill all gaps and to act as mediator between the male and female
individual and infinite humanity?

The Definite and the Indefinite and the entire abundance of their
definite and indefinite relations--that is the one and all, the most
wonderful and yet the simplest, the simplest and yet the highest. The
universe itself is only a toy of the Definite and the Indefinite; and
the real definition of the definable is an allegorical miniature of
the life and activity of ever-flowing creation.

With everlasting immutable symmetry both strive in different ways to
get near to the Infinite and to escape from it. With light but sure
advances the Indefinite expands its native wish from the beautiful
centre of Finiteness into the boundless. Complete Definiteness, on the
other hand, throws itself with a bold leap out of the blissful dream
of the infinite will into the limits of the finite deed, and by
self-refinement ever increases in magnanimous self-restraint and
beautiful self-sufficiency.

In this symmetry is also revealed the incredible humor with which
consistent Nature accomplishes her most universal and her most simple
antithesis. Even in the most delicate and most artistic organization
these comical points of the great All reveal themselves, like a
miniature, with roguish significance, and give to all individuality,
which exists only by them and by the seriousness of their play, its
final rounding and perfection.

Through this individuality and that allegory the bright ideal of witty
sensuality blooms forth from the striving after the Unconditioned.

Now everything is clear! Hence the omnipresence of the nameless,
unknown divinity. Nature herself wills the everlasting succession of
constantly repeated efforts; and she wills, too, that every individual
shall be complete, unique and new in himself--a true image of the
supreme, indivisible Individuality. Sinking deeper into this
Individuality, my Reflection took such an individual turn that it
presently began to cease and to forget itself.

"What point have all these allusions, which with senseless sense on
the outward boundaries of sensuality, or rather in the middle of it, I
will not say play, but contend with, each other?"

So you will surely ask, and so the good Juliana would ask, though no
doubt in different language.

Dear Beloved! Shall the nosegay contain only demure roses, quiet
forget-me-nots, modest violets and other maidenlike and childlike
flowers? May it not contain anything and everything that shines
strangely in wonderful glory?

Masculine awkwardness is a manifold thing, and rich in blossoms and
fruits of all kinds. Let the wonderful plant, which I will not name,
have its place. It will serve at least as a foil to the
bright-gleaming pomegranate and the yellow oranges. Or should there
be, perhaps, instead of this motley abundance, only one perfect
flower, which combines all the beauties of the rest and renders their
existence superfluous?

I do not apologize for doing what I should rather like to do again,
with full confidence in your objective sense for the artistic
productions of the awkwardness which, often and not unwillingly,
borrows the material for its creations from masculine inspiration.

It is a soft Furioso and a clever Adagio of friendship. You will be
able to learn various things from it; that men can hate with as
uncommon delicacy as you can love; that they then remold a wrangle,
after it is over, into a distinction; and that you may make as many
observations about it as pleases you.

JULIUS To ANTONIO

You have changed a great deal of late. Beware, my friend, that you do
not lose your sense for the great before you realize it. What will
that mean? You will finally acquire so much modesty and delicacy that
heart and feeling will be lost. Where then will be your manhood and
your power of action? I shall yet come to the point of treating you as
you treat me, since we have not been living with each other, but near
each other. I shall have to set limits for you and say: Even if he has
a sense for everything else that is beautiful, still he lacks all
sense for friendship. Still I shall never set myself up as a moral
critic of my friend and his conduct; he who can do that does not
deserve the rare good fortune to have a friend.

That you wrong yourself first of all only makes the matter worse. Tell
me seriously, do you think there is virtue in these cool subtleties of
feeling, in these cunning mental gymnastics, which consume the marrow
of a man's life and leave him hollow inside?

For a long time I was resigned and said nothing. I did not doubt at
all that you, who know so much, would also probably know the causes
that have destroyed our friendship. It almost seems as if I was
mistaken, since you were so astonished at my attaching myself to
Edward and asked how you had offended me, as if you did not understand
it. If it were only that, only some one thing like that, then it would
not be worth while to ask such a painful question; the question would
answer and settle itself. But is it not more than that, when on every
occasion I must feel it a fresh desecration to tell you everything
about Edward, just as it happened? To be sure you have done nothing,
have not even said anything aloud; but I know and see very well how
you think about it. And if I did not know it and see it, where would
be the invisible communion of our spirits and the beautiful magic of
this communion? It certainly cannot occur to you to want to hold back
still longer, and by sheer finesse to try to end the misunderstanding;
for otherwise I should myself really have nothing more to say.

You two are unquestionably separated by an everlasting chasm. The
quiet, clear depth of your being and the hot struggle of his restless
life lie at the opposite ends of human existence. He is all action,
you are a sensitive, contemplative nature. For that reason you should
have sense for everything, and you really do have it, save when you
cultivate an intentional reserve. And that really vexes me. Better
that you should hate the noble fellow than misjudge him. But where
will it lead, if you unnaturally accustom yourself to use your utmost
wit in finding nothing but the commonplace in what little of greatness
and beauty there is in him, and that without renouncing your claim to
a liberal mind?

Is that your boasted many-sidedness? To be sure you observe the
principle of equality, and one man does not fare much better than
another, except that each one is misunderstood in a peculiar way. Have
you not also forced me to say nothing to you, or to anyone else, about
that which I feel to be the highest? And that merely because you
could not hold back your opinion until it was the proper time, and
because your mind is always imagining limitations in others before it
can find its own. You have almost obliged me to explain to you how
great my own worth really is; how much more just and safe it would
have been, if now and then you had not passed judgment but had
believed; if you had presupposed in me an unknown infinite.

To be sure my own negligence is to blame for it all. Perhaps too it
was idiosyncrasy--that I wanted to share with you the entire present,
without letting you know anything about the past and the future.
Somehow it went against my feelings, and I regarded it too as
superfluous; for, as a matter of fact, I gave you credit for a great
deal of intelligence.

O Antonio, if I could be doubtful about the eternal truths, you might
have brought me to the point of regarding that quiet, beautiful
friendship, which is based merely upon the harmony of being and living
together, as something false and perverse.

Is it now still incomprehensible if I quite go over to the other side?
I renounce refined enjoyment and plunge into the wild battle of life.
I hasten to Edward. Everything is agreed upon. We will not only live
together, but we will work and act in fraternal unison. He is rough
and uncouth, his virtue is strong rather than sensitive. But he has a
great manly heart, and in better times than ours he would have been, I
say it boldly, a hero.

II

It is no doubt well that we have at last talked with each other again.
I am quite content, too, that you did not wish to write, and that you
spoke slightingly of poor innocent letters because you really have
more genius for talking. But I have in my heart one or two things more
that I could not say to you, and will now endeavor to intimate with
the pen.

But why in this way? Oh, my friend, if I only knew of a more refined
and subtle mode of communicating my thoughts from afar in some
exquisite form! To me conversation is too loud, too near, and also too
disconnected. These separate words always present one side only, a
part of the connected, coherent whole, which I should like to intimate
in its complete harmony.

And can men who are going to live together be too tender toward each
other in their intercourse? It is not as if I were afraid of saying
something too strong, and for that reason avoided speaking of certain
persons and certain affairs. So far as that is concerned, I think that
the boundary line between us is forever destroyed.

What I still had to say to you is something very general, and yet I
prefer to choose this roundabout way. I do not know whether it is
false or true delicacy, but I should find it very hard to talk with
you, face to face, about friendship. And yet it is thoughts on that
subject that I wish to convey to you. The application--and it is about
that I am most concerned--you will yourself easily be able to make.

To my mind there are two kinds of friendship. The first is entirely
external. Insatiably it rushes from deed to deed, receives every
worthy man into the great alliance of united heroes, ties the old knot
tighter by means of every virtue, and ever aspires to win new
brothers; the more it has, the more it wants. Call to mind the antique
world and you will find this friendship, which wages honest war
against all that is bad, even were it in ourselves or in the beloved
friend--you will find this friendship everywhere, where noble strength
exerts influence on great masses, and creates or governs worlds. Now
times are different; but the ideal of this friendship will stay with
me as long as I live.

The other friendship is entirely internal. A wonderful symmetry of the
most intimately personal, as if it had been previously ordained that
one should always be perfecting himself. All thoughts and feelings
become social through the mutual excitation and development of the
holiest. And this purely spiritual love, this beautiful mysticism of
intercourse, does not merely hover as the distant goal of a perhaps
futile effort. No, it is only to be found complete. There no deception
occurs, as in that other heroic form. Whether a man's virtue will
stand the test, his actions must show. But he who inwardly sees and
feels humanity and the world will not be apt to look for public
disinterestedness where it is not to be found.

He only is capable of this friendship who is quite composed within
himself, and who knows how to honor with humility the divinity of the
other.

When the gods have bestowed such friendship upon a man, he can do
nothing more than protect it carefully against everything external,
and guard its holy being. For the delicate flower is perishable.

LONGING AND PEACE

Lightly dressed, Lucinda and Julius stood by the window in the
summer-house, refreshing themselves in the cool morning air. They were
absorbed in watching the rising sun, which the birds were welcoming
with their joyous songs.

"Julius," asked Lucinda, "why is it that I feel a deep longing in this
serene peace?"

"It is only in longing that we find peace," answered Julius. "Yes,
there is peace only when the spirit is entirely free to long and to
seek, where it can find nothing higher than its own longing."

"Only in the peace of the night," said Lucinda, "do longing and love
shine full and bright, like this glorious sun."

"And in the daytime," responded Julius, "the happiness of love shines
dimly, even as the pale moonlight."

"Or it appears and vanishes suddenly into the general darkness," added
Lucinda, "like those flashes of lightning which lighted up the room
when the moon was hidden."

"Only in the night," said Julius, "does the little nightingale utter
wails and deep sighs. Only in the night does the flower shyly open and
breathe freely the fragrant air, intoxicating both mind and senses in
equal delight. Only in the night, Lucinda, does the bold speech of
deep passion flow divinely from the lips, which in the noise of the
day close with tender pride their sweet sanctuary."

LUCINDA

It is not I, my Julius, whom you portray as so holy; although I would
fain wail like the nightingale, and although I am, as I inwardly feel,
consecrated to the night. It is you, it is the wonderful flower of
your fantasy which you perceive in me, when the noise has died down
and nothing commonplace distracts your noble mind.

JULIUS

Away with modesty and flattery! Remember, you are the priestess of the
night. Even in the daylight the dark lustre of your abundant hair, the
bright black of your earnest eyes, the majesty of your brow and your
entire body, all proclaim it.

LUCINDA

My eyes droop while you praise, because the noisy morning dazzles and
the joyous songs of the merry birds strengthen and awe my soul. At
another time my ear would eagerly drink in my lovely friend's sweet
talk here in the quiet, dark coolness of the evening.

JULIUS

It is not vain fantasy. My longing for you is constant and
everlastingly unsatisfied.

LUCINDA

Be it what it may, you are the object in which my being finds peace.

JULIUS

Holy peace, dear friend, I have found only in that longing.

LUCINDA

And I have found that holy longing in this beautiful peace.

JULIUS

Alas, that the garish light is permitted to lift the veil that so
concealed those flames, that the play of the senses was fain to cool
and assuage the burning soul.

LUCINDA

And so sometimes the cold and serious day will annihilate the warm
night of life, when youth flies by and I renounce you, even as you
once more greatly renounced great love.

JULIUS

Oh, that I might show you my unknown friend, and her the wonder of my
wondrous happiness.

LUCINDA

You love her still and will love her forever, though forever mine.
That is the wonder of your wondrous heart.

JULIUS

No more wondrous than yours. I see you, clasped against my breast,
playing with your Guido's locks, while we twain in brotherly union
adorn your serious brow with eternal wreaths of joy.

LUCINDA

Let rest in darkness, bring not forth into light, that which blooms
sacredly in the quiet depths of the heart.

JULIUS

Where may the billow of life be sporting with the impulsive youth whom
tender feeling and wild fate vehemently dragged into the harsh world?

LUCINDA

Uniquely transfigured, the pure image of the noble Unknown shines in
the blue sky of your pure soul.

JULIUS

Oh eternal longing! But surely the futile desire, the vain glare, of
the day will grow dim and go out, and there will be forever more the
restful feeling of a great night of love.

LUCINDA

Thus does the woman's heart in my ardent breast feel, when I am
allowed to be as I am. It longs only for your longing, and is peaceful
where you find peace.

DALLYINGS OF THE FANTASY

Life itself, the delicate child of the gods, is crowded out by the
hard, loud preparations for living, and is pitifully stifled in the
loving embrace of apelike Care.

To have purposes, to carry out purposes, to interweave purposes
artfully with purposes for a purpose: this habit is so deeply rooted
in the foolish nature of godlike man, that if once he wishes to move
freely, without any purpose, on the inner stream of ever-flowing
images and feelings, he must actually resolve to do it and make it a
set purpose.

It is the acme of intelligence to keep silent from choice, to
surrender the soul to the fantasy, and not to disturb the sweet
dallyings of the young mother with her child. But rarely is the mind
so intelligent after the golden age of its innocence. It would fain
possess the soul alone; and even when she supposes herself alone with
her natural love, the understanding listens furtively and substitutes
for the holy child's-play mere memories of former purposes or
prospects of new ones. Yes, it even continues to give to the hollow,
cold illusions a tinge of color and a fleeting heat; and thus by its
imitative skill it tries to steal from the innocent fantasy its very
innermost being.

But the youthful soul does not allow itself to be cheated by the
cunning of the prematurely old Understanding, and is always watching
while its darling plays with the beautiful pictures of the beautiful
world. Willingly she allows her brow to be adorned with the wreaths
which the child plaits from the blossoms of life, and willingly she
sinks into waking slumber, dreaming of the music of love, hearing the
friendly and mysterious voices of the gods, like the separate sounds
of a distant romance.

Old, well-known feelings make music from the depths of the past and
the future. They touch the listening spirit but lightly, and quickly
lose themselves in the background of hushed music and dim love. Every
one lives and loves, complains and rejoices, in beautiful confusion.
Here at a noisy feast the lips of all the joyful guests open in
general song, and there the lonely maiden becomes mute in the presence
of the friend in whom she would fain confide, and with smiling mouth
refuses the kiss. Thoughtfully I strew flowers on the grave of the
prematurely dead son, flowers which presently, full of joy and hope, I
offer to the bride of the beloved brother; while the high priestess
beckons to me and holds out her hand for a solemn covenant to swear by
the pure eternal fire eternal purity and never-dying enthusiasm. I
hasten away from the altar and the priestess to seize my sword and
plunge with the host of heroes into a battle, which I soon forget,
seeing in the deepest solitude only the sky and myself.

The soul that has such dreams in sleep continues to have them even
when it is awake. It feels itself entwined by the blossoms of love, it
takes care not to destroy the loose wreaths; it gladly gives itself up
a prisoner, consecrates itself to the fantasy, and willingly allows
itself to be ruled by the child, which rewards all maternal cares by
its sweet playfulness.

Then a fresh breath of the bloom of youth and a halo of child-like
ecstasy comes over the whole of life. The man deifies his Beloved, the
mother her child, and all men everlasting humanity.

Now the soul understands the wail of the nightingale and the smile of
the new-born babe; the significance of the flowers and the mysterious
hieroglyphics of the starry sky; the holy import of life as well as
the beautiful language of Nature. All things speak to it, and
everywhere it sees the lovely spirit through the delicate envelope.

On this gaily decorated floor it glides through the light dance of
life, innocent, and concerned only to follow the rhythm of sociability
and friendship, and not to disturb the harmony of love. And during it
all an eternal song, of which it catches now and then a few words
which adumbrate still higher wonders.

Ever more beautifully this magic circle encompasses the charmed soul,
and that which it forms or speaks sounds like a wonderful romance of
childhood's beautiful and mysterious divinities--a romantic tale,
accompanied by the bewitching music of the feelings, and adorned with
the fairest flowers of lovely life.




APHORISMS

By FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL

From the _Lyceum and the Athenaeum_ (1797-1800)

TRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY

Perfect understanding of a classic work should never be possible; but
those who are cultivated and who are still striving after further
culture, must always desire to learn more from it.

If an author is to be able to write well upon a theme, he must no
longer feel interest in it; the thought which is to be soberly
expressed must already be entirely past and must no longer personally
concern the writer. So long as the artist invents and is inspired, he
is in an unfavorable situation, at least for communicating his
concepts. He will then wish to say everything--a false tendency of
young geniuses, or an instinctively correct prejudice of old bunglers.
In this way he mistakes the value and the dignity of self-restraint,
although for the artist, as for the man, this is the first and the
last, the most needful and the highest.

We should never appeal to the spirit of antiquity as an authority.
There is this peculiarity about spirits: they cannot be grasped with
the hands and be held up before others. Spirits reveal themselves only
to spirits. Here, too, the briefest and most concise course would
doubtless be to prove, through good works, our possession of the faith
which alone gives salvation.

He who desires something infinite knows not what he desires; but the
converse of this proposition is not true.

In the ordinary kind of fair or even good translation it is precisely
the best part of a work that is lost.

It is impossible to offend a man if he will not be offended.

Every honest author writes for no one or for all men; he who writes
that this one or that one may read him, deserves not to be read at
all.

In the poetry of the Ancients we see the perfection of the letter: in
that of the moderns we divine the growth of the spirit.

The Germans are said to be the foremost nation of the world as regards
artistic sense and scientific genius. Very true, only--there are very
few Germans.

Almost all marriages are only concubinages, morganatic wedlock, or,
rather, provisional attempts and remote approximations to a real
marriage, the peculiar essence of which consists in the fact that more
than one person are to become but one, not in accordance with the
paradoxes of this system or that, but in harmony with all spiritual
and temporal laws. A fine concept, although its realization seems to
have many grave difficulties. For this very reason there should here
be the least possible restriction of the caprice which may well have a
word to say when it becomes a question of whether one is to be an
individual in himself or is to be merely an integral part of a
corporate personality; nor is it easy to see what objections, on
principle, could be made to a marriage a quatre. If the State,
however, is determined to hold together, even by force, the
unsuccessful attempts at marriage, it thereby impedes the very
possibility of marriage, which might be furthered by new--and perhaps
happier--attempts.

A regiment of soldiers on parade is, according to some philosophers, a
system.

A man can only become a philosopher, he cannot be one; so soon as he
believes that he is one, he ceases to become one.

The printed page is to thought what a nursery is to the first kiss.

The historian is a prophet looking backward.

There are people whose entire activity consists in saying "No." It
would be no small thing always to be able rightly to say "No," but he
who can do nothing more, surely cannot do it rightly. The taste of
these negationists is an admirable shears to cleanse the extremities
of genius; their enlightenment a great snuffer for the flame of
enthusiasm; and their reason a mild laxative for immoderate passion
and love.

Every great philosopher has always so explained his
predecessors--often unintentionally--that it seemed as though they had
not in the least been understood before him.

As a transitory condition skepticism is logical insurrection; as a
system it is anarchy; skeptical method would thus be approximately
like insurgent government.

At the phrases "his philosophy," "my philosophy," we always recall the
words in Nathan the Wise: "Who owns God? What sort of a God is that
who is owned by a man?"

What happens in poetry happens never or always; otherwise, it is no
true poetry. We ought not to believe that it is now actually
happening.

Women have absolutely no sense of art, though they may have of poetry.
They have no natural disposition for the sciences, though they may
have for philosophy. They are by no means wanting in power of
speculation and intuitive perception of the infinite; they lack only
power of abstraction, which is far more easy to be learned.

That is beautiful which is charming and sublime at the same time.

Romantic poetry is a progressive universal poetry. Its mission is not
merely to reunite all the separate categories of poetry, and to bring
poetry into contact with philosophy and with rhetoric. It will, and
should, also now mingle and now amalgamate poetry and prose, genius
and criticism, artistic poetry and natural poetry; make poetry living
and social, and life and society poetic; poetize wit; and fill and
saturate the forms of art with sterling material of every kind, and
inspire them with the vibrations of humor. It embraces everything, if
only it is poetic--from the greatest system of art which, in its turn,
includes many systems within itself, down to the sigh, the kiss, which
the musing child breathes forth in artless song. It can so be lost in
what it represents that it might be supposed that its one and all is
the characterization of poetic individuals of every type; and yet no
form has thus far arisen which would be equally adapted perfectly to
express the author's mind; so that many artists who desired only to
write a romance have more or less described themselves. Romantic
poetry alone can, like the epic, become a mirror of the entire world
that surrounds it, and a picture of its age. And yet, free from all
real and ideal interests, it, too, most of all, can soar, mid-way
between that which is presented and him who presents, on the wings of
poetic reflection; it can ever re-intensify this reflection and
multiply it as in an endless series of mirrors. It is capable of the
highest and of the most universal culture--not merely from within
outward, but also from without inward--since it organizes similarly
all parts of that which is destined to become a whole; thus the
prospect of an endlessly developing classicism is opened up to it.
Among the arts romantic poetry is what wit is to philosophy, and what
society, association, friendship, and love are in life. Other types of
poetry are finished, and can now be completely analyzed. The romantic
type of poetry is still in process of development; indeed, it is its
peculiar essence that it can eternally only be in process of
development, and that it can never be completed. It can be exhausted
by no theory, and only a divinatory criticism might dare to wish to
characterize its ideal. It alone is infinite, even as it alone is
free; and as its first law it recognizes that the arbitrariness of the
poet brooks no superior law. The romantic style of poetry is the only
one which is more than a style, and which is, as it were, poetry
itself; for in a certain sense all poetry is, or should be, romantic.

In the ancients every man has found what he needed or
desired--especially himself.

The French Revolution, Fichte's _Wissenschaftslehre_, and Goethe's
_Wilhelm Meister_ are the three greatest tendencies of the age.
Whoever is offended at this juxtaposition, and whoever can deem no
revolution important which is not boisterous and material, has not yet
risen to the broad and lofty viewpoint of the history of mankind. Even
in our meagre histories of culture, which, for the most part, resemble
a collection of variant readings accompanied by a running commentary
the classical text of which has perished, many a little book of which
the noisy rabble took scant notice in its day, plays a greater role
than all that this rabble did.

It is very one-sided and presumptuous to assert that there is only one
Mediator. To the ideal Christian--and in this respect the unique
Spinoza comes nearest to being one--everything ought to be a Mediator.

He alone can be an artist who has a religion of his own, an original
view of the infinite.

It is a peculiar trait of humanity that it must exalt itself above
humanity.

Plato's philosophy is a worthy preface to the religion of the future.

Man is free when he brings forth God or makes Him visible; and thereby
he becomes immortal.

The morality of a book lies not in its theme or in the relation of the
writer to his public, but in the spirit of the treatment. If this
breathes the full abundance of humanity, it is moral. If it is merely
the work of an isolated power and art, it is not moral.

He is an artist who has his centre within himself. He who lacks this
must choose a definite leader and mediator outside himself--naturally,
not forever, but only at the first. For without a living centre man
cannot exist, and if he does not yet have it within himself he can
seek it only in a human being, and only a human being and his centre
can arouse and awaken the artist's own.




NOVALIS (FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE STORY OF HYACINTH AND ROSEBLOSSOM

From _The Novices at Sais_ (1798)

TRANSLATED BY LILLIE WINTER

Long ages ago there lived in the far west a guileless youth. He was
very good, but at the same time peculiar beyond measure. He constantly
grieved over nothing at all, always went about alone and silent, sat
down by himself whenever the others played and were happy, and was
always thinking about strange things. Woods and caves were his
favorite haunts, and there he talked constantly with birds and
animals, with rocks and trees--naturally not a word of sense, nothing
but stuff silly enough to make one die a-laughing. Yet he continued to
remain morose and grave in spite of the fact that the squirrel, the
long-tailed monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch took great pains to
distract him and lead him into the right path. The goose would tell
fairy-tales, and in the midst of them the brook would tinkle a ballad;
a great heavy stone would caper about ludicrously; the rose stealing
up affectionately behind him would creep through his locks, and the
ivy stroke his careworn forehead. But his melancholy and his gravity
were obstinate. His parents were greatly grieved; they did not know
what to do. He was healthy and ate well. His parents had never hurt
his feelings, nor until a few years since had any one been more
cheerful and lively than he; always he had been at the head of every
game, and was well liked by all the girls. He was very handsome
indeed, looked like a picture, danced beautifully. Among the girls
there was one sweet and very pretty child.

[Illustration: #NOVALIS# (Friedrich von Hardenberg) EDUARD EICHENS]

She looked as though she were of wax, with hair like silk spun of
gold, lips as red as cherries, a figure like a little doll, eyes black
as the raven. Such was her charm that whoever saw her might have pined
away with love. At that time Roseblossom, that was her name, cherished
a heart-felt affection for the handsome Hyacinth, that was his name,
and he loved her with all his life. The other children did not know
it. A little violet had been the first to tell them; the house-cats
had noticed it, to be sure, for their parents' homes stood near each
other. When, therefore, Hyacinth was standing at night at his window
and Roseblossom at hers, and the pussies ran by on a mouse-hunt, they
would see both standing, and would often laugh and titter so loudly
that the children would hear them and grow angry. The violet had
confided it to the strawberry, she told it to her friend, the
gooseberry, and she never stopped taunting when Hyacinth passed; so
that very soon the whole garden and the goods heard the news, and
whenever Hyacinth went out they called on every side: "Little
Roseblossom is my sweetheart!" Now Hyacinth was vexed, and again he
could not help laughing from the bottom of his heart when the lizard
would come sliding up, seat himself on a warm stone, wag his little
tail, and sing

  Little Roseblossom, good and kind,
  Suddenly was stricken blind.
  Her mother Hyacinth she thought
  And to embrace him forthwith sought.
  But when she felt the face was strange,
  Just think, no terror made her change!
  But on his cheek pressed she her kiss,
  And she had noted naught amiss.

Alas, how soon did all this bliss pass away! There came along a man
from foreign lands; he had traveled everywhere, had a long beard,
deep-set eyes, terrible eyebrows, a strange cloak with many folds and
queer figures woven in it. He seated himself in front of the house
that belonged to Hyacinth's parents. Now Hyacinth was very curious and
sat down beside him and fetched him bread and wine. Then the man
parted his white beard and told stories until late at night and
Hyacinth did not stir nor did he tire of listening. As far as one
could learn afterward the man had related much about foreign lands,
unknown regions, astonishingly wondrous things, staying there three
days and creeping down into deep pits with Hyacinth. Roseblossom
cursed the old sorcerer enough, for Hyacinth was all eagerness for his
tales and cared for nothing, scarcely even eating a little food.
Finally the man took his departure, not, however, without leaving
Hyacinth a booklet that not a soul could read. The youth had even
given him fruit, bread, and wine to take along and had accompanied him
a long way. Then he came back melancholy and began an entirely new
mode of life. Roseblossom grieved for him very pitifully, for from
that time on he paid little attention to her and always kept to
himself.

Now it came about that he returned home one day and was like one
new-born. He fell on his parents' neck and wept. "I must depart for
foreign lands," he said; "the strange old woman in the forest told me
that I must get well again; she threw the book into the fire and urged
me to come to you and ask for your blessing. Perhaps I shall be back
soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Roseblossom for me. I should
have liked to speak to her, I do not know what is the matter,
something drives me away; whenever I want to think of old times,
mightier thoughts rush in immediately; my peace is gone, my courage
and love with it, I must go in quest of them. I should like to tell
you whither, but I do not know myself; thither where dwells the mother
of all things, the veiled virgin. For her my heart burns. Farewell!"

He tore himself away and departed. His parents lamented and shed
tears. Roseblossom kept in her chamber and wept bitterly. Hyacinth now
hastened as fast as he could through valleys and wildernesses, across
mountains and streams, toward the mysterious country. Everywhere he
asked men and animals, rocks and trees, for the sacred goddess (Isis).
Some laughed, some were silent, nowhere did he receive an answer. At
first he passed through wild, uninhabited regions, mist and clouds
obstructed his path, it was always storming; later he found unbounded
deserts of glowing hot sand, and as he wandered his mood changed, time
seemed to grow longer, and his inner unrest was calmed. He became more
tranquil and the violent excitement within him was gradually
transformed to a gentle but strong impulse, which took possession of
his whole nature. It seemed as though many years lay behind him. Now,
too, the region again became richer and more varied, the air warm and
blue, the path more level; green bushes attracted him with their
pleasant shade but he did not understand their language, nor did they
seem to speak, and yet they filled his heart with verdant colors, with
quiet and freshness. Mightier and mightier grew within him that sweet
longing, broader and softer the leaves, noisier and happier the birds
and animals, balmier the fruits, darker the heavens, warmer the air
and more fiery his love; faster and faster passed the Time, as though
it knew that it was approaching the goal.

One day he came upon a crystal spring and a bevy of flowers that were
going down to a valley between black columns reaching to the sky. With
familiar words they greeted him kindly. "My dear countrymen," he said,
"pray, where am I to find the sacred abode of Isis? It must be
somewhere in this vicinity, and you are probably better acquainted
here than I." "We, too, are only passing through this region," the
flowers answered; "a family of spirits is traveling and we are making
ready the road and preparing lodgings for them; but we came through a
region lately where we heard her name called. Just walk upward in the
direction from which we are coming and you will be sure to learn
more." The flowers and the spring smiled as they said this, offered
him a drink of fresh water, and went on.

Hyacinth followed their advice, asked and asked, and finally reached
that long-sought dwelling concealed behind palms and other choice
plants. His heart beat with infinite longing and the most delicious
yearning thrilled him in this abode of the eternal seasons. Amid
heavenly fragrance he fell into slumber, since naught but dreams might
lead him to the most sacred place. To the tune of charming melodies
and in changing harmonies did his dream guide him mysteriously through
endless apartments filled with curious things. Everything seemed so
familiar to him and yet amid a splendor that he had never seen; then
even the last tinge of earthliness vanished as though dissipated in
the air, and he stood before the celestial virgin. He lifted the
filmy, shimmering veil and Roseblossom fell into his arms. From afar a
strain of music accompanied the mystery of the loving reunion, the
outpourings of their longing, and excluded all that was alien from
this delightful spot. After that Hyacinth lived many years with
Roseblossom near his happy parents and comrades, and innumerable
grandchildren thanked the mysterious old woman for her advice and her
fire; for at that time people got as many children as they wanted.




APHORISMS[33]

By NOVALIS

TRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE

Where no gods are, spectres rule.

The best thing that the French achieved by their Revolution, was a
portion of Germanity.

Germanity is genuine popularity, and therefore an ideal.

Where children are, there is the golden age.

Spirit is now active here and there: when will Spirit be active in the
whole? When will mankind, in the mass, begin to consider?

Nature is pure Past, foregone freedom; and therefore, throughout, the
soil of history.

The antithesis of body and spirit is one of the most remarkable and
dangerous of all antitheses. It has played an important part in
history.

Only by comparing ourselves, as men, with other rational beings, could
we know what we truly are, what position we occupy.

The history of Christ is as surely poetry as it is history. And, in
general, only that history is history which might also be fable.

The Bible begins gloriously with Paradise, the symbol of youth, and
ends with the everlasting kingdom, with the holy city. The history of
every man should be a Bible.

Prayer is to religion what thinking is to philosophy. To pray is to
make religion.

The more sinful man feels himself, the more Christian he is.

Christianity is opposed to science, to art, to enjoyment in the proper
sense.

It goes forth from the common man. It inspires the great majority of
the limited on earth.

It is the germ of all democracy, the highest fact in the domain of the
popular.

Light is the symbol of genuine self-possession. Therefore light,
according to analogy, is the action of the self-contact of matter.
Accordingly, day is the consciousness of the planet, and while the
sun, like a god, in eternal self-action, inspires the centre, one
planet after another closes one eye for a longer or shorter time, and
with cool sleep refreshes itself for new life and contemplation.
Accordingly, here, too, there is religion. For is the life of the
planets aught else but sun-worship?

The Holy Ghost is more than the Bible. This should be our teacher of
religion, not the dead, earthly, equivocal letter.

All faith is miraculous, and worketh miracles.

Sin is indeed the real evil in the world. All calamity proceeds from
that. He who understands sin, understands virtue and Christianity,
himself and the world.

The greatest of miracles is a virtuous act.

If a man could suddenly believe, in sincerity, that he was moral, he
would be so.

We need not fear to admit that man has a preponderating tendency to
evil. So much the better is he by nature, for only the unlike
attracts.

Everything distinguished (peculiar) deserves ostracism. Well for it if
it ostracizes itself. Everything absolute must quit the world.

A time will come, and that soon, when all men will be convinced that
there can be no king without a republic, and no republic without a
king; that both are as inseparable as body and soul. The true king
will be a republic, the true republic a king.

In cheerful souls there is no wit. Wit shows a disturbance of the
equipoise.

Most people know not how interesting they are, what interesting things
they really utter. A true representation of themselves, a record and
estimate of their sayings, would make them astonished at themselves,
would help them to discover in themselves an entirely new world.

Man is the Messiah of Nature.

The soul is the most powerful of all poisons. It is the most
penetrating and diffusible stimulus.

Every sickness is a musical problem; the cure is the musical solution.

Inoculation with death, also, will not be wanting in some future
universal therapy.

The idea of a perfect health is interesting only in a scientific point
of view. Sickness is necessary to individualization.

If God could be man, he can also be stone, plant, animal, element, and
perhaps, in this way, there is a continuous redemption in Nature.

Life is a disease of the spirit, a passionate activity. Rest is the
peculiar property of the spirit. From the spirit comes gravitation.

As nothing can be free, so, too, nothing can be forced, but spirit.

A space-filling individual is a body; a time-filling individual is a
soul.

It should be inquired whether Nature has not essentially changed with
the progress of culture.

All activity ceases when knowledge comes. The state of knowing is
_eudaemonism_, blest repose of contemplation, heavenly quietism.

Miracles, as contradictions of Nature, are _amathematical_. But there
are no miracles in this sense. What we so term, is intelligible
precisely by means of mathematics; for nothing is miraculous to
mathematics.

In music, mathematics appears formally, as revelation, as creative
idealism. All enjoyment is musical, consequently mathematical. The
highest life is mathematics.

There may be mathematicians of the first magnitude who cannot cipher.
One can be a great cipherer without a conception of mathematics.

Instinct is genius in Paradise, before the period of self-abstraction
(self-recognition).

The fate which oppresses us is the sluggishness of our spirit. By
enlargement and cultivation of our activity, we change ourselves into
fate. Everything appears to stream in upon us, because we do not
stream out. We are negative, because we choose to be so; the more
positive we become, the more negative will the world around us be,
until, at last, there is no more negative, and we are all in all. God
wills gods.

All power appears only in transition. Permanent power is stuff.

Every act of introversion--every glance into our interior--is at the
same time ascension, going up to heaven, a glance at the veritable
outward.

Only so far as a man is happily married to himself, is he fit for
married life and family life, generally.

One must never confess that one loves one's self. The secret of this
confession is the life-principle of the only true and eternal love.

We conceive God as personal, just as we conceive ourselves personal.
God is just as personal and as individual as we are; for what we call
I is not our true I, but only its off glance.




HYMN TO NIGHT (1800)

By NOVALIS

TRANSLATED BY PAUL B. THOMAS

Who, that hath life and the gift of perception, loves not more than
all the marvels seen far and wide in the space about him Light, the
all-gladdening, with its colors, with its beams and its waves, its
mild omnipresence as the arousing day? The giant world of restless
stars breathes it, as were it the innermost soul of life, and lightly
floats in its azure flood; the stone breathes it, sparkling and ever
at rest, and the dreamy, drinking plant, and the savage, ardent,
manifold-fashioned beast; but above all the glorious stranger with the
thoughtful eyes, the airy step, and the lightly-closed, melodious
lips. Like a king of terrestrial nature it calls every power to
countless transformations, it forms and dissolves innumerable
alliances and surrounds every earthly creature with its heavenly
effulgence. Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the
realms of the world.

Downward I turn my eyes to Night, the holy, ineffable, mysterious. Far
below lies the world, sunk in a deep vault; void and lonely is its
place. Deep melancholy is wafted through the chords of the breast. In
drops of dew I'd fain sink down and mingle with the ashes. Far-off
memories, desires of youth, dreams of childhood, long life's brief
joys and vain hopes appear in gray garments like the evening mist
after sunset. Light has pitched its gay tents in other regions. Will
it perchance never return to its children, who are waiting for it with
the faith of innocence?

What is it that suddenly wells up so forebodingly from beneath the
heart and smothers the gentle breath of melancholy? Dark Night, dost
thou also take pleasure in us? What hast thou beneath thy mantle which
touches my soul with invisible force? Precious balsam drops from the
bunch of poppies in thy hand. Thou raisest up the heavy wings of the
soul; vaguely and inexpressibly we feel ourselves moved. Joyously
fearful, I see an earnest face, which gently and reverently bends over
me, and amid endlessly entangled locks shows the sweet youth of the
mother. How poor and childish does Light seem to me now! How joyful
and blessed the departure of day! Only for that reason, then, because
Night turns thy servants from thee, didst thou scatter in the wide
expanse of space the shining stars, to make known thine omnipotence
and thy return, during the periods of thine absence? More heavenly
than those twinkling stars seem to us the everlasting eyes which Night
has opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those
numberless hosts; not needing light, they fathom the depths of a
loving heart, filling a higher space with unspeakable delight.

Praise be to the queen of the world, to the high harbinger of holy
worlds, to the fostress of blissful love! She sends thee to me, gentle
sweetheart, lovely sun of the night. Now I am awake, for I am thine
and mine; thou hast proclaimed to me that night is life and made a man
of me. Consume my body with spiritual fire, that I may ethereally
blend with thee, and then the bridal night may last forever.




"THOUGH NONE THY NAME SHOULD CHERISH" [34]

  Though none Thy Name should cherish,
    My faith shall be the same,
  Lest gratitude should perish
    And earth be brought to shame.
  With meekness Thou did'st suffer
    The pangs of death for me,
  With joy then I would offer
    This heart for aye to Thee.

[Illustration: #THE QUEEN OF NIGHT# _From the painting by Moritz von
Schwind_]

  I weep with strong emotion
    That death has been Thy lot,
  And yet that Thy devotion
    Thy people have forgot.
  The blessings of salvation
    Thy perfect love has won,
  Yet who in any nation
    Regards what Thou hast done 3

  With love Thou hast protected
    Each man his whole life through;
  Though all Thy care rejected,
    No less would'st Thou be true.
  Such love as Thine must vanquish
    The proudest soul at last,
  'Twill turn to Thee in anguish
    And to Thy knees cling fast.

  Thine influence hath bound me;
    Oh, if it be Thy will,
  Be evermore around me,
    Be present with me still!
  At length too shall the others
    Look up and long for rest,
  And all my loving brothers
    Shall sink upon Thy breast.




TO THE VIRGIN[35]

  A thousand hands, devoutly tender,
    Have sought thy beauty to express,
  But none, oh Mary, none can render,
    As my soul sees, thy loveliness.

  I gaze till earth's confusion fadeth
    Like to a dream, and leaves behind
  A heaven of sweetness which pervadeth
    My whole rapt being--heart and mind.




FRIEDRICH HOeLDERLIN

       *       *       *       *       *

HYPERION'S SONG OF FATE [36] (1799)

  Ye wander there in the light
  On flower-soft fields, ye blest immortal Spirits.
  Radiant godlike zephyrs
  Touch you as gently
  As the hand of a master might
  Touch the awed lute-string.
  Free of fate as the slumbering
  Infant, breathe the divine ones.
  Guarded well
  In the firm-sheathed bud
  Blooms eternal
  Each happy soul;
  And their rapture-lit eyes
  Shine with a tranquil
  Unchanging lustre.
  But we, 'tis our portion,
  We never may be at rest.
  They stumble, they vanish,
  The suffering mortals,
  Hurtling from one hard
  Hour to another,
  Like waves that are driven
  From cliff-side to cliff-side,
  Endlessly down the uncertain abyss.




EVENING PHANTASIE[36] (1799)

Before his but reposes in restful shade The ploughman; wreaths of
smoke from his hearth ascend. And sweet to wand'rers comes the tone of
Evening bells from the peaceful village.

[Illustration: #FRIEDRICH HOeLDERLIN# E. HADER]

  The sailor too puts into the haven now,
  In distant cities cheerily dies away
    The busy tumult; in the arbor
      Gleams the festal repast of friendship.

  But whither I? In labor, for slight reward
  We mortals live; in alternate rest and toil
    Contentment dwells; but why then sleeps not
      Hid in my bosom the thorn unsparing?

  The ev'ning heaven blooms as with springtime's hue;
  Uncounted bloom the roses, the golden world
    Seems wrapt in peace; oh, bear me thither,
      Purple-wrought clouds! And may for me there

  Both love and grief dissolve in the joyous light!
  But see, as if dispelled by the foolish prayer,
    The wonder fades! 'Tis dark, and lonely
      Under the heaven I stand as erstwhile.

  Come then to me, soft Sleep. Overmuch requires
  The heart; and yet thou too at the last shalt fade,
    Oh youth, thou restless dream-pursuer!
      Peaceful and happy shall age then follow.




 LUDWIG TIECK

       *       *       *       *       *

PUSS IN BOOTS (1797)

_A fairy-tale for children in three acts, with interludes, a
prologue and an epilogue_.

TRANSLATED BY LILLIE WINTER, B.A.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE


  THE KING

  THE PRINCESS, _his daughter_

  PRINCE NATHANIEL _of Malsinki_

  LEANDER, _Court scholar_

  HANSWURST, _Court fool_

  _A Groom of the Chamber_

  _The Cook_

  LORENZ   }
  BARTHEL  } _Peasant brothers_
  GOTTLIEB }

  _Hinze, a tom-cat_

  _A Tavern-keeper_

  KUNZ   }
  MICHEL } _Peasants_

  _A Bugbear_

  _A Peace-maker_

  _The Playwright_

  _A Soldier_

  _Two Hussars_

  _Two Lovers_

  _Servants_

  _Musicians_

  _A Peasant_

  _The Prompter_

  _A Shoemaker_

  _A Historian_

  FISCHER

  MUeLLER

  BOeTTICHER

  LEUTNER

  WIESENER

  WIESENER'S NEIGHBOR

  _Elephants_

  _Lions_

  _Bears_

  _An officer_

  _Eagles and other birds_

  _A rabbit_

  _Partridges_

  _Jupiter_

  _Terkaleon_

  _The Machinist_

  _Spirits_

  _Monkeys_

  _The Public_.


[Illustration: #LUDWIG TIECK# VOGEL VON VOGELSTEIN]

PROLOGUE


_The scene is laid in the pit, the candles are already lighted, the
musicians are gathered in the orchestra. The theatre is filled, people
talking in confusion, some arriving, etc_.

FISCHER, MUeLLER, SCHLOSSER, BOeTTICHER, _in the pit_

FISCHER.

Say, but I am curious, Herr Mueller, what do you think of today's play?

MUeLLER.

I should be more likely to expect the sky to fall in than to see such
a play at our theatre.

FISCHER.

Do you know the play?

MUeLLER.

Not at all. A strange title that: _Puss in Boots_. I do hope they're
not going to present that child's play at the theatre.

SCHLOSS.

Why, is it an opera?

FISCHER.

Anything but that; the bill says: _A Fairy-tale for Children_.

SCHLOSS.

A fairy-tale? But in Heaven's name, we're not children, are we, that
they want to present such pieces for us? They certainly won't put an
actual cat on the stage, will they?

FISCHER.

It may turn out to be an imitation of the new Arcadians, a sort of
Terkaleon.

MUeLLER.

Now that wouldn't be bad, for I've been wishing this long while to see
some time such a wonderful opera without music.

FISCHER.

Without music it is absurd, for, my dear friend, we're beyond such
childish nonsense, such superstition; enlightenment has borne its
natural fruits.

MUeLLER.

It may turn out to be a regular picture of domestic life, and the cat
is only a joke, something like a jest, so to speak, a motive, if I may
call it that.

SCHLOSS.

To tell you my honest opinion, I take the whole thing to be
a trick to spread sentiment among the people, give them suggestions.
You'll see if I'm not right. A revolutionary play, as far as I can
understand.

FISCHER.

I agree with you, too, for otherwise the style would be
horribly offensive. For my part I must admit I never could believe in
witches or spirits, not to mention _Puss in Boots_.

SCHLOSS.

The age of these phantoms is past. Why, there comes Leutner; perhaps
he can tell us more.

          [_Leutner pushes himself through the crowd_.]

LEUTNER.

Good evening, good evening! Well, how are you?

MUeLLER.

Do tell us, will you, what sort of play we're having tonight?

                                  [_The music begins_.]

LEUTNER.

So late already? Why, I've come in the nick of time. About the play? I
have just been speaking with the author; he is at the theatre and
helping dress the tom-cat.

MANY VOICES.

Is helping?--The author?--The cat? So a cat will appear, after all?

LEUTNER.

Yes, indeed, why his name is even on the bill.

FISCHER.

I say, who's playing that part?

LEUTNER.

The strange actor, of course, the great man.

MUeLLER.

Indeed? But how can they possibly play such nonsense?

LEUTNER.

For a change, the author thinks.

FISCHER.

A fine change, why not Bluebeard too, and Prince Kobold? Indeed! Some
excellent subjects for the drama!

MUeLLER.

But how are they going to dress the cat?--And I wonder whether he
wears real boots?

LEUTNER.

I am just as impatient as all of you.

FISCHER.

But shall we really have such stuff played to us? We've come here out
of curiosity, to be sure, but still we have taste.

MUeLLER.

I feel like making a noise.

LEUTNER.

It's rather cold, too. I'll make a start. (_He stamps with his feet,
the others fall in_.)

WIESENER (_on the other side_).

What does this pounding mean?

LEUTNER.

That's to rescue good taste.

WIESENER.

Well, then I won't be the last, either. (_He stamps_.)

VOICES.

Be quiet, or you can't hear the music. (_All are stamping_.)

SCHLOSS.

But, I say, we really ought to let them go through the play, for,
after all, we've given our money anyhow; afterward we'll pound so
they'll hear us out doors.

ALL.

No, they'll now--taste--rules--art--otherwise everything will go to
ruin.

A CANDLE-SNUFFER.

Gentlemen, shall the police be sent in?

LEUTNER.

We have paid, we represent the public, and therefore we will have our
own good taste and no farces.

THE PLAYWRIGHT (_behind the scenes_).

The play will begin immediately.

MUeLLER.

No play--we want no play--we want good taste--

ALL.

Good taste! good taste!

PLAYWR.

I am puzzled--what do you mean, if I may ask?

SCHLOSS.

Good taste! Are you an author and don't even know what good taste
means?

PLAYWR.

Consider a young beginner--

SCHLOSS.

We want to know nothing about beginners--we want to see a decent
play-a play in good taste!

PLAYWR.

What sort? What kind?

MUeLLER.

Domestic stories--elopements--brothers and sisters from the
country--something like that.

      [_The Author comes out from behind the curtain_.]

PLAYWR.

Gentlemen--

ALL.

Is that the author?

FISCHER.

He doesn't look much like an author.

SCHLOSS.

Impertinent fellow!

MUeLLER.

His hair isn't even trimmed.

PLAYWR.

Gentlemen-pardon my boldness.

FISCHER.

How can you write such plays? Why haven't you trained yourself?

PLAYWR.

Grant me just one minute's audience before you condemn me. I know that
the honorable public must pass judgment on the author, and that from
them there is no appeal, but I know the justice of an honorable
public, and I am assured they will not frighten me away from a course
in which I so need their indulgent guidance.

FISCHER.

He doesn't talk badly.

MUeLLER.

He's more courteous than I thought.

SCHLOSS.

He has respect for the public, after all.

PLAYWR.

I am ashamed to present to such illustrious judges the modest
inspiration of my Muse; it is only the skill of our actors which still
consoles me to some extent, otherwise I should be sunk in despair
without further ado.

FISCHER.

I am sorry for him.

MUeLLER.

A good fellow!

PLAYWR.

When I heard your worthy stamping--nothing has ever frightened me so,
I am still pale and trembling and do not myself comprehend how I have
attained to the courage of thus appearing before you.

LEUTNER.

Well, clap, then! (_All clap_.)

PLAYWR.

I wanted to make an attempt to furnish amusement by means of humor, by
cheerfulness and real jokes, and hope I have been successful, since
our newest plays so seldom afford us an opportunity to laugh.

[Illustration: #PUSS IN BOOTS# MORITZ VON SCHWIND]

MUeLLER.

That's certainly true!

LEUTNER.

He's right--that man.

SCHLOSS.

Bravo! Bravo!

ALL.

Bravo! Bravo! (_They clap_.)

PLAYWR.

I leave you, honored sirs, to decide now whether my attempt is to be
rejected entirely--trembling, I withdraw, and the play will begin.
(_He bows very respectfully and goes behind the curtain_.)

ALL.

Bravo! Bravo!

VOICES FROM THE GALLERY.

_Da capo!_--

[_All are laughing. The music begins again; meanwhile the curtain
rises_.]



ACT I

_Small room in a peasant's cottage_

LORENZ, BARTHEL, GOTTLIEB. The tom-cat HINZE, _is lying on a bench by
the stove_.

LORENZ.

I think that after the death of our father, our little fortune can be
divided easily. You know the deceased has left only three pieces of
property--a horse, an ox, and that cat there. I, as the eldest, will
take the horse; Barthel, second after me, gets the ox, and so the cat
is naturally left for our youngest brother.

LEUTNER (_in the pit_).

For Heaven's sake! Did any one ever see such an exposition! Just see
how far dramatic art has degenerated!

MUeLLER.

But I understand everything perfectly well.

LEUTNER.

That's just the trouble, you should give the spectator a cunning
suggestion, not throw the matter right into his teeth.

MUeLLER.

But now you know, don't you, where you are?

LEUTNER.

Yes, but you certainly mustn't know that so quickly; why, the very
best part of the fun consists in getting at it little by little.

BARTHEL.

I think, brother Gottlieb, you will also be satisfied with this
division; unfortunately you are the youngest, and so you must grant us
some privileges.

GOTTLIEB.

Yes, to be sure.

SCHLOSS.

But why doesn't the court of awards interfere in the inheritance? What
improbabilities!

LORENZ.

So then we're going now, dear Gottlieb; farewell, don't let time hang
heavy on your hands.

GOTTLIEB.

Good-bye.

                                 [_Exit the brothers_.]

GOTTLIEB (_alone_).

They are going away--and I am alone. We all three have our lodgings.
Lorenz, of course, can till the ground with his horse, Barthel can
slaughter and pickle his ox and live on it a while--but what am I,
poor unfortunate, to do with my cat? At the most, I can have a muff
for the winter made out of his fur, but I think he is even shedding it
now. There he lies asleep quite comfortably--poor Hinze! Soon we shall
have to part. I am sorry I brought him up, I know him as I know
myself--but he will have to believe me, I cannot help myself, I must
really sell him. He looks at me as though he understood. I could
almost begin to cry.

             [_He walks up and down, lost in thought_.]

MUeLLER.

Well, you see now, don't, you, that it's going to be a touching
picture of family life? The peasant is poor and without money; now, in
the direst need, he will sell his faithful pet to some susceptible
young lady, and in the end that will be the foundation of his good
fortune. Probably it is an imitation of Kotzebue's _Parrot_; here the
bird is replaced by a cat and the play runs on of itself.

FISCHER.

Now that it's working out this way, I am satisfied too.

HINZE, the tom-cat (_rises, stretches, arches his back, yawns, then
speaks_).

My dear Gottlieb--I really sympathize with you.

GOTTLIEB (_astonished_).

What, puss, you are speaking?

THE CRITICS (_in the pit_).

The cat is talking? What does that mean, pray?

FISCHER.

It's impossible for me to get the proper illusion here.

MUeLLER.

Rather than let myself be disappointed like this I never want to see
another play all my life.

HINZE.

Why should I not be able to speak, Gottlieb?

GOTTLIEB.

I should not have suspected it; I never heard a cat speak in all my
life.

HINZE.

Because we do not join in every conversation, you think we're nothing
but dogs.

GOTTLIEB.

I think your only business is to catch mice.

HINZE.

If we had not, in our intercourse with human beings, got a certain
contempt for speech, we could all speak.

GOTTLIEB.

Well, I'll own that! But why don't you give any one an opportunity to
discover you?

HINZE.

That's to avoid responsibility, for if once the power of speech were
inflicted on us so-called animals, there wouldn't be any joy left in
the world. What isn't the dog compelled to do and learn! The horse!
They are foolish animals to show their intelligence, they must give
way entirely to their vanity; we cats still continue to be the freest
race because, with all our skill, we can act so clumsily that human
beings quite give up the idea of training us.

GOTTLIEB.

But why do you disclose all this to me?

HINZE.

Because you are a good, a noble man, one of the few who take no
delight in servility and slavery; see, that is why I disclose myself
to you completely and fully.

GOTTLIEB (_gives him his hand_).

Good friend!

HINZE.

Human beings labor under the delusion that the only remarkable thing
about us is that instinctive purring which arises from a certain
feeling of comfort; for that reason they often stroke us awkwardly and
then we usually purr to secure ourselves against blows. But if they
knew how to manage us in the right way, believe me, they would
accustom our good nature to everything, and Michel, your neighbor's
tom-cat, would even at times be pleased to jump through a hoop for the
king.

GOTTLIEB.

You're right in that.

HINZE.

I love you, Master Gottlieb, very much. You have never stroked me the
wrong way, you have let me sleep when I felt like it, you have
objected whenever your brothers wanted to take me up, to go with me
into the dark, and see the so-called electrical sparks--for all this I
now want to show my gratitude.

GOTTLIEB.

Noble-hearted Hinze! Ah, how unjustly do they speak ill of you and
scornfully, doubting your loyalty and devotion! My eyes are being
opened--how my knowledge of human nature is increasing and so
unexpectedly!

FISCHER.

Friends, where has our hope for a picture of family life gone to?

LEUTNER.

Why it is almost too nonsensical.

SCHLOSS.

I feel as though I were in a dream.

HINZE.

You are a good man, Master Gottlieb; but, do not take it ill of me,
you are somewhat narrow, confined--to speak out freely, not one of the
best heads.

GOTTLIEB.

Alas, no!

HINZE.

You don't know now, for example, what you want to do.

GOTTLIEB.

You read my thoughts perfectly.

HINZE.

If you had a muff made out of my fur--

GOTTLIEB.

Do not take it amiss, comrade, that this idea just passed through my
mind.

HINZE.

Why, no, it was an altogether human thought. Can you think of no way
of managing?

GOTTLIEB.

Not a thing!

HINZE.

You might carry me around and show me for money; but that is never a
sure means of support.

GOTTLIEB.

No.

HINZE.

You might publish a journal or a German paper, with the motto, _Homo
sum_--or a novel; I should be willing to collaborate with you--but
that is too much bother.

GOTTLIEB.

Yes.

HINZE.

Well, I'll see that I take even better care of you. Depend upon it,
you are yet to become very happy through me.

GOTTLIEB.

O, best, most noble man. (_He embraces him tenderly_.)

HINZE.

But you must also trust me.

GOTTLIEB.

Entirely. Why, now I realize your honorable spirit.

HINZE.

Well, then, do me a favor and bring the shoemaker immediately to take
my measure for a pair of boots.

GOTTLIEB.

The shoemaker? Boots?

HINZE.

You are surprised, but in accomplishing what I intend to do for you, I
have to walk and run so much that I have to wear boots.

GOTTLIEB.

But why not shoes?

HINZE.

Master Gottlieb, you do not understand the matter; they must lend me
some dignity, an imposing air, in short, a certain manliness to which
one never attains in shoes.

GOTTLIEB.

Well, as you think best; but the shoemaker will be surprised.

HINZE.

Not at all; we must act only as if it were nothing remarkable that I
should wish to wear boots; one gets used to everything.

GOTTLIEB.

Yes, indeed; why, my conversation with you has actually become quite
easy! But another thing; now that we have become such good friends, do
call me by my first name, too; why do you still want to stand on
ceremony with me?

HINZE.

As you like, Gottlieb.

GOTTLIEB.

There's the shoemaker passing. Hey! Pst! Friend Leichdorn! Will you
please stop a moment?

                            [_The shoemaker comes in_.]

SHOEMAK.

God bless you! What's the news?

GOTTLIEB.

I have ordered no work from you for a long time.

SHOEMAK.

No, my friend, all in all, I have very little to do now.

GOTTLIEB.

I should like to have another pair of boots made--

SHOEMAK.

Please take a seat. I have a measure with me.

GOTTLIEB.

Not for myself, but for my young friend there.

SHOEMAK.

For this one here? Very well.

HINZE (_sits on a chair and holds out his right leg_).

SHOEMAK.

Now how should you like it, pussy?

HINZE.

In the first place, good soles, then brown flaps, and, above all
things, stiff.

SHOEMAK.

Very well. (_He takes the measure_.) Will you be so kind as to draw
your claws in a bit--or rather nails? I have already scratched myself.
(_He takes the measure_.)

HINZE.

And they must be finished quickly. (_As his leg is being stroked he
begins to purr involuntarily_.)

SHOEMAK.

The pussy is comfortable.

GOTTLIEB.

Yes, he's a good-humored fellow. He has just come from school, what
they usually call a "smarty."

SHOEMAK.

Well, good-bye.

                                              [_Exit_.]

GOTTLIEB.

Wouldn't you perhaps like to have your whiskers trimmed too?

HINZE.

On no account, I look so much more respectable, and you certainly must
know that cats immediately become unmanly after that. A tom-cat
without whiskers is but a contemptible creature.

GOTTLIEB.

If I only knew what you are planning!

HINZE.

You'll find out in due time. Now I want to take a little walk on the
roofs; there's a fine, open view there and you're likely to catch a
dove too.

GOTTLIEB.

As a good friend, I want to warn you not to let yourself be caught at
it.

HINZE.

Don't worry, I'm not a novice. Meanwhile, good-bye.

                                              [_Exit_.]

GOTTLIEB (_alone_).

Natural history always says that cats cannot be trusted and that they
belong to the lion family, and I am in such fearful dread of a lion. Now
if the cat had no conscience, he could run away from me afterward with
the boots for which I must now give my last penny and then sell them
somewhere for nothing, or it's possible that he wants to make a bid for
favor with the shoemaker and then go into his service. But he has a
tom-cat already. No, Hinze, my brothers have betrayed me, and now I
will try my luck with you. He spoke so nobly, he was so touched--there
he sits on the roof yonder, stroking his whiskers--forgive me, my fine
friend, that I could even for a moment doubt your magnanimity.

                                              [_Exit_.]

FISCHER.

What nonsense!

MUeLLER.

What does the cat need those boots for?--to be able to walk better?
Silly stuff!

SCHLOSS.

But it seems as though I saw a cat before me.

LEUTNER.

Be still, the scene is changing.

_Hall in the royal palace_

_The_ KING _with crown and sceptre. The_ PRINCESS, _his daughter_

KING.

A thousand handsome princes, my precious daughter, have already sued
for your hand and laid their kingdoms at your feet, but you have
continued to refuse them. Tell us the reason for this, my treasure.

PRINCESS.

My most gracious father, I have always believed that my heart must
first feel certain emotions before my neck would bow under the yoke of
marriage. For a marriage without love, they say, is truly hell upon
earth.

KING.

That is right, my dear daughter. Ah, indeed, indeed, have you spoken
words of truth: a hell on earth! Alas, if only I were not qualified to
discuss it! Indeed I should have preferred to remain ignorant! But as
it is, dear treasure, I have my tale to tell, as they say. Your
mother, my consort of blessed memory--ah, Princess, see, the tears
rush to my eyes even in my old age--she was a good queen, she wore the
crown with an indescribable air of majesty--but she gave me very
little peace. Well, may her ashes rest in peace among her royal
relatives.

PRINCESS.

Your majesty excites yourself too much.

KING.

When the memory of it returns to me, O my child, on my knees I would
entreat you--do be careful in marrying! It is a great truth that linen
and a bridegroom must not be bought by candle-light, a truth which
should be found in every book. What did I suffer! No day passed
without a quarrel; I could not sleep peacefully, could not conduct my
administrative business quietly, I could not think of anything, could
not read a book--I was always interrupted. And still my spirit
sometimes yearns for you, my blessed Klothilde! My eyes smart--I am a
real old fool.

PRINCESS (_tenderly_).

My father!

KING.

I tremble to think of the dangers that face you, for, even if you do
fall in love now, my daughter, ah! you should just see what thick
books wise men have filled on this subject--see, your very passion,
then, can also make you miserable. The happiest, the most blissful
emotion can ruin us; moreover, love is, as it were, a magic cup;
instead of nectar we often drink poison; then our pillow is wet with
tears; all hope, all consolation are gone. (_The sound of a trumpet is
heard_.) Why, it isn't dinner-time yet, is it? Probably another new
prince who wants to fall in love with you. Take care, my daughter; you
are my only child, and you do not realize how near my heart your
happiness lies. (_He kisses her and leaves the hall. Applause is heard
in the pit_.)

FISCHER.

That's a scene for you, in which you can find sound common sense.

SCHLOSS.

I am also moved.

MUeLLER.

He's an excellent sovereign.

FISCHER.

Now he didn't exactly have to appear with a crown.

SCHLOSS.

It entirely spoils the sympathy one feels for him as an affectionate
father.

THE PRINCESS (_alone_).

I do not understand at all; why, not one of the princes has yet
touched my heart with love. I always keep in mind my father's
warnings; he is a great sovereign and nevertheless a good father too,
and is always thinking of my happiness; if only he did not have such a
hasty temper! But fortune and misfortune are always coupled thus. My
joy I find in the arts and sciences, for books constitute all my
happiness.

_The_ PRINCESS, LEANDER, _the court scholar_.

LEANDER.

Well, your Royal Highness! (_They sit down_.)

PRINCESS.

Here. Master Leander, is my essay. I have entitled it _Thoughts at
Night_.

LEANDER (_reads_).

Excellent! Inspired! Ah! I feel as though I hear the hour of midnight
striking. When did you write it?

PRINCESS.

Yesterday noon, after dinner.

LEANDER.

Beautifully conceived! Truly, beautifully conceived! But with your
most gracious permission! _The moon shines sadly down in the world._
If you will not take it amiss, it should read: _into the world_.

PRINCESS.

Very well, I will note that for the future; it's too stupid that
poetry should be made so hard for us; one can't write five or six
lines without making a mistake.

LEANDER.

That's the obstinacy of language, so to speak.

PRINCESS.

Are not the emotions tenderly and delicately phrased!

LEANDER.

Indescribably! It is scarcely comprehensible how a feminine mind could
write such a thing.

PRINCESS.

Now I might try my hand at moonlight descriptions. Don't you think so?

LEANDER.

Naturally you keep going farther all the time; you keep rising higher.

PRINCESS.

I have also begun a piece: _The Unhappy Misanthrope; or, Lost Peace
and Restored Innocence!_

LEANDER.

Even the title itself is fascinating.

PRINCESS.

And then I feel an incomprehensible desire within me to write some
horrible ghost story. As I said before, if it were not for those
grammatical errors!

LEANDER.

Do not worry about that, incomparable princess! They are easily
corrected.

                     [_Groom from the Chamber enters._]

GROOM.

The Prince of Malsinki, who has just arrived, wishes to wait on your
royal highness.

                                              [_Exit._]

LEANDER.

Your obedient servant.

                                              [_Exit._]


_Prince_ NATHANIEL _of Malsinki. The_ KING

KING.

Here, Prince, is my daughter, a young, simple creature, as you
see her before you. (_Aside._) Be polite, my daughter, courteous; he
is an illustrious prince from afar; his country is not even on my map,
I have already looked it up; I have an amazing amount of respect for
him.

PRINCESS.

I am glad to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.

NATHAN.

Beautiful Princess, the report of your beauty has been spread
so widely over the whole world that I have come here from a far
distant corner for the happiness of seeing you face to face.

KING.

Indeed it is astonishing, how many countries and kingdoms there
are! You would not believe how many thousand crown-princes have been
here already, to pay their addresses to my daughter; sometimes they
arrive by dozens, especially when the weather is fine--and now you
have come all the way from--I beg your pardon, topography is such a
very extensive subject--in what region does your country lie?

NATHAN.

Mighty king, if you travel from here first down the great
highway, then you turn to the right and go on; but when you reach a
mountain, turn to the left again, then you go to the ocean and sail
directly north (if the wind is favorable, of course), and so, if the
journey is successful, you reach my dominions in a year and a half.

KING.

The deuce! I must have my court scholar explain that to me. You
are probably a neighbor of the North Pole or Zodiac, or something like
that, I suppose!

NATHAN.

Not that I know of.

KING.

Perhaps somewhere near the savages?

NATHAN.

I beg your pardon, all my subjects are very tame.

KING.

But you must live confoundedly far away. I can't get a clear
idea of it yet.

NATHAN.

The geography of my country is still not exactly fixed; I
expect to discover more every day; and then it may easily come about
that we shall even become neighbors in the end.

KING.

That will be splendid! And if, after all, a few countries still
stand in our way, I will help you in your discoveries. My neighbor is
not a good friend of mine, so to speak, and he has a fine country; all
the raisins come from there; why, I should be only too glad to have
it! But another thing; do tell me, how, living so far away, can you
speak our language so fluently!

NATHAN.

Hush!

KING.

What?

NATHAN.

Hush! hush!

KING.

I do not understand.

NATHANIEL, (_softly to him_).

Do be quiet about it, pray, for
otherwise the audience down there will surely notice that it is really
very unnatural.

KING.

It doesn't matter. They clapped before and so I can afford to
take a chance.

NATHAN.

You see, it is only for the sake of the drama that I speak your
language; for otherwise, of course, the matter is incomprehensible.

KING.

Ah, so! Well, come, Prince, the table is set!

[_The_ PRINCE _escorts the princess out, the_ KING _precedes_.]

FISCHER.

Cursed improbabilities there are in this play!

SCHLOSS.

And the king doesn't remain at all true to his character.

LEUTNER.

Why, nothing but the natural should ever be presented on the
stage! The prince should speak an altogether unknown language and have
an interpreter with him; the princess should make grammatical errors,
since she herself admits that she writes incorrectly.

MUeLLER.

Of course! Of course! The whole thing is unquestionable
nonsense; the author himself is always forgetting what he has said the
moment before.

_The scene is laid in front of a tavern._

LORENZ, KUNZ, MICHEL _are sitting on a bench. The_ HOST

LORENZ.

I shall have to be going again soon! I still have a long way
home.

HOST.

You are a subject of the king, aren't you?

LORENZ.

Yes, indeed; what do you call your good ruler?

HOST.

He is just called Bugbear.

LORENZ.

That is a foolish title. Why, has he no other name?

HOST.

When he has edicts issued, they always read: For the good of the
public, the _Law_ demands--hence I believe that is his real name. All
petitions, too, are always laid before the _Law_. He is a fearful man.

LORENZ.

Still, I should rather be under a king; why, a king is more
dignified. They say the Bugbear is a very ungracious master.

HOST.

He is not especially gracious, that is true of course, but, on
the other hand, he is justice itself. Cases are even sent to him from
abroad and he must settle them.

LORENZ.

They say wonderful things about him; the story goes he can
transform himself into any animal.

HOST.

It is true, and then he travels around _incognito_ and spies out
the sentiments of his subjects; that's the very reason why we trust no
cat, no strange dog or horse, because we always think the ruler might
probably be inside of them.

LORENZ.

Then surely we are in a better position, too. Our king never
goes out without wearing his crown, his cloak, and his sceptre; by
these, he is known three hundred paces away. Well, take care of
yourselves.

                                              [_Exit._]

HOST.

Now he is already in his own country.

KUNZ.

Is the border line so near?

HOST.

Surely, that very tree belongs to the king; you can see from
this very spot everything that goes on in his country; this border
line here is a lucky thing for me. I should have been bankrupt long
ago if the deserters from over there had not supported me; almost
every day several come.

MICHEL.

Is the service there so hard?

HOST.

Not that; but running away is so easy, and just because it is so
strictly forbidden the fellows get such an exceptional desire to
desert. Look, I bet that's another one coming!

                           [_A soldier comes running._]

SOLDIER.

A can of beer, host! Quick!

HOST.

Who are you?

SOLDIER.

A deserter.

MICHEL.

Perhaps 'twas his love for his parents which made him desert.
Poor fellow, do take pity on him, host.

HOST.

Why if he has money, there won't be any lack of beer. (_Goes
into the house_.)

              [_Two hussars come riding and dismount_.]

1ST HUSS.

Well, thank God, we've got so far! Your health, neighbor!

SOLDIER.

This is the border.

2D HUSS.

Yes, Heaven be thanked! Didn't we have to ride for the sake
of that fellow? Beer, host!

HOST (_with several glasses_).

Here, gentlemen, a fine, cool drink;
you are all pretty warm.

1ST HUSS.

Here, you rascal! To your health!

SOLDIER.

Best thanks, I will meantime hold your horses for you.

2D HUSS.

The fellow can run! It's good that the border is never so
very far away; for otherwise it would be deucedly hard service.

1ST HUSS.

Well, we must go back, I suppose. Good-bye, deserter! Much
luck on your way!

                          [_They mount and ride away_.]

HOST.

Will you stay here?

SOLDIER.

No, I am going away; why I must enlist with the neighboring
duke.

HOST.

Say, come and see me when you desert again.

SOLDIER.

Certainly. Farewell!

[_They shake hands. Exeunt soldier and guests, exit host into the
house. The curtain falls_.]

INTERLUDE

FISCHER.

Why, it's getting wilder and wilder! What was the purpose of
the last scene, I wonder?

LEUTNER.

Nothing at all, it is entirely superfluous; only to introduce
some new nonsense. The theme of the cat is now lost entirely and there
is no fixed point of view at all.

SCHLOSS.

I feel exactly as though I were intoxicated.

MUeLLER.

I say, in what period is the play supposed to be taking place?
The hussars, of course, are a recent invention.

SCHLOSS.

We simply shouldn't bear it, but stamp hard. Now we haven't
the faintest idea of what the play is coming to.

FISCHER.

And no love, either! Nothing in it for the heart, for the
imagination.

LEUTNER.

As soon as any more of that nonsense occurs, for my part at
least, I'll begin to stamp.

WIESENER (_to his neighbor_).

I like the play now.

NEIGHBOR.

Very fine, indeed, very fine; a great man, the author; he
has imitated the _Magic Flute_ well.

WIESENER.

I liked the hussars particularly well; people seldom take
the risk of bringing horses on the stage--and why not? They often have
more sense than human beings. I would rather see a good horse than
many a human being in the more modern plays.

NEIGHBOR.

The Moors in Kotzebue--a horse is after all nothing but
another kind of Moor.

WIESENER.

Do you not know to what regiment the hussars belonged

NEIGHBOR.

I did not even look at them carefully. Too bad they went
away so soon--indeed I'd rather like to see a whole play with nothing
but hussars. I like the cavalry so much.

LEUTNER (_to_ BOeTTICHER).

What do you think of all this?

BOeTTICH.

Why, I simply can't get the excellent acting of the man who
plays the cat out of my head. What a study! What art! What
observation! What costuming!

SCHLOSS.

That is true; he really does look like a large tom-cat.

BOeTTICH.

And just notice his whole mask, as I would rather call his
costume, for since he has so completely disguised his natural
appearance, this expression is far more fitting. But I say, God bless
the ancients when blessing is due. You probably do not know that the
ancients acted all parts, without exception, in masks, as you will
find in _Athenaeus, Pollux_ and others. It is hard, you see, to know
all these things so accurately, because one must now and then look up
those books oneself to find them. At the same time, however, one then
has the advantage of being able to quote them. There is a difficult
passage in Pausanias.

FISCHER.

You were going to be kind enough to speak of the cat.

BOeTTICH.

Why, yes; and I only meant to say all the preceding by the
way, hence I beg you most earnestly to consider it as a note; and, to
return to the cat, have you noticed, I wonder, that he is not one of
those black cats? No, on the contrary, he is almost entirely white and
has only a few black spots; that expresses his good-nature
excellently; moreover, the theme of the whole play, all the emotions
to which it should appeal, are suggested in this very fur.

LEUTNER.

That is true.

FISCHER.

The curtain is going up again!



ACT II

_Room in a peasant's house_

GOTTLIEB, HINZE. _Both are sitting at a small table and eating_.

GOTTLIEB.

Did it taste good?

HINZE.

Very good, very fine.

GOTTLIEB.

But now my fate must soon be determined, for otherwise I do
not know what I am to do.

HINZE.

Just have patience a few days longer; why, good fortune must
have some time to grow; who would expect to become happy all of a
sudden, so to speak? My good man, that happens only in books; in the
world of reality things do not move so quickly.

FISCHER.

Now just listen, the cat dares to speak of the world of
reality! I feel almost like going home, for I'm afraid I shall go mad.

LEUTNER.

It looks almost as if that is what the writer intended.

MUeLLER.

A splendid kind of artistic enjoyment, to be mad, I must
admit!

GOTTLIEB.

If I only knew, dear Hinze, how you have come by this amount
of experience, this intelligence!

HINZE.

Are you, then, under the impression that it is in vain one lies
for days at the stove with one's eyes tight shut? I always kept
studying there quietly. In secret and unobserved does the power of the
intelligence grow; hence it is a sign that one has made the least
progress when one sometimes has a mind to crane one's neck around as
far as possible, so as to look back at the ground one has already
covered. Now do be kind enough to untie my napkin.

GOTTLIEB (_does it_).

A blessing on good food! (_They kiss._) Content
yourself with that.

HINZE.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

GOTTLIEB.

The boots fit very nicely, and you have a charming little
foot.

HINZE.

That is only because we always walk on our toes, as you must
already have read in your natural history.

GOTTLIEB.

I have great respect for you--on account of the boots.

HINZE (_hangs a soldier's knapsack about his neck_).

I am going now.
See, I have also made myself a bag with a drawing-string.

GOTTLIEB.

What's it all for?

HINZE.

Just let me alone! I want to be a hunter. Why, where is my
cane?

GOTTLIEB.

Here.

HINZE.

Well, then, good-bye.

                                              [_Exit._]

GOTTLIEB.

A hunter? I can't understand the man.

                                              [_Exit._]


_Open Field_

HINZE (_with cane, knapsack, and bag_).

Splendid weather! It's such a
beautiful, warm day; afterward I must lie down a bit in the sun. (_He
spreads out his bag._) Well, fortune, stand by me. Of course, when I
think that this capricious goddess of fortune so seldom favors
shrewdly laid plans, that she always ends up by disgracing the
intelligence of mortals, I feel as though I should lose all my
courage. Yet, be quiet, my heart; a kingdom is certainly worth the
trouble of working and sweating some for it! If only there are no dogs
around here; I can't bear those creatures at all; it is a race that I
despise because they so willingly submit to the lowest servitude to
human beings. They can't do anything but either fawn or bite; they
haven't fashionable manners at all, a thing which is so necessary in
company. There's no game to be caught. (_He begins to sing a hunting
song: "I steal through the woods so still and wild," etc. A
nightingale in the bush near-by begins to sing._) She sings
gloriously, the songstress of the grove; but how delicious she must
taste! The great people of the earth are, after all, right lucky in
the fact that they can eat as many nightingales and larks as they
like; we poor common people must content ourselves with their singing,
with the beauty in nature, with the incomprehensibly sweet harmony.
It's a shame I can't hear anything sing without getting a desire to
eat it. Nature! Nature! Why do you always destroy my finest emotions
by having created me thus! I feel almost like taking off my boots and
softly climbing up that tree yonder; she must be perching there.
(_Stamping in the pit._) The nightingale is good-natured not to let
herself be interrupted even by this martial music; she must taste
delicious; I am forgetting all about my hunting with these sweet
dreams. Truly, there's no game to be caught. Why, who's there?

                                  [_Two lovers enter._]

HE.

I say, my sweet life, do you hear the nightingale?

SHE.

I am not deaf, my good friend.

HE.

How my heart overflows with joyousness when I see all harmonious
nature thus gathered about me, when every tone but reechoes the
confession of my love, when all heaven bows down to diffuse its ether
over me.

SHE.

You are raving, my dear!

HE.

Do not call the most natural emotions of my heart raving. (_He
kneels down._) See, I swear to you, here in the presence of glad
heaven--

HINZE (_approaching them courteously_).

Kindly pardon me--would you
not take the trouble to go somewhere else? You are disturbing a hunt
here with your lovely affection.

HE.

Be the sun my witness, the earth--and what else? Thou, thyself,
dearer to me than earth, sun, and all the elements. What is it, good
friend?

HINZE.

The hunt--I beg most humbly.

HE.

Barbarian, who are you, to dare to interrupt the oaths of love?
You are not of woman born, you belong outside humanity.

HINZE.

If you would only consider, sir--

SHE.

Then wait just a second, good friend; you see, I'm sure, that my
lover, lost in the intoxication of the moment, is down on his knees.

HE.

Dost thou believe me now?

SHE.

Oh, didn't I believe you even before you spoke a word? (_She
bends down to him affectionately._) Dearest! I love you! Oh,
inexpressibly!

HE.

Am I mad? Oh, and if I am not, why do I not become so immediately
with excess of joy, wretched, despicable creature that I am? I am no
longer on the earth; look at me well, dearest, and tell me: Am I not
perhaps standing in the sun?

SHE.

You are in my arms, and they shall never release you either.

HE.

Oh, come, this open field is too narrow for my emotions, we must
climb the highest mountain, to tell all nature how happy we are.

[_Exit the lovers, quickly and full of delight. Loud applause and
bravos in the pit._]

WIESENER (_clapping_).

The lover thoroughly exhausted himself. Oh, my,
I gave myself such a blow on the hand that it swelled right up.

NEIGHBOR.

You do not know how to restrain yourself when you are glad.

WIESENER.

Yes, I am always that way.

FISCHER.

Ah!--that was certainly something for the heart; that makes
one feel good again!

LEUTNER.

Really beautiful diction in that scene!

MUeLLER.

But I wonder whether it is essential to the whole?

SCHLOSS.

I never worry about the whole; if I cry, I cry--that's
enough; that was a divine passage.

HINZE.

Such a pair of lovers is good for something in the world after
all; they have fallen plump into the poetical again down there and the
stamping has ceased. There's no game to be caught.

(_A rabbit creeps into the bag; he rushes over and draws the strings
over him._)

Look here, good friend! A kind of game that is a cousin of mine, so to
speak; yes, that's the way with the world nowadays, relatives against
relatives, brother against brother; if one wants to get through the
world oneself, one must push others out of the way.

(_He takes the rabbit out of the bag and puts it into the knapsack._)

Hold! Hold!--truly I must take care not to devour the game myself. I
must just tie up the knapsack quickly only to be able to restrain my
passion. Fie! for shame, Hinze! Is it not the duty of the nobleman to
sacrifice himself and his desires to the happiness of his brother
creatures? That's the reason why we live, and whoever cannot do
that--oh, it were better for him if he had never been born!

(_He is on the point of withdrawing; violent applause and shouting of
"Encore;" he has to repeat the last beautiful passage, then he bows
respectfully and goes of with the rabbit._)

FISCHER.

Oh, what a noble man!

MUeLLER.

What a beautifully human state of mind!

SCHLOSS.

One can still be benefited by things like this, but when I
see such nonsense I should like to smash it with a single blow.

LEUTNER.

I began to feel quite sad too--the nightingale--the
lovers--the last tirade--why the play has some really beautiful
passages after all!

_Hall in the palace_

_Large company. The_ KING. _The_ PRINCESS. _Prince_ NATHANIEL. _The_
COOK (_in gala costume_)

KING (_sitting on throne_).

Over here, cook; now is the time to speak
and answer; I want to examine the matter myself.

COOK (_falls on his knees_).

May it please your majesty to express
your commands for your highness's most faithful servant?

KING.

One cannot expend too much effort, my friends, in keeping a
king--on whose shoulders lies the well-being of a whole country and
that of innumerable subjects--always in good humor. For if he falls
into a bad humor, he very easily becomes a tyrant, a monster; for good
humor encourages cheerfulness, and cheerfulness, according to the
observations of all philosophers, makes man good; whereas melancholy,
on the other hand, is to be considered a vice for the very reason that
it encourages all the vices. Whose duty is it, I now ask, in whose
power does it so lie, to preserve the good spirits of the monarch, so
much as in the hands of a cook? Are not rabbits very innocent animals?
My favorite dish--by means of these animals I could succeed in never
becoming tired of making my country happy--and these rabbits he lets
me do without! Sucking pigs and sucking pigs daily. Rascal, I am
disgusted with this at last!

COOK.

Let not my king condemn me unheard. Heaven is my witness, that I
took all pains to secure those pretty white animals; I even wanted to
purchase them at a rather high price, but there are absolutely none to
be had. If it were possible to get possession of even one of these
rabbits, do you think you would be allowed to doubt for one moment
longer the love your subjects bear you?

KING.

Stop with those roguish words, betake yourself to the kitchen
and show by your action that you love your king. (_Exit cook._) Now I
turn to you, my prince, and to you my daughter. I have been informed,
worthy prince, that my daughter does not love you; she is a
thoughtless, silly girl, but I still give her credit for so much
common sense as probably to have several reasons. She causes me care
and sadness, grief and worry, and my old eyes are flooded with tears
when I think of how she will get along after my death. "You will be
left an old maid," I have told her a thousand times; "take your chance
while it is offered you;" but she will not hear; well, then she'll
have to be made to feel.

PRINCESS.

My father--

KING (_weeping and sobbing_).

Go, ungrateful, disobedient girl--by
your refusal you are drawing me into--alas, only too early a grave!
(_He supports himself on the throne, covers his face with his cloak
and weeps bitterly._)

FISCHER.

Why, the king does not remain true to his character for a
moment.

                     [_Groom of the Chamber comes in._]

GROOM.

Your majesty, a strange man is outside and begs to be admitted
before your majesty.

KING (_sobbing_).

Who is it?

GROOM.

I beg pardon, my king, for not being able to answer this
question. Judging by his long white beard, one should say he is an old
man, and his face completely covered with hair should almost confirm
one in this opinion, but then again he has such bright, youthful eyes,
such a smooth, flexible back, that one cannot understand him. He
appears to be a wealthy man; for he is wearing a pair of fine boots
and as far as I can infer from his exterior he seems to be a hunter.

KING.

Bring him in; I am curious to see him.

        [_Groom goes and returns directly with_ HINZE.]

HINZE.

With your majesty's most gracious permission the Count of
Carabas makes bold to present you with a rabbit.

KING (_delighted_).

A rabbit? Do you hear it, really, people? Ah, fate
has become reconciled with me again! A rabbit?

HINZE (_takes it out of his knapsack_).

Here, great monarch!

KING.

Here--just hold the sceptre a moment, prince. (_He feels the
rabbit._) Fat! nice and fat! From the Count of ----

HINZE.

Carabas.

KING.

Indeed, he must be an excellent man. I must become better
acquainted with him. Who is the man? Which of you knows him? Why does
he keep himself concealed? If such heads as that are allowed to remain
idle, what will become of our throne! I would cry for joy. _Sends me a
rabbit!_ Groom, give it to the cook directly.

                              [_Groom takes it. Exit._]

NATHAN.

My king, I beg most humbly to make my departure.

KING.

Why, indeed! I had almost forgotten that in my joy! Farewell,
prince, yes, you must make room for other suitors; it cannot be
otherwise. Adieu! I wish you had a highroad all the way home.

                      [_Prince kisses his hand. Exit._]

KING (_shouting_).

People! Let my historian come!

                             [_The historian appears._]

KING.

Here, friend, come, here's some material for our history of the
world. You have your book with you, of course!

HISTORIAN.

Yes, my king.

KING.

Now enter immediately, that on such and such a day (whatever
date we happen to have today) the Count of Carabas sent me a present
of a most delicious rabbit.

                [HISTORIAN _seats himself and writes._]

KING.

Do not forget, _Anno currentis_. I must think of everything,
otherwise it's always sure to be done wrong. (_Blast of a trumpet is
heard._) Ah, dinner is ready--come, my daughter, do not weep; if it
isn't one prince, it will be another. Hunter, we thank you for your
trouble. Will you accompany us to the dining-room?

(_They go_, HINZE _follows_.)

LEUTNER.

Pretty soon I shall not be able to stand it any longer; why,
what has happened to the father now, who was so tender to his daughter
at first and touched us all so?

FISCHER.

The only thing that vexes me is that not a person in the play
wonders at the cat; the king and all act as though it had to be so.

SCHLOSS.

My head is all dizzy with this queer stuff.

_Royal dining-room_

_Large table set. Sound of drums and trumpets. Enter the_ KING, _the_
PRINCESS, LEANDER, HINZE, _several distinguished guests and_
JACKPUDDING, _Servants, waiting at the table._

KING.

Let us sit down, otherwise the soup will get cold! Has the
hunter been taken care of?

SERVANT.

Yes, your majesty, he will eat at the little table here with
the court fool.

JACKPUDDING (_to_ HINZE).

Let us sit down, otherwise the soup will get
cold.

HINZE (_sits down_).

With whom have I the honor of dining?

JACKPUD.

A man is what he is, Sir Hunter; we cannot all do the same
thing. I am a poor, exiled fugitive, a man who was once, a long time
ago, witty, but who has now become stupid and re-entered service in a
foreign land where he is again considered witty for a while.

HINZE.

From what country do you come?

JACKPUD.

Unfortunately, only Germany. My countrymen became so wise
about a certain time that they finally forbade all jokes on pain of
punishment; wherever I was seen, I was called by unbearable nicknames,
such as: Absurd, indecent, bizarre--whoever laughed at me was
persecuted like myself, and so I was compelled to go into exile.

HINZE.

Poor man!

JACKPUD.

There are strange trades in the world, Sir Hunter; cooks live
by eating, tailors by vanity, I, by the laughter of human beings; if
they cease to laugh I must starve.

[_Murmuring in the pit: A Jackpudding! A Jackpudding!_]

HINZE.

I do not eat that vegetable.

JACKPUD.

Why? Don't be bashful, help yourself.

HINZE.

I tell you, white cabbage does not agree with me.

JACKPUD.

It will taste all the better to me. Give me your hand! I must
become better acquainted with you, Sir Hunter.

HINZE.

Here!

JACKPUD.

Take here the hand of an honest German fellow; I am not
ashamed of being German, as many of my countrymen are. (_He presses
the cat's hand very tightly._)

HINZE.

Ow! Ow! (_He resists, growls, clutches_ JACKPUDDING.)

JACKPUD.

Oh! Hunter! Are you possessed of the devil? (_He rises and
goes to the king weeping._) Your majesty, the hunter is a perfidious
man; just look at the remembrance of his five fingers he has left on
me.

KING (_eating_).

Strange! Now sit down again; wear gloves in the
future when you give him your hand.

JACKPUD.

One must guard against you.

HINZE.

Why did you take such a hold on me? The deuce take your
pretended honesty!

JACKPUD.

Why, you scratch like a cat!

                          [HINZE _laughs maliciously_.]

KING.

But what's the trouble today, anyhow? Why is there no
intelligent conversation carried on at the table? I do not enjoy a
bite unless my mind has some nourishment too. Court scholar, did you
perhaps fall on your head today?

LEANDER (_eating_).

May it please your majesty--

KING.

How far is the sun from the earth?

LEANDER.

Two million four hundred thousand and seventy-one-miles.

KING.

And the circle in which the planets revolve?

LEANDER.

A hundred thousand million miles.

KING.

A hundred thousand million! There's nothing in the world I like
better to hear than such great numbers--millions, trillions--that
gives you--something to think about. It's a good deal, isn't it, a
thousand million, more or less?

LEANDER.

Human intelligence grows with the numbers.

KING.

 But tell me, about how large is the whole world in general,
counting fixed stars, milky ways, hoods of mist, and all that?

LEANDER.

That cannot be expressed at all.

KING.

But you are to express it or (_threatening with his sceptre_)--

LEANDER.

If we consider a million as one, then about ten hundred
thousand trillions of such units which of themselves amount to a
million.

KING.

Just think, children, think! Would you believe this bit of
world could be so great? But how that occupies the mind!

JACKPUD.

Your majesty, this bowl of rice here seems to me sublimer.

KING.

How's that, fool?

JACKPUD.

Such sublimities of numbers give no food for thought; one
cannot think, for of course the highest number always finally becomes
the smallest again. Why, you just have to think of all the numbers
possible. I can never count beyond five here.

KING.

But say, there's some truth in that. Scholar, how many numbers
are there, anyhow?

LEANDER.

An infinite number.

KING.

Just tell me quickly the highest number.

LEANDER.

There is no highest, because you can always add something to
the highest; human intelligence knows no bounds in this respect.

KING.

But in truth it is a remarkable thing, this human mind.

HINZE.

You must get disgusted with being a fool here.

JACKPUD.

You can introduce nothing new; there are too many working at
the trade.

LEANDER.

The fool, my king, can never understand such a thing; on the
whole I am surprised that your majesty is still amused by his insipid
ideas. Even in Germany they tired of him, and here in Utopia you have
taken him up where thousands of the most wonderful and clever
amusements are at our service. He should be thrown out at once, for he
only brings your taste into bad repute.

KING (_throws the sceptre at his head_).

Sir Brazenbold of a scholar!
What do you dare to say? The fool pleases _me, me_, his king, and if I
like him, how dare you say that the man is ridiculous? You are the
court scholar and he the court fool; you both have equal positions;
the only difference is that he is dining at the little table with the
strange hunter. The fool displays his nonsense at the table, and you
carry on an intelligent conversation at the table; both are only to
while away the time for me and make my meal taste good: where, then,
lies the great difference? Furthermore, it does us good to see a fool
who is more stupid than we, who has not the same gifts; why, then, one
feels greater oneself and is grateful to heaven; even on that account
I like to have a blockhead around.

               [THE COOK _serves the rabbit and goes_.]

KING.

The rabbit! I do not know--I suppose the other gentlemen do not
care for it?

ALL (_bow_).

KING.

Well, then, with your permission, I will keep it for myself.
(_He eats._)

PRINCESS.

It seems to me the king is making faces as though he were
getting an attack again.

KING (_rising in rage_).

The rabbit is burned! Oh, earth! Oh, pain!
What keeps me from sending the cook right down to Orcus as fast as
possible?

PRINCESS.

My father!

KING.

How did this stranger lose his way among the people? His eyes
are dry--

ALL (_arise very sadly_, JACKPUDDING _runs back and forth busily_,
HINZE _remains seated and eats steadily_).

KING.

A long, long, good night; no morning will ever brighten it.

PRINCESS.

Do have some one fetch the peacemaker.

KING.

May the Cook Philip be Hell's cry of jubilee when an ungrateful
wretch is burned to ashes!

PRINCESS.

Where can the musician be!

KING.

To be or not to be--

[_The peacemaker enters with a set of musical bells and begins to play
them at once._]

KING.

What is the matter with me? (_Weeping._) Alas! I have already
had my attack again. Have the rabbit taken out of my sight. (_He lays
his head on the table, full of grief, and sobs._)

COURTIER.

His majesty suffers much.

[_Violent stamping and whistling in the pit; they cough, they hiss;
those in the gallery laugh; the king gets up, arranges his cloak and
sits down majestically with his sceptre. It is all in vain; the noise
continues to increase, all the actors forget their parts, a terrible
pause on the stage. HINZE has climbed up a pillar. The author appears
on the stage, overcome._]

AUTHOR.

Gentlemen--most honorable public--just a few words!

IN THE PIT.

Quiet! Quiet! The fool wishes to speak!

AUTHOR.

For the sake of heaven, do not disgrace me thus; why, the act
will be over directly. Just look, the king, too, is again calmed; take
an example from this great soul which certainly has more reason to be
vexed than you.

FISCHER.

More than we?

WIESENER (_to his neighbor_).

But I wonder why you are stamping? We
two like the play, do we not?

NEIGHBOR.

That's true too--absent-mindedly, because they're all doing
it. (_Claps with might and main._)

AUTHOR.

A few voices are still favorable to me, however. For pity, do
put up with my poor play; a rogue gives more than he has, and it will
be over soon, too. I am so confused and frightened that I can think
of nothing else to say to you.

ALL.

We want to hear nothing, know nothing.

AUTHOR (_raging, drags the peacemaker forward_).

The king is calmed,
now calm this raging flood too, if you can. (_Beside himself, rushes
off._)

[_The peacemaker plays on his bells, the stamping keeps time with the
melody; he motions; monkeys and bears appear and dance fondly around
him. Eagles and other birds. An eagle sits on the head of HINZE who is
very much afraid; two elephants, two lions. Ballet and singing._]

THE FOUR-FOOTED ANIMALS.

That sounds so beautiful!

THE BIRDS.

That sounds so lovely!

CHORUS TOGETHER.

Never have I seen or heard the like!

[_Hereupon an artistic quadrille is danced by all present, the king
and his court retinue are taken into the centre, HINZE and JACKPUDDING
not excluded; general applause. Laughter; people standing up in pit to
see better; several hats fall down from the gallery._]

THE PEACEMAKER (_sings during the ballet and the audience's general
expression of pleasure_).


  Could only all good men
  Soft bells like these discover
  Each enemy would then
  With ease be turned to lover.
  And life without bad friends would be
  All sweet and lovely harmony.


[_The curtain falls, all shout and applaud, the ballet is heard
awhile._]


INTERLUDE

WIESENER.

Splendid! Splendid!

NEIGHBOR.

Well, I'd certainly call that a heroic ballet.

WIESENER.

And so beautifully woven into the main plot!

LEUTNER.

Beautiful music!

FISCHER.

Divine!

SCHLOSS.

The ballet is the only redeeming feature of the play.

BOeTTICH.

I still keep on admiring the acting of the cat. In such
details one recognizes the great and experienced actor; for example,
as often as he took the rabbit out of the sack, he always lifted it by
the ears; that was not prescribed for him; I wonder whether you
noticed how the king grasped it at once by the body? But these animals
are held by the ears because that is where they can best bear it.
That's what I call a master!

MUeLLER.

That is a very fine explanation.

FISCHER (_aside_).

He himself ought to be lifted by the ears for it.

BOeTTICH.

And his terror when the eagle was sitting on his head! How he
did not even move for fear, did not stir or budge--it is beyond
description!

MUeLLER.

You go very deeply into the matter.

BOeTTICH.

I flatter myself I am a bit of a connoisseur; that is of
course not the case with all of you, and for that reason the matter
must be demonstrated to you.

FISCHER.

You are taking great pains!

BOeTTICH.

Oh, when you love art as I do it is a pleasant task! Just now
a very acute thought also occurred to me concerning the cat's boots,
and in them I admire the genius of the actor. You see, at first be is
a cat; for that reason he must lay aside his natural clothing in order
to assume the appropriate disguise of a cat. Then he has to appear
fully as a hunter; that is what I conclude, for every one calls him
that, nor does a soul marvel at him; an unskilful actor would have
dressed himself exactly so too, but what would have happened to our
illusion? We might perhaps have forgotten that he was still originally
a cat and how uncomfortable a new costume would be for the actor over
the fur he already had. By means of the boots, however, he merely
skilfully suggests the hunter's costume; and that such suggestions are
extremely dramatic, the ancients prove to us very excellently, in
often--

FISCHER.

Hush! The third act is beginning.



ACT III


_Room in a peasant's house_

_The_ PLAYWRIGHT. _The_ MACHINIST.


MACHIN.

Then do you really think that will do any good?

PLAYWR.

I beg, I entreat you, do not refuse my request; my only hope
depends on it.

LEUTNER.

Why, what's this again? How did these people ever get into
Gottlieb's room?

SCHLOSS.

I won't rack my brains about anything more.

MACHIN.

But, dear friend, you certainly do ask too much, to have all
this done in such a hurry, entirely on the spur of the moment.

PLAYWR.

I believe you are against me, too; you also rejoice in my
misfortune.

MACHIN.

Not in the least.

PLAYWRIGHT (_falls down before him_).

Then prove it to me by yielding
to my request; if the disapproval of the audience breaks out so loudly
again, then at a motion from me let all the machines play; as it is,
the second act has already closed quite differently from the way it
reads in my manuscript.

MACHIN.

What's this now? Why, who raised the curtain?

PLAYWR.

It never rains but it pours! I am lost! (_He rushes in
embarrassment behind the scenes._)

MACHIN.

There never has been such a confusion on any evening.

                                     [_Exit. A pause._]

WIESENER.

I say, does that belong to the play?

NEIGHBOR.

Of course--why that motivates the transformation to follow.

FISCHER.

This evening ought certainly to be described in the theatre
almanac.

KING (_behind the scenes_).

No, I will not appear, on no condition; I
cannot bear to have any one laugh at me.

PLAYWR.

But you--dearest friend--it can't be changed now.

JACKPUD.

Well, I will try my luck. (_He steps forward and bows
comically to the audience._)

MUeLLER.

Why, what is Jackpudding doing in the peasant's room now?

SCHLOSS.

I suppose he wants to deliver a ridiculous monologue.

JACKPUD.

Pardon me if I make bold to say a few words which do not
exactly belong to the play.

FISCHER.

Oh, you should keep perfectly quiet, we're tired of you even
in the play; moreover, now so very--

SCHLOSS.

A Jackpudding dares to talk to us?

JACKPUD.

Why not? For if people laugh at me, I am not hurt at all;
why, it would be my warmest wish to have you laugh at me. So do not
hesitate.

LEUTNER.

That is pretty funny!

JACKPUD.

Naturally, what scarcely befits the king is all the more
fitting for me; hence he would not appear, but left this important
announcement to me.

MUeLLER.

But we do not wish to hear anything.

JACKPUD.

My dear German countrymen--

SCHLOSS.

I believe the setting of the play is in Asia.

JACKPUD.

But now, you see, I am talking to you merely as an actor to
the spectators.

SCHLOSS.

People, it's all over with me now; I am crazy.

JACKPUD.

Do be pleased to hear that the former scene, which you just
saw, is not part of the play at all.

FISCHER.

Not part of the play? Then how does it get in there?

JACKPUD.

The curtain was raised too soon. It was a private discussion
which would not have taken place on the stage at all if it were not so
horribly crowded behind the scenes. Now if you were deceived, it is of
course so much the worse; then just be kind enough to eradicate this
delusion again; for from now on, do you understand me, only after I
have gone away, will the act really begin. Between you and me, all the
preceding has nothing to do with it at all. But you are to be
compensated; much is coming soon which is very essential to the plot.
I have spoken to the playwright myself and he has assured me of it.

FISCHER.

Yes, your playwright is just the fellow.

JACKPUD.

He's good for nothing, isn't it so? Well, I am glad after
all, that there is still some one else who has the same taste as I--

THE PIT.

All of us, all of us!

JACKPUD.

Your obedient servant; it is too great an honor by far. Yes,
God knows, he is a wretched writer--only to give a bad example; what a
miserable part he has given me! Where, pray, am I witty and funny? I
appear in so few scenes, and I believe, if I hadn't stepped forward
even now, by a lucky chance, I should not have appeared again at all.

PLAYWRIGHT (_rushing forward_).

Impudent fellow--

JACKPUD.

Look, he is even jealous of the small part I am playing now.

PLAYWRIGHT (_on the other side of the stage with a bow_).

Worthy
friends! I never should have dared to give this man a more important
part since I know your taste--

JACKPUDDING (_on the other side_).

_Your_ taste? Now you see his
jealousy--and they have all just declared that my taste is the same as
theirs.

PLAYWR.

I wished, by means of the present play, only to prepare you
for even more extravagant products of the imagination.

ALL IN THE PIT.

How? What?

JACKPUD.

Of course for plays in which I would have no part to act at
all.

PLAYWR.

For the development of this matter must advance step by step.

JACKPUD.

Don't believe a word he says!

PLAYWR.

Now I withdraw, not to interrupt the course of the play any
longer.

                                              [_Exit._]

JACKPUD.

Adieu, until we meet again. (_Exit, returns again quickly._)
_Apropos_--another thing--the discussion which has just taken place
among us is not part of the play either.

                                              [_Exit._]

THE PIT (_laughs_).

JACKPUDDING (_returns again quickly_).

Let us finish the wretched play
today; make believe you do not notice at all how bad it is; as soon as
I get home I'll sit down and write one for you that you will certainly
like.

                               [_Exit, some applause._]

(_Enter_ GOTTLIEB _and_ HINZE)

GOTTLIEB.

Dear Hinze, it is true you are doing much for me, but I
still cannot understand what good it is going to do me.

HINZE.

Upon my word, I want to make you happy.

GOTTLIEB.

Happiness must come soon, very soon, otherwise it will be
too late; it is already half past seven and the comedy ends at eight.

HINZE.

Say, what the devil does that mean?

GOTTLIEB.

Oh, I was lost in thought--See! I meant to say, how
beautifully the sun has risen. The accursed prompter speaks so
indistinctly; and then if you want to extemporize once in a while, it
always goes wrong.

HINZE (_quietly_).

Do bethink yourself, otherwise the whole play will
break in a thousand pieces.

SCHLOSS.

I wish somebody would tell me why I can no longer understand
anything.

FISCHER.

My intelligence is at a standstill too.

GOTTLIEB.

So my fortune is yet to be determined today?

HINZE.

Yes, dear Gottlieb, even before the sun sets. See, I love you
so much that I would run through fire for you--and you doubt my
sincerity?

WIESENER.

Did you hear that? He is going to run through fire. Ah,
fine, here we get the scene from the _Magic Flute_ too, with the fire
and the water!

NEIGHBOR.

But cats do not go into the water.

WIESENER.

Why so much the greater is the cat's love for his master,
you see; that's just what the author wants to make us understand.

HINZE.

Now what would you like to become in the world, anyhow?

GOTTLIEB.

Oh, I don't know, myself.

HINZE.

Perhaps you'd like to become a prince, or a king?

GOTTLIEB.

That, better than anything.

HINZE.

And do you also feel the strength within you to make a nation
happy?

GOTTLIEB.

Why not? If only I am once happy myself.

HINZE.

Well, then content yourself. I swear to you, you shall mount
the throne.

                                              [_Exit._]

GOTTLIEB.

It would have to come about mysteriously--still, of course,
so many unexpected things happen in the world.

                                              [_Exit._]

BOeTTICH.

Do notice the infinite refinement with which the cat always
holds his cane.

FISCHER.

You've been a bore to us for the longest while; you are even
more tiresome than the play.

SCHLOSS.

You even add to the confusion in our heads.

MUeLLER.

You talk constantly and do not know what you want.

MANY VOICES.

Out! Out! He's a nuisance! (_A crowd;_ BOeTTICHER _finds
himself compelled to leave the theatre._)

FISCHER.

He with his talk about refinement!

SCHLOSS.

He always vexes me when he considers himself a connoisseur.

_An open field_

HINZE (_with knapsack and bag_).

I have become quite accustomed to
hunting. Every day I catch partridges, rabbits and the like, and the
dear little animals are getting more and more practice in being
caught. (_He spreads out his bag._) Now the season of the nightingales
is over, I do not hear a single one singing.

                              [_Enter the two lovers._]

HE.

Go, you bore me.

SHE.

I am disgusted with you.

HE.

A fine kind of love!

SHE.

Wretched hypocrite, how you have deceived me!

HE.

What has become of your infinite tenderness?

SHE.

And your faithfulness?

HE.

Your rapture?

SHE.

Your infatuation?

BOTH.

The devil has taken it! That comes of marrying.

HINZE.

The hunt has never yet been so disturbed--if you would be
pleased to notice that this open field is clearly too confined for
your sorrows, and climb up some mountain.

HE.

Insolent wretch! (_Boxes_ HINZE _on the ear._)

SHE.

Boor! (_Also boxes_ HINZE _on the ear._)

HINZE (_purrs_).

SHE.

It seems best to me that we be parted again.

HE.

I am at your bidding.

                                   [_Exit the lovers._]

HINZE.

Nice people, these so-called human beings. Just look, two
partridges; I will carry them off quickly. Now, fortune, make haste,
for I myself am almost getting impatient. Now I have no longer any
desire to eat the partridges. It's probably thus, that, by mere habit,
we can implant in our nature every possible virtue.

                                              [_Exit._]

_Hall in the Palace_

_The_ KING _on his throne with the_ PRINCESS; LEANDER _in a lecturer's
chair; opposite him_ JACKPUDDING _in another lecturer's chair; in the
centre of the hall a costly hat, decorated with gold and precious
stones, is fastened on a high pole. The entire court is present._

KING.

Never yet has a person rendered such services to his country as
this amiable Count of Carabas. Our historian has already almost filled
a thick volume, so often has the Count presented me with pretty and
delicious gifts, sometimes even twice a day, through his hunter. My
appreciation of his kindness is boundless and I desire nothing more
earnestly than to find at some time the opportunity of discharging to
some extent the great debt I owe him.

PRINCESS.

Dearest father, would your majesty not most graciously
permit the learned disputation to begin? My heart yearns for this
mental activity.

KING.

Yes, it may begin now. Court scholar--court fool--you both know
that to the one who gains the victory in this disputation is allotted
that costly hat; for this very reason have I had it set up here, so
that you may have it always before your eyes and never be in want of
quick wit.

                [LEANDER _and_ JACKPUDDING _bow_.]

LEANDER.

The theme of my assertion is, that a recently published play
by the name of _Puss in Boots_ is a good play.

JACKPUD.

That is just what I deny.

LEANDER.

Prove that it is bad.

JACKPUD.

Prove that it is good.

LEUTNER.

What's this again? Why that's the very play they are giving
here, if I am not mistaken.

MUeLLER.

No other.

SCHLOSS.

Do tell me whether I am awake and have my eyes open.

LEANDER.

The play, if not perfectly excellent, is still to be praised
in several respects.

JACKPUD.

Not one respect.

LEANDER.

I assert that it displays wit.

JACKPUD.

I assert that it displays none.

LEANDER.

You are a fool; how can you pretend to judge concerning wit?

JACKPUD.

And you are a scholar; what can you pretend to understand
about wit?

LEANDER.

Several characters are well-sustained.

JACKPUD.

Not a single one.

LEANDER.

Then, even if I concede else, the audience is well drawn in
it.

JACKPUD.

An audience never has a character.

LEANDER.

I am almost amazed at this boldness.

JACKPUD (_to the pit_).

Isn't he a foolish fellow? Here we are, hand
and glove with each other and sympathize in our views on taste, and he
wishes to assert in opposition to my opinion, that at least the
audience in _Puss in Boots_ is well drawn.

FISCHER.

The audience? Why no audience appears in the play.

JACKPUD.

That's even better! So, then, no audience is presented in it
at all?

MUeLLER.

Why not a bit of it, unless he means the several kinds of
fools that appear.

JACKPUD.

Now, do you see, scholar! What these gentlemen down there are
saying must certainly be true.

LEANDER.

I am getting confused, but still I won't yield the victory to
you.

                                       [_Enter_ HINZE.]

JACKPUD.

Sir Hunter, a word! (HINZE _approaches, they whisper._)

HINZE.
If it's nothing more than that. (_He takes off his boots,
climbs up the pole, then takes the hat, jumps down, then puts his
boots on again._)

JACKPUD.

Victory! Victory!

KING.

The deuce! How clever the hunter is!

LEANDER.

I only regret that I have been vanquished by a fool, that
learning must acknowledge foolishness as its superior.

KING.

Keep still; you wanted the hat, he wanted the hat; so again I
see no difference. But what have you brought, hunter?

HINZE.

The Count of Carabas commends himself most respectfully to your
majesty and sends you these two partridges.

KING.

Too much! too much! I am sinking under the burden of gratitude!
Long since should I have done my duty and visited him; today I will
delay no longer. Have my royal carriage prepared at once--eight horses
in front--I want to go driving with my daughter. You, Hunter, are to
show us the way to the castle of the count.

                                 [_Exit with retinue._]

HINZE. JACKPUDDING

HINZE.

What was your disputation about, anyhow?

JACKPUD.

I asserted that a certain play, which, moreover, I am not
acquainted with at all, _Puss in Boots_, is a wretched play.

HINZE.

So?

JACKPUD.

Adieu, Sir Hunter.

                                              [_Exit._]

HINZE (_alone_).

I'm all in the dumps. I, myself, helped the fool win
a victory against a play in which I myself am taking the leading part.
Fate! Fate! Into what complications do you so often lead us mortals?
But be that as it may. If I only succeed in putting my beloved
Gottlieb on the throne, I will gladly forget all my other troubles.
The king wishes to visit the count? Now that is another bad situation
which I must clear up; now the great, important day has arrived on
which I need you so particularly, you boots. Now do not desert me; all
must be determined today.

                                              [_Exit._]

FISCHER.

Do tell me what this is--the play itself--it appears again as
a play in the play.

SCHLOSS.

Without much ceremony, I am crazy--didn't I say at once, that
is the enjoyment of art which you are said to have here?

LEUTNER.

No tragedy has ever affected me as this farce has.

_In front of the tavern_

THE HOST (_reaping corn with a scythe_).

This is hard work! Well, of
course people cannot be deserting every day either. I only wish the
harvest were over. After all, life consists of nothing but work; now
draw beer, then clean glasses, then pour it out--now even reap. Life
means work--and here some learned folk are even so wicked, in their
books, as to try to put sleep out of fashion, because one does not
live enough for one's time. But I am a great friend of sleep.

                                       [_Enter_ HINZE.]

HINZE.

Whoever wants to hear something wonderful, listen to me now! How I
have been running!--first from the royal palace to Gottlieb, second
with Gottlieb to the palace of the Bugbear where I left him, third
from there back again to the king, fourth I am now racing ahead of the
king's coach like a courier and showing him the way. Hey! good friend!

HOST.

Who's that? Countryman, you must probably be a stranger, for the
people in this neighborhood know that I do not sell any beer about
this time; I need it for myself; when one does work like mine, one
must also fortify one's self. I am sorry, but I cannot help you.

HINZE.

I do not want any beer, I never drink beer; I only want to say
a few words to you.

HOST.

You must certainly be a regular idler, to attempt to disturb
industrious people in their occupation.

HINZE.

I do not wish to disturb you. Just listen: the neighboring king
will drive by here, he will probably step out of his carriage and
inquire to whom these villages belong. If your life is dear to you, if
you do not wish to be hanged or burned, then be sure to answer: to the
Count of Carabas.

HOST.

But, Sir, we are subject to the law.

HINZE.

I know that well enough, but, as I said, if you do not wish to
die, this region here belongs to the Count of Carabas.

                                              [_Exit._]

HOST.

Many thanks! Now this would be the finest kind of opportunity
for me to get out of ever having to work again. All I need do is to
say to the king--the country belongs to the Bugbear. But no, idleness
breeds vice: _Ora et labora_ is my motto.

[_A fine carriage with eight horses, many servants behind; it stops;
the_ KING _and_ PRINCESS _step out._]

PRINCESS.

I am somewhat curious to see the Count.

KING.

So am I, my daughter. Good day, my friend. To whom do these
villages here belong?

HOST (_aside_).

He asks as though he were ready to have me hanged at
once.--To the Count of Carabas, your majesty.

KING.

A beautiful country. But I always thought the country must look
altogether different if I should cross the border, judging from the
maps. Do help me a bit. (_He climbs up a tree quickly._)

PRINCESS.

What are you doing, my royal father?

KING.

I like open views on beautiful landscapes.

PRINCESS.

Can you see far?

KING.

Oh, yes, and if it were not for those annoying mountains, you
would see even further. Oh, my, the tree is full of caterpillars! (_He
climbs down again._)

PRINCESS.

That is because it is a scene in nature which has not yet
been idealized; imagination must first ennoble it.

KING.

I wish you could take the caterpillars off me by means of
imagination. But get in, we must drive ahead.

PRINCESS.

Farewell, good, innocent peasant. (_They get into the
carriage; it drives on._)

HOST.

How the world has changed! If you read in old books or listen to
old people's stories, they always got louis d'ors or something like
that if they spoke to a king or a prince. Such a king would formerly
never dare to open his mouth if he did not press gold pieces into your
hand at once. But now! How, pray, is one to make one's fortune
unexpectedly, if the chance is over even with kings? Innocent peasant!
I wish to God I didn't owe anything--that comes of the new sentimental
descriptions of country life. Such a king is powerful and envies
people of our station. I must only thank God that he did not hang me.
The strange hunter was our Bugbear himself after all. At least it will
now appear in the paper, I suppose, that the king has spoken to me
graciously. [_Exit._]

_Another region_

KUNZ (_reaping corn_).

Bitter work! And if at least I were doing it
for myself--but this compulsory villainage! Here one must do nothing
but sweat for the Bugbear and he does not even thank one. Of course
they always say in this world that laws are necessary to keep the
people in order, but what need there is here of _our Law_ who devours
all of us, I cannot understand.

                               [HINZE _comes running_.]

HINZE.

Now I have blisters-on my soles already--well, it doesn't
matter, Gottlieb, Gottlieb must get the throne for it. Hey, good
friend!

KUNZ.

Who's _this_ fellow?

HINZE.

The king will drive by here directly. If he asks you to whom
all this belongs, you must answer--to the Count of Carabas; otherwise
you will be chopped into a thousand million pieces. For the welfare of
the public, the law desires it thus.

FISCHER.

For the welfare of the public?

SCHLOSS.

Naturally, for otherwise the play would never end.

HINZE.

Your life is probably dear to you.

                                              [_Exit._]

KUNZ.

That's just how the edicts always sound. Well, I don't mind
saying that, if only no new taxes result from it. One must trust no
innovation.

[_The coach drives up and stops; the_ KING _and the_ PRINCESS _step
out._]

KING.

A fine landscape, too. We have already seen a great deal of
very fine country. To whom does this land belong?

KUNZ.

To the Count of Carabas.

KING.

He has splendid estates, that must be true--and so near mine;
daughter, that seems to be a good match for you. What is your opinion?

PRINCESS.

You embarrass me, my father. What new things one sees while
traveling, though. Do tell me, pray, good peasant, why do you cut down
the straw like that?

KUNZ (_laughing_).

Why, this is the harvest, Mam'selle Queen--the
corn.

KING.

Corn? What do you use that for, pray?

KUNZ (_laughing_).

Bread is baked from that.

KING.

Pray, daughter, for heaven's sake, bread is baked of it! Who would
ever think of such tricks! Nature is something marvelous, after all.
Here, good friend, get a drink, it is warm today. (_He steps in again
with the_ PRINCESS; _the carriage drives away._)

KUNZ.

If he wasn't a king, you'd almost think he was stupid. Doesn't know
what corn is! Well, you learn new things every day, of course. Here he
has given me a shining piece of gold and I'll fetch myself a can of
good beer at once. [_Exit._]

_Another part of the country, beside a river_

GOTTLIEB.

Now here I've been standing two hours already, waiting for my friend,
Hinze. And he's not coming yet. There he is! But how he's running--he
seems all out of breath.

                               [HINZE _comes running._]

HINZE.

Well, friend Gottlieb, take off your clothes quickly?

GOTTLIEB.

My clothes?

HINZE.

And then jump into the water here--

GOTTLIEB.

Into the water?

HINZE.

And then I will throw the clothing into the bush--

GOTTLIEB.

Into the bush?

HINZE.

And then you are provided for!

GOTTLIEB.

I agree with you; if I am drowned and my clothes gone, I am well
enough provided for.

HINZE.

There is no time for joking--

GOTTLIEB.

I am not joking at all. Is that what I had to wait here for?

HINZE.

Undress!

GOTTLIEB.

Well, I'll do anything to please you.

HINZE.

Come, you are only to take a little bath. (_Exit with_ GOTTLIEB. _Then
he comes back with the clothing which he throws into a bush._) Help!
Help! Help!

[_The carriage. The_ KING _looks out of the coach door._]

KING.

What is it, Hunter? Why do you shout so?

HINZE.

Help, your majesty, the Count of Carabas is drowned!

KING.

Drowned!

PRINCESS (_in the carriage_).

Carabas!

KING.

My daughter in a faint! The Count drowned!

HINZE.

Perhaps he can still be saved; he is lying there in the water.

KING.

Servants! Try everything, anything to preserve the noble man.

SERVANT.

We have rescued him, your majesty.

HINZE.

Misfortune upon misfortune, my king! The Count was bathing here in the
clear water and a rogue stole his clothing.

KING.

Unstrap my trunk at once--give him some of my clothes. Cheer up,
daughter, the Count is rescued.

HINZE.

I must hurry.

                                              [_Exit._]

GOTTLIEB (_in the king's clothing_).

Your majesty--

KING.

Here is the Count! I recognize him by my clothing! Step in, my best
friend--how are you? Where do you get all the rabbits? I cannot
compose myself for joy! Drive on, coachman!

                   [_The carriage drives off quickly._]

SERVANT.

None but the hangman could come up so quickly--now I have the pleasure
of running behind on foot, and besides I'm just as wet as a cat.

LEUTNER.

How many more times, pray, will the carriage appear?

WIESENER.

Neighbor! Why, you are asleep!

NEIGHBOR.

Not at all--a fine play.

_Palace of the Bugbear_

_The_ BUGBEAR _appears as a rhinoceros; a poor peasant stands before
him._

PEASANT.

May it please your honor--

BUGBEAR.

There must be justice, my friend.

PEASANT.

I cannot pay just now.

BUGBEAR.

Be still, you have lost the case; the law demands money and your
punishment; consequently your land must be sold. There is nothing else
to be done and this is for the sake of justice.

                                      [_Exit peasant._]

BUGBEAR (_who is re-transformed into an ordinary bugbear_).

These people would lose all respect if they were not compelled to fear
in this way.

               [_An officer enters, bowing profusely._]

OFFICER.

May it please you, honored sir--I--

BUGBEAR.

What's your trouble, my friend?

OFFICER.

With your kindest permission, I tremble and quiver in your
honor's formidable presence.

BUGBEAR.

Oh, this is far from my most terrible form.

OFFICER.

I really came--in matters--to beg you to take my part against
my neighbor. I had also brought this purse with me--but the presence
of Lord Law is too frightful for me.

BUGBEAR (_suddenly changes into a mouse and sits in a corner_).

OFFICER.

Why, where has the Bugbear gone?

BUGBEAR (_in a delicate voice_).

Just put the money down there on the
table; I will sit here to avoid frightening you.

OFFICER.

Here. (_He lays the money down_.) Oh, this justice is a
splendid thing--how can one be afraid of such a mouse!

                                              [_Exit_.]

BUGBEAR (_assumes his natural form_).

A pretty good purse--of course
one must sympathize with human weakness.

                                       [_Enter_ HINZE.]

HINZE.

With your permission--(_aside_) Hinze, you must pluck up
courage--(_aloud_) Your Excellency!

BUGBEAR.

What do you wish?

HINZE.

I am a scholar traveling through this region and wished to take the
liberty of making your excellency's acquaintance.

BUGBEAR.

Very well, then, make my acquaintance.

HINZE.

You are a mighty prince; your love of justice is known all over the
world.

BUGBEAR.

Yes, I don't doubt it. Do sit down!

HINZE.

They tell many wonderful things about Your Highness--

BUGBEAR.

Yes, people always want something to talk about and so the reigning
monarchs must be the first to be discussed.

HINZE.

But still, there is one thing I cannot believe, that Your Excellency
can transform yourself into an elephant and a tiger.

BUGBEAR.

I will give you an example of it at once. (_He changes into a lion_.)

HINZE (_draws out a portfolio, trembling_).

Permit me to make note of this marvel--but now would you also please
resume your natural charming form? Otherwise I shall die of fear.

BUGBEAR (_in his own form_).

Those are tricks, friend! Don't you
think so?

HINZE.

Marvelous! But another thing--they also say you can transform yourself
into very small animals--with your permission, that is even far more
incomprehensible to me; for, do tell me, what becomes of your large
body then?

BUGBEAR.

I will do that too.

[_He changes into a mouse_. HINZE _leaps after him, the Bugbear flees
into another room_, HINZE _after him_.]

HINZE (_coming back_).

Freedom and Equality! The Law is devoured! Now indeed the
Tiers--_Etat_! Gottlieb will surely secure the government.

SCHLOSS.

Why, a revolutionary play after all? Then for heaven's sake, you
surely shouldn't stamp!

[_The stamping continues_, WIESENER _and several others applaud_,
HINZE _creeps into a corner and finally even leaves the stage. The
playwright is heard quarreling behind the scenes and then enters_.]

PLAYWR.

What am I to do? The play will be over directly--everything would
perhaps have run smoothly--now just in this moral scene I had expected
so much applause. If this were only not so far away from the king's
palace, I would fetch the peacemaker; he explained to me at the end of
the second act all the fables of Orpheus--but am I not a fool? I
became quite confused--why, this is the theatre here, and the
peacemaker must be somewhere behind the scenes--I will look for him--I
must find him--he shall save me! (_Exit, returns again quickly_.) He
is not _there_, Sir Peacemaker! An empty echo mocks me--he has
deserted me, his playwright. Ha! there I see him--he must come
forward.

[_The pauses are always filled by stamping in the pit and the
playwright delivers this monologue in recitative, so that the effect
is rather melodramatic_.]

PEACEMAKER (_behind the scenes_).

No, I will not appear.

PLAYWR.

But why not, pray?

PEACEMAK.

Why, I have already undressed.

PLAYWR.

That doesn't matter. (_He pushes him forward by force_.)

PEACEMAKER (_appearing in his ordinary dress, with, the set of
bells_).

Well, you may take the responsibility. (_He plays on the bells and
sings_.)

  These sacred halls of beauty
  Revenge have never known.
  For love guides back to duty
  The man who vice has sown.
  Then he is led by friendly hand,
  Glad and content, to a better land.

[_The pit begins to applaud; meanwhile the scene is changed, the fire
and water taken from the_ MAGIC FLUTE _begin to play, above appears
the open temple of the sun, the sky is clear and Jupiter sits within
it, beneath Hell with Terkaleon, cobalds and witches on the stage,
many lights, etc. The audience applauds excessively, everything is
astir_.]

WIESENER.

Now the cat has only to go through fire and water and then the play is
finished.

[_Enter the_ KING, _the_ PRINCESS, GOTTLIEB, HINZE _and servants_.]

HINZE.

This is the palace of the Count of Carabas. Why, the dickens, how this
has changed!

KING.

A beautiful palace!

HINZE.

As long as matters _have_ gone thus far (_taking Gottlieb by
the hand_) you must first walk through the fire here and then through
the water there.

GOTTLIEB (_walks through fire and water to the sound of flute and
drum_.)

HINZE.

You have stood the test; now, my prince, you are altogether worthy of
the government.

GOTTLIEB.

Governing, Hinze, is a curious matter.

KING.

Accept, now, the hand of my daughter.

PRINCESS.

How happy I am!

GOTTLIEB.

I, likewise. But, my king, I would desire to reward my servant.

KING.

By all means; I herewith raise him to the nobility. (_He hangs an
order about the cat's neck_.) What is his actual name?

GOTTLIEB.

Hinze. By birth he is of but a lowly family--but his merits exalt him.

LEANDER (_quickly stepping forward_).

  After the King I rode with due submission,
  And now implore his Majesty's permission
  To close with laudatory lines poetic
  This play so very wondrous and prophetic.
  In praise of cats my grateful anthem soars--
  The noblest of those creatures on all fours
  Who daily bring contentment to our doors.
  In Egypt cats were gods, and very nice is
  The Tom-cat who was cousin to Great Isis.
  They still protect our cellar, attic, kitchen,
  And serve the man who this world's goods is rich in.
  Our homes had household gods of yore to grace them.
  If cats be gods, then with the Lares place them!

                       [_Drumming. The curtain falls_.]





FAIR ECKBERT (1796)

BY LUDWIG TIECK

TRANSLATED BY PAUL B. THOMAS


In a region of the Hartz Mountains there lived a knight whom people
generally called simply Fair Eckbert. He was about forty years old,
scarcely of medium height, and short, very fair hair fell thick and
straight over his pale, sunken face. He lived very quietly unto
himself, and was never implicated in the feuds of his neighbors;
people saw him but rarely outside the encircling wall of his little
castle. His wife loved solitude quite as much as he, and both seemed
to love each other from the heart; only they were wont to complain
because Heaven seemed unwilling to bless their marriage with children.

Very seldom was Eckbert visited by guests, and even when he was,
almost no change on their account was made in the ordinary routine of
his life. Frugality dwelt there, and Economy herself seemed to
regulate everything. Eckbert was then cheerful and gay--only when he
was alone one noticed in him a certain reserve, a quiet distant
melancholy.

Nobody came so often to the castle as did Philip Walther, a man to
whom Eckbert had become greatly attached, because he found in him very
much his own way of thinking. His home was really in Franconia, but he
often spent more than half a year at a time in the vicinity of
Eckbert's castle, where he busied himself gathering herbs and stones
and arranging them in order. He had a small income, and was therefore
dependent upon no one. Eckbert often accompanied him on his lonely
rambles, and thus a closer friendship developed between the two men
with each succeeding year.

There are hours in which it worries a man to keep from a friend a
secret, which hitherto he has often taken great pains to conceal. The
soul then feels an irresistible impulse to impart itself completely,
and reveal its innermost self to the friend, in order to make him so
much the more a friend. At these moments delicate souls disclose
themselves to each other, and it doubtless sometimes happens that the
one shrinks back in fright from its acquaintance with the other.

One foggy evening in early autumn Eckbert was sitting with his friend
and his wife, Bertha, around the hearth-fire. The flames threw a
bright glow out into the room and played on the ceiling above. The
night looked in darkly through the windows, and the trees outside were
shivering in the damp cold. Walther was lamenting that he had so far
to go to get back home, and Eckbert proposed that he remain there and
spend half the night in familiar talk, and then sleep until morning in
one of the rooms of the castle. Walther accepted the proposal,
whereupon wine and supper were brought in, the fire was replenished
with wood, and the conversation of the two friends became more cheery
and confidential.

After the dishes had been cleared off, and the servants had gone out,
Eckbert took Walther's hand and said:

"Friend, you ought once to let my wife tell you the story of her
youth, which is indeed strange enough."

"Gladly," replied Walther, and they all sat down again around the
hearth. It was now exactly midnight, and the moon shone intermittently
through the passing clouds.

"You must forgive me," began Bertha, "but my husband says your
thoughts are so noble that it is not right to conceal anything from
you. Only you must not regard my story as a fairy-tale, no matter how
strange it may sound.

"I was born in a village, my father was a poor shepherd. The household
economy of my parents was on a humble plane--often they did not know
where they were going to get their bread. But what grieved me far more
than that was the fact that my father and mother often quarreled over
their poverty, and cast bitter reproaches at each other. Furthermore I
was constantly hearing about myself, that I was a simple, stupid
child, who could not perform even the most trifling task. And I was
indeed extremely awkward and clumsy; I let everything drop from my
hands, I learned neither to sew nor to spin, I could do nothing to
help about the house. The misery of my parents, however, I understood
extremely well. I often used to sit in the corner and fill my head
with notions--how I would help them if I should suddenly become rich,
how I would shower them with gold and silver and take delight in their
astonishment. Then I would see spirits come floating up, who would
reveal subterranean treasures to me or give me pebbles which afterward
turned into gems. In short, the most wonderful fantasies would occupy
my mind, and when I had to get up to help or carry something, I would
show myself far more awkward than ever, for the reason that my head
would be giddy with all these strange notions.

"My father was always very cross with me, because I was such an
absolutely useless burden on the household; so he often treated me
with great cruelty, and I seldom heard him say a kind word to me. Thus
it went along until I was about eight years old, when serious steps
were taken to get me to do and to learn something. My father believed
that it was sheer obstinacy and indolence on my part, so that I might
spend my days in idleness. Enough--he threatened me unspeakably, and
when this turned out to be of no avail, he chastised me most
barbarously, adding that this punishment was to be repeated every day
because I was an absolutely useless creature.

"All night long I cried bitterly--I felt so entirely forsaken, and I
pitied myself so that I wanted to die. I dreaded the break of day, and
did not know what to do. I longed for any possible kind of ability,
and could not understand at all why I was more stupid than the other
children of my acquaintance. I was on the verge of despair.

"When the day dawned, I got up, and, scarcely realizing what I was
doing, opened the door of our little cabin. I found myself in the open
field, soon afterward in a forest, into which the daylight had hardly
yet shone. I ran on without looking back; I did not get tired, for I
thought all the time that my father would surely overtake me and treat
me even more cruelly on account of my running away.

"When I emerged from the forest again the sun was already fairly high,
and I saw, lying ahead of me, something dark, over which a thick mist
was resting. One moment I was obliged to scramble over hills, the next
to follow a winding path between rocks. I now guessed that I must be
in the neighboring mountains, and I began to feel afraid of the
solitude. For, living in the plain, I had never seen any mountains,
and the mere word mountains, whenever I heard them talked about, had
an exceedingly terrible sound to my childish ear. I hadn't the heart
to turn back--it was indeed precisely my fear which drove me onwards.
I often looked around me in terror when the wind rustled through the
leaves above me, or when a distant sound of chopping rang out through
the quiet morning. Finally, when I began to meet colliers and miners
and heard a strange pronunciation, I nearly fainted with fright.

"You must forgive my prolixity. As often as I tell this story I
involuntarily become garrulous, and Eckbert, the only person to whom I
have told it, has spoiled me by his attention.

"I passed through several villages and begged, for I now felt hungry
and thirsty. I helped myself along very well with the answers I gave
to questions asked me. I had wandered along in this way for about four
days, when I came to a small foot-path which led me farther from the
highway. The rocks around me now assumed a different, far stranger
shape. They were cliffs, and were piled up on one another in such a
way that they looked as if the first gust of wind would hurl them all
together into a heap. I did not know whether to go on or not. I had
always slept over night either in out-of-the-way shepherds' huts, or
else in the open woods, for it was just then the most beautiful season
of the year. Here I came across no human habitations whatever, nor
could I expect to meet with any in this wilderness. The rocks became
more and more terrible--I often had to pass close by dizzy precipices,
and finally even the path under my feet came to an end. I was
absolutely wretched; I wept and screamed, and my voice echoed horribly
in the rocky glens. And now night set in; I sought out a mossy spot to
lie down on, but I could not sleep. All night long I heard the most
peculiar noises; first I thought it was wild beasts, then the wind
moaning through the rocks, then again strange birds. I prayed, and not
until toward morning did I fall asleep.

"I woke up when the daylight shone in my face. In front of me there
was a rock. I climbed up on it, hoping to find a way out of the
wilderness, and perhaps to see some houses or people. But when I
reached the top, everything, as far as my eye could see, was like
night about me--all overcast with a gloomy mist. The day was dark and
dismal, and not a tree, not a meadow, not even a thicket could my eye
discern, with the exception of a few bushes which, in solitary
sadness, had shot up through the crevices in the rocks. It is
impossible to describe the longing I felt merely to see a human being,
even had it been the most strange-looking person before whom I should
inevitably have taken fright. At the same time I was ravenously
hungry. I sat down and resolved to die. But after a while the desire
to live came off victorious; I got up quickly and walked on all day
long, occasionally crying out. At last I was scarcely conscious of
what I was doing; I was tired and exhausted, had hardly any desire to
live, and yet was afraid to die.

"Toward evening the region around me began to assume a somewhat more
friendly aspect. My thoughts and wishes took new life, and the desire
to live awakened in all my veins. I now thought I heard the swishing
of a mill in the distance; I redoubled my steps, and how relieved, how
joyous I felt when at last I actually reached the end of the dreary
rocks! Woods and meadows and, far ahead, pleasant mountains lay before
me again. I felt as if I had stepped out of hell into paradise; the
solitude and my helplessness did not seem to me at all terrible now.

"Instead of the hoped-for mill, I came upon a water-fall, which, to be
sure, considerably diminished my joy. I dished up some water from the
river with my hand and drank. Suddenly I thought I heard a low cough a
short distance away. Never have I experienced so pleasant a surprise
as at that moment; I went nearer and saw, on the edge of the forest,
an old woman, apparently resting. She was dressed almost entirely in
black; a black hood covered her head and a large part of her face. In
her hand she held a walking-stick.

"I approached her and asked for help; she had me sit down beside her
and gave me bread and some wine. While I was eating she sang a hymn in
a shrill voice, and when she had finished she said that I might follow
her.

"I was delighted with this proposal, strange as the voice and the
personality of the old woman seemed to me. She walked rather fast with
her cane, and at every step she distorted her face, which at first
made me laugh. The wild rocks steadily receded behind us--we crossed a
pleasant meadow, and then passed through a fairly long forest. When we
emerged from this, the sun was just setting, and I shall never forget
the view and the feelings of that evening. Everything was fused in the
most delicate red and gold; the tree-tops stood forth in the red glow
of evening, the charming light was spread out over the fields, the
forest and the leaves of the trees were motionless, the clear sky
looked like an open paradise, and the evening bells of the villages
rang out with a strange mournfulness across the lea. My young soul now
got its first presentment of the world and its events. I forgot myself
and my guide; my spirit and my eyes were wandering among golden
clouds.

"We now climbed a hill, which was planted with birchtrees, and from
its summit looked down into a little valley, likewise full of birches.
In the midst of the trees stood a little hut. A lively barking came to
our ears, and presently a spry little dog was dancing around the old
woman and wagging his tail. Presently he came to me, examined me from
all sides, and then returned with friendly actions to the old woman.

"When we were descending the hill I heard some wonderful singing,
which seemed to come from the hut. It sounded like a bird, and ran

  O solitude
  Of lonely wood,
  Where none intrude,
  Thou bringest good
  For every mood,
  O solitude!

"These few words were repeated over and over; if I were to attempt to
describe the effect, it was somewhat like the blended notes of a bugle
and a shawm.

"My curiosity was strained to the utmost. Without waiting for the old
woman's invitation, I walked into the hut with her. Dusk had already
set in. Everything was in proper order; a few goblets stood in a
cupboard, some strange-looking vessels lay on a table, and a bird was
hanging in a small, shiny cage by the window. And he, indeed, it was
that I had heard singing. The old woman gasped and coughed, seemingly
as if she would never get over it. Now she stroked the little dog, now
talked to the bird, which answered her only with its usual words.
Furthermore, she acted in no way as if I were present. While I was
thus watching her, a series of shudders passed through my body; for
her face was constantly twitching and her head shaking, as if with
age, and in such a way that it was impossible for one to tell how she
really looked.

"When she finally ceased coughing she lighted a candle, set a very
small table, and laid the supper on it. Then she looked around at me
and told me to take one of the woven cane chairs. I sat down directly
opposite her, and the candle stood between us. She folded her bony
hands and prayed aloud, all the time twitching her face in such a way
that it almost made me laugh. I was very careful, however, not to do
anything to make her angry.

"After supper she prayed again, and then showed me to a bed in a tiny
little side-room--she herself slept in the main room. I did not stay
awake long, for I was half dazed. I woke up several times during the
night, however, and heard the old woman coughing and talking to the
dog, and occasionally I heard the bird, which seemed to be dreaming
and sang only a few isolated words of its song. These stray notes,
united with the rustling of the birches directly in front of my
window, and also with the song of the far-off nightingale, made such a
strange combination that I felt all the time, not as if I were awake,
but as if I were lapsing into another, still stranger, dream.

"In the morning the old woman woke me up and soon afterward gave me
some work to do; I had, namely, to spin, and I soon learned how to do
it; in addition I had to take care of the dog and the bird. I was not
long in getting acquainted with the housekeeping, and came to know all
the objects around. I now began to feel that everything was as it
should be; I no longer thought that there was anything strange about
the old woman, or romantic about the location of her home, or that the
bird was in any way extraordinary. To be sure, I was all the time
struck by his beauty; for his feathers displayed every possible color,
varying from a most beautiful light blue to a glowing red, and when he
sang he puffed himself out proudly, so that his feathers shone even
more gorgeously.

"The old woman often went out and did not return until evening. Then I
would go with the dog to meet her and she would call me child and
daughter. Finally I came to like her heartily; for our minds,
especially in childhood, quickly accustom themselves to everything. In
the evening hours she taught me to read; I soon learned the art, and
afterward it was a source of endless pleasure to me in my solitude,
for she had a few old, hand-written books which contained wonderful
stories.

"The memory of the life I led at that time still gives me a strange
feeling even now. I was never visited by any human being, and felt at
home only in that little family circle; for the dog and the bird made
the same impression on me which ordinarily only old and intimate
friends create. Often as I used it at that time, I have never been
able to recall the dog's strange name.

"In this way I had lived with the old woman for four years, and I must
have been at any rate about twelve years old when she finally began to
grow more confidential and revealed a secret to me. It was this: every
day the bird laid one egg, and in this egg there was always a pearl or
a gem. I had already noticed that she often did something in the cage
secretly, but had never particularly concerned myself about it. She
now charged me with the task of taking out these eggs during her
absence, and of carefully preserving them in the vessels. She would
leave food for me and stay away quite a long time--weeks and months.
My little spinning-wheel hummed, the dog barked, the wonderful bird
sang, and meanwhile everything was so quiet in the region round about
that I cannot recall a single high wind or a thunder-storm during the
entire time. Not a human being strayed thither, not a wild animal came
near our habitation. I was happy, and sang and worked away from one
day to the next. Man would perhaps be right happy if he could thus
spend his entire life, unseen by others.

"From the little reading that I did I formed quite wonderful
impressions of the world and of mankind. They were all drawn from
myself and the company I lived in; thus, if whimsical people were
spoken of I could not imagine them other than the little dog,
beautiful women always looked like the bird, and all old women were as
my wonderful old friend. I had also read a little about love, and in
my imagination I figured in strange tales. I formed a mental picture
of the most beautiful knight in the world and adorned him with all
sorts of excellences, without really knowing, after all my trouble,
what he looked like. But I could feel genuine pity for myself if he
did not return my love, and then I would make long, emotional speeches
to him, sometimes aloud, in order to win him. You smile--we are all
now past this period of youth.

"I now liked it rather better when I was alone, for I was then myself
mistress of the house. The dog was very fond of me and did everything
I wanted him to do, the bird answered all my questions with his song,
my wheel was always spinning merrily, and so in the bottom of my heart
I never felt any desire for a change. When the old woman returned from
her wanderings she would praise my diligence, and say that her
household was conducted in a much more orderly manner since I belonged
to it. She was delighted with my development and my healthy look. In
short, she treated me in every way as if I were a daughter.

"'You are a good child,' she once said to me in a squeaky voice. 'If
you continue thus, it will always go well with you. It never pays to
swerve from the right course--the penalty is sure to follow, though it
may be a long time coming.' While she was saying this I did not give a
great deal of heed to it, for I was very lively in all my movements.
But in the night it occurred to me again, and I could not understand
what she had meant by it. I thought her words over carefully--I had
read about riches, and it finally dawned on me that her pearls and
gems might perhaps be something valuable. This idea presently became
still clearer to me--but what could she have meant by the right
course? I was still unable to understand fully the meaning of her
words.

"I was now fourteen years old. It is indeed a misfortune that human
beings acquire reason, only to lose, in so doing, the innocence of
their souls. In other words I now began to realize the fact that it
depended only upon me to take the bird and the gems in the old
woman's absence, and go out into the world of which I had read. At the
same time it was perhaps possible that I might meet my wonderfully
beautiful knight, who still held a place in my imagination.

"At first this thought went no further than any other, but when I
would sit there spinning so constantly, it always came back against my
will and I became so deeply absorbed in it that I already saw myself
dressed up and surrounded by knights and princes. And whenever I would
thus lose myself, I easily grew very sad when I glanced up and found
myself in my little, narrow home. When I was about my business, the
old woman paid no further attention to me.

"One day my hostess went away again and told me that she would be gone
longer this time than usual--I should pay strict attention to
everything, and not let the time drag on my hands. I took leave of her
with a certain uneasiness, for I somehow felt that I should never see
her again. I looked after her for a long time, and did not myself know
why I was so uneasy; it seemed almost as if my intention were already
standing before me, without my being distinctly conscious of it.

"I had never taken such diligent care of the dog and the bird
before--they lay closer to my heart than ever now. The old woman had
been away several days when I arose with the firm purpose of
abandoning the hut with the bird and going out into the so-called
world. My mind was narrow and limited; I wanted again to remain there,
and yet the thought was repugnant to me. A strange conflict took place
in my soul--it was as if two contentious spirits were struggling
within me. One moment the quiet solitude would seem so beautiful to
me, and then again I would be charmed by the vision of a new world
with its manifold wonders.

"I did not know what to do with myself. The dog was continually
dancing around me with friendly advances, the sunlight was spread out
cheerfully over the fields, and the green birch-trees shone brightly.
I had a feeling as if I had something to do requiring haste.
Accordingly, I caught the little dog, tied him fast in the room, and
took the cage, with the bird in it, under my arm. The dog cringed and
whined over this unusual treatment; he looked at me with imploring
eyes but I was afraid to take him with me. I also took one of the
vessels, which was filled with gems, and concealed it about me. The
others I left there. The bird twisted its head around in a singular
manner when I walked out of the door with him; the dog strained hard
to follow me, but was obliged to remain behind.

"I avoided the road leading toward the wild rocks, and walked in the
opposite direction. The dog continued to bark and whine, and I was
deeply touched by it. Several times the bird started to sing, but, as
he was being carried, it was necessarily rather difficult for him. As
I walked along the barking grew fainter and fainter, and, finally,
ceased altogether. I cried and was on the point of turning back, but
the longing to see something new drove me on.

"I had already traversed mountains and several forests when evening
came, and I was obliged to pass the night in a village. I was very
timid when I entered the public-house; they showed me to a room and a
bed, and I slept fairly well, except that I dreamt of the old woman,
who was threatening me.

"My journey was rather monotonous; but the further I went the more the
picture of the old woman and the little dog worried me. I thought how
he would probably starve to death without my help, and in the forest I
often thought I would suddenly meet the old woman. Thus, crying and
sighing, I wandered along, and as often as I rested and put the cage
on the ground, the bird sang its wonderful song, and reminded me
vividly of the beautiful home I had deserted. As human nature is prone
to forget, I now thought that the journey I had made as a child was
not as dismal as the one I was now making, and I wished that I were
back in the same situation.

"I had sold a few gems, and now, after wandering many days, I arrived
in a village. Even as I was entering it, a strange feeling came over
me--I was frightened and did not know why. But I soon discovered
why--it was the very same village in which I was born. How astonished
I was! How the tears of joy ran down my cheeks as a thousand strange
memories came back to me! There were a great many changes; new houses
had been built, others, which had then only recently been erected,
were now in a state of dilapidation. I came across places where there
had been a fire. Everything was a great deal smaller and more crowded
than I had expected. I took infinite delight in the thought of seeing
my parents again after so many years. I found the little house and the
well-known threshold--the handle on the door was just as it used to
be. I felt as if I had only yesterday left it ajar. My heart throbbed
vehemently. I quickly opened the door--but faces entirely strange to
me stared at me from around the room. I inquired after the shepherd,
Martin, and was told that both he and his wife had died three years
before. I hurried out and, crying aloud, left the village.

"I had looked forward with such pleasure to surprising them with my
riches, and as a result of a remarkable accident the dream of my
childhood had really come true. And now it was all in vain--they could
no longer rejoice with me--the fondest hope of my life was lost to me
forever.

"I rented a small house with a garden in a pleasant city, and engaged
a waiting-maid. The world did not appear to be such a wonderful place
as I had expected, but the old woman and my former home dropped more
and more out of my memory, so that, upon the whole, I lived quite
contentedly.

"The bird had not sung for a long time, so that I was not a little
frightened one night when he suddenly began again. The song he sang,
however, was different--it was:

  O solitude
  Of lonely wood,
  A vanished good
  In dreams pursued,
  In absence rued,
  O solitude!

"I could not sleep through the night; everything came back to my mind,
and I felt more than ever that I had done wrong. When I got up the
sight of the bird was positively repugnant to me; he was constantly
staring at me, and his presence worried me. He never ceased singing
now, and sang more loudly and shrilly than he used to. The more I
looked at him the more uneasiness I felt. Finally, I opened the cage,
stuck my hand in, seized him by the neck and squeezed my fingers
together forcibly. He looked at me imploringly, and I relaxed my
grip--but he was already dead. I buried him in the garden.

"And now I was often seized with fear of my waiting-maid. My own past
came back to me, and I thought that she too might rob me some day, or
perhaps even murder me. For a long time I had known a young knight
whom I liked very much--I gave him my hand, and with that, Mr.
Walther, my story ends."

"You should have seen her then," broke in Eckbert quickly. "Her youth,
her innocence, her beauty--and what an incomprehensible charm her
solitary breeding had given her! To me she seemed like a wonder, and I
loved her inexpressibly. I had no property, but with the help of her
love I attained my present condition of comfortable prosperity. We
moved to this place, and our union thus far has never brought us a
single moment of remorse."

"But while I have been chattering," began Bertha again, "the night has
grown late. Let us go to bed."

She rose to go to her room. Walther kissed her hand and wished her a
good-night, adding:

"Noble woman, I thank you. I can readily imagine you with the strange
bird, and how you fed the little Strohmi."

Without answering she left the room. Walther also lay down to sleep,
but Eckbert continued to walk up and down the room.

"Aren't human beings fools?" he finally asked himself. "I myself
induced my wife to tell her story, and now I regret this confidence!
Will he not perhaps misuse it? Will he not impart it to others? Will
he not perhaps--for it is human nature--come to feel a miserable
longing for our gems and devise plans to get them and dissemble his
nature?"

It occurred to him that Walther had not taken leave of him as
cordially as would perhaps have been natural after so confidential a
talk. When the soul is once led to suspect, it finds confirmations of
its suspicions in every little thing. Then again Eckbert reproached
himself for his ignoble distrust of his loyal friend, but he was
unable to get the notion entirely out of his mind. All night long he
tossed about with these thoughts and slept but little.

Bertha was sick and could not appear for breakfast. Walther seemed
little concerned about it, and furthermore he left the knight in a
rather indifferent manner. Eckbert could not understand his conduct.
He went in to see his wife--she lay in a severe fever and said that
her story the night before must have excited her in this manner.

After that evening Walther visited his friend's castle but rarely, and
even when he did come he went away again after a few trivial words.
Eckbert was exceedingly troubled by this behavior; to be sure, he
tried not to let either Bertha or Walther notice it, but both of them
must surely have been aware of his inward uneasiness.

Bertha's sickness grew worse and worse. The doctor shook his head--the
color in her cheeks had disappeared, and her eyes became more and more
brilliant.

One morning she summoned her husband to her bedside and told the maids
to withdraw.

"Dear husband," she began, "I must disclose to you something which has
almost deprived me of my reason and has ruined my health, however
trivial it may seem to be. Often as I have told my story to you, you
will remember that I have never been able, despite all the efforts I
have made, to recall the name of the little dog with which I lived so
long. That evening when I told the story to Walther he suddenly said
to me when we separated: 'I can readily imagine how you fed the little
Strohmi.' Was that an accident? Did he guess the name, or did he
mention it designedly? And what, then, is this man's connection with
my lot? The idea has occurred to me now and then that I merely imagine
this accident--but it is certain, only too certain. It sent a feeling
of horror through me to have a strange person like that assist my
memory. What do you say, Eckbert?"

Eckbert looked at his suffering wife with deep tenderness. He kept
silent, but was meditating. Then he said a few comforting words to her
and left the room. In an isolated room he walked back and forth with
indescribable restlessness--Walther for many years had been his sole
male comrade, and yet this man was now the only person in the world
whose existence oppressed and harassed him. It seemed to him that his
heart would be light and happy if only this one person might be put
out of the way. He took down his cross-bow with a view to distracting
his thoughts by going hunting.

It was a raw and stormy day in the winter; deep snow lay on the
mountains and bent down the branches of the trees. He wandered about,
with the sweat oozing from his forehead. He came across no game, and
that increased his ill-humor. Suddenly he saw something move in the
distance--it was Walther gathering moss from the trees. Without
knowing what he was doing he took aim--Walther looked around and
motioned to him with a threatening gesture. But as he did so the arrow
sped, and Walther fell headlong.

Eckbert felt relieved and calm, and yet a feeling of horror drove him
back to his castle. He had a long distance to go, for he had wandered
far into the forest. When he arrived home, Bertha had already
died--before her death she had spoken a great deal about Walther and
the old woman.

For a long time Eckbert lived in greatest seclusion. He had always
been somewhat melancholy because the strange story of his wife rather
worried him; he had always lived in fear of an unfortunate event that
might take place, but now he was completely at variance with himself.
The murder of his friend stood constantly before his eyes--he spent
his life reproaching himself.

In order to divert his thoughts, he occasionally betook himself to the
nearest large city, where he attended parties and banquets. He wished
to have a friend to fill the vacancy in his soul, and then again, when
he thought of Walther, the very word friend made him shudder. He was
convinced that he would necessarily be unhappy with all his friends.
He had lived so long in beautiful harmony with Bertha, and Walther's
friendship had made him happy for so many years, and now both of them
had been so suddenly taken from him that his life seemed at times more
like a strange fairy-tale than an actual mortal existence.

A knight, Hugo von Wolfsberg, became attached to the quiet, melancholy
Eckbert, and seemed to cherish a genuine fondness for him. Eckbert was
strangely surprised; he met the knight's friendly advances more
quickly than the other expected. They were now frequently together,
the stranger did Eckbert all sorts of favors, scarcely ever did either
of them ride out without the other, they met each other at all the
parties--in short, they seemed to be inseparable.

Eckbert was, nevertheless, happy only for short moments at a time, for
he felt quite sure that Hugo loved him only by mistake--he did not
know him, nor his history, and he felt the same impulse again to
unfold his soul to him in order to ascertain for sure how staunch a
friend Hugo was. Then again doubts and the fear of being detested
restrained him. There were many hours in which he felt so convinced
of his own unworthiness as to believe that no person, who knew him at
all intimately, could hold him worthy of esteem. But he could not
resist the impulse; in the course of a long walk he revealed his
entire history to his friend, and asked him if he could possibly love
a murderer. Hugo was touched and tried to comfort him. Eckbert
followed him back to the city with a lighter heart.

However, it seemed to be his damnation that his suspicions should
awaken just at the time when he grew confidential; for they had no
more than entered the hall when the glow of the many lights revealed
an expression in his friend's features which he did not like. He
thought he detected a malicious smile, and it seemed to him that he,
Hugo, said very little to him, that he talked a great deal with the
other people present, and seemed to pay absolutely no attention to
him. There was an old knight in the company who had always shown
himself as Eckbert's rival, and had often inquired in a peculiar way
about his riches and his wife. Hugo now approached this man, and they
talked together a long time secretly, while every now and then they
glanced toward Eckbert. He, Eckbert, saw in this a confirmation of his
suspicions; he believed that he had been betrayed, and a terrible rage
overcame him. As he continued to stare in that direction, he suddenly
saw Walther's head, all his features, and his entire figure, so
familiar to him. Still looking, he became convinced that it was nobody
but Walther himself who was talking with the old man. His terror was
indescribable; completely beside himself, he rushed out, left the city
that night, and, after losing his way many times, returned to his
castle.

Like a restless spirit he hurried from room to room. No thought could
he hold fast; the pictures in his mind grew more and more terrible,
and he did not sleep a wink. The idea often occurred to him that he
was crazy and that all these notions were merely the product of his
own imagination. Then again he remembered Walther's features, and it
was all more puzzling to him than ever. He resolved to go on a journey
in order to compose his thoughts; he had long since given up the idea
of a friend and the wish for a companion.

Without any definite destination in view, he set out, nor did he pay
much attention to the country that lay before him. After he had
trotted along several days on his horse, he suddenly lost his way in a
maze of rocks, from which he was unable to discover any egress.
Finally he met an old peasant who showed him a way out, leading past a
water-fall. He started to give him a few coins by way of thanks, but
the peasant refused them.

"What can it mean?" he said to himself. "I could easily imagine that
that man was no other than Walther." He looked back once more--it was
indeed no one else but Walther!

Eckbert spurred on his horse as fast as it could run--through meadows
and forests, until, completely exhausted, it collapsed beneath him.
Unconcerned, he continued his journey on foot.

Dreamily he ascended a hill. There he seemed to hear a dog barking
cheerily close by--birch trees rustled about him--he heard the notes
of a wonderful song:

  O solitude
  Of lonely wood,
  Thou chiefest good,
  Where thou dost brood
  Is joy renewed,
  O solitude!

Now it was all up with Eckbert's consciousness and his senses; he
could not solve the mystery whether he was now dreaming or had
formerly dreamt of a woman Bertha. The most marvelous was confused
with the most ordinary--the world around him was bewitched--no
thought, no memory was under his control.

An old crook-backed woman with a cane came creeping up the hill,
coughing.

"Are you bringing my bird, my pearls, my dog?" she cried out to him.
"Look--wrong punishes itself. I and no other was your friend Walther,
your Hugo."

"God in Heaven!" said Eckbert softly to himself. "In what terrible
solitude I have spent my life."

"And Bertha was your sister."

Eckbert fell to the ground.

"Why did she desert me so deceitfully? Otherwise everything would have
ended beautifully--her probation-time was already over. She was the
daughter of a knight, who had a shepherd bring her up--the daughter of
your father."

"Why have I always had a presentiment of these facts?" cried Eckbert.

"Because in your early youth you heard your father tell of them. On
his wife's account he could not bring up this daughter himself, for
she was the child of another woman."

Eckbert was delirious as he breathed his last; dazed and confused he
heard the old woman talking, the dog barking, and the bird repeating
its song.




THE ELVES[37] (1811)

By LUDWIG TIECK

TRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE


"Where is our little Mary?" asked the father.

"She is playing out upon the green there, with our neighbor's boy,"
replied the mother.

"I wish they may not run away and lose themselves," said he; "they are
so heedless."

The mother looked for the little ones, and brought them their evening
luncheon. "It is warm," said the boy; and Mary eagerly reached out for
the red cherries.

"Have a care, children," said the mother, "and do not run too far from
home, or into the wood; father and I are going to the fields."

Little Andrew answered: "Never fear, the wood frightens us; we shall
sit here by the house, where there are people near us."

The mother went in, and soon came out again with her husband. They
locked the door, and turned toward the fields to look after their
laborers and see their hay-harvest in the meadow. Their house lay upon
a little green height, encircled by a pretty ring of paling, which
likewise inclosed their fruit and flower-garden. The hamlet stretched
somewhat deeper down, and on the other side lay the castle of the
Count. Martin rented the large farm from this nobleman, and was living
in contentment with his wife and only child; for he yearly saved some
money, and had the prospect of becoming a man of substance by his
industry, for the ground was productive, and the Count not illiberal.

As he walked with his wife to the fields, he gazed cheerfully round,
and said: "What a different look this quarter has, Brigitta, from the
place we lived in formerly! Here it is all so green; the whole village
is bedecked with thick-spreading fruit-trees; the ground is full of
beautiful herbs and flowers; all the houses are cheerful and cleanly,
the inhabitants are at their ease: nay, I could almost fancy that the
woods are greener here than elsewhere, and the sky bluer; and, so far
as the eye can reach, you have pleasure and delight in beholding the
bountiful Earth."

"And whenever you cross the stream," said Brigitta, "you are, as it
were, in another world, all is so dreary and withered; but every
traveler declares that our village is the fairest in the country, far
or near."

"All but that fir-ground," said her husband; "do but look back to it,
how dark and dismal that solitary spot is lying in the gay scene--the
dingy fir-trees, with the smoky huts behind them, the ruined stalls,
the brook flowing past with a sluggish melancholy."

"It is true," replied Brigitta; "if you but approach that spot, you
grow disconsolate and sad, you know not why. What sort of people can
they be that live there, and keep themselves so separate from the rest
of us, as if they had an evil conscience?"

"A miserable crew," replied the young farmer; "gipsies, seemingly,
that steal and cheat in other quarters, and have their hoard and
hiding-place here. I wonder only that his lordship suffers them."

"Who knows," said the wife, with an accent of pity, "but perhaps they
may be poor people, wishing, out of shame, to conceal their poverty;
for, after all, no one can say aught ill of them; the only thing is,
that they do not go to church, and none knows how they live; for the
little garden, which indeed seems altogether waste, cannot possibly
support them; and fields they have none."

"God knows," said Martin, as they went along, "what trade they follow;
no mortal comes to them; for the place they live in is as if
bewitched and excommunicated, so that even our wildest fellows will
not venture into it."

Such conversation they pursued while walking to the fields. That
gloomy spot they spoke of lay apart from the hamlet. In a dell, begirt
with firs, you might behold a hut and various dilapidated farm-houses;
rarely was smoke seen to mount from it, still more rarely did men
appear there; though at times curious people, venturing somewhat
nearer, had perceived upon the bench before the hut some hideous
women, in ragged clothes, dandling in their arms some children equally
dirty and ill-favored; black dogs were running up and down upon the
boundary; and, at eventide, a man of monstrous size was seen to cross
the foot-bridge of the brook, and disappear in the hut; then, in the
darkness, various shapes were observed, moving like shadows round an
open fire. This piece of ground, the firs, and the ruined hut, formed
in truth a strange contrast with the bright green landscape, the white
houses of the hamlet, and the stately new-built castle.

The two little ones had now eaten their fruit; it came into their
heads to run races; and the little nimble Mary always got the start of
the less active Andrew. "It is not fair," cried Andrew at last; "let
us try it for some length, then we shall see who wins."

"As thou wilt," said Mary; "only to the brook we must not run."

"No," said Andrew; "but there, on the hill, stands the large
pear-tree, a quarter of a mile from this. I shall run by the left,
round past the fir-ground; thou canst try it by the right, over the
fields; so we do not meet till we get up, and then we shall see which
of us is the swifter."

"Done," cried Mary, and began to run; "for we shall not interfere with
each other by the way, and my father says it is as far to the hill by
that side of the gipsies' house as by this."

Andrew had already started, and Mary, turning to the right, could no
longer see him. "It is very silly," said she to herself; "I have only
to take heart, and run along the bridge, past the hut, and through the
yard, and I shall certainly be first." She was already standing by the
brook and the clump of firs. "Shall I? No; it is too frightful," said
she. A little white dog was standing on the farther side, and barking
with might and main. In her terror, Mary thought the dog some monster,
and sprang back. "Fie! fie!" said she, "the dolt is gone half way by
this time, while I stand here considering." The little dog kept
barking, and, as she looked at it more narrowly, it seemed no longer
frightful, but, on the contrary, quite pretty; it had a red collar
round its neck, with a glittering bell; and as it raised its head, and
shook itself in barking, the little bell sounded with the finest
tinkle. "Well, I must risk it!" cried she: "I will run for life;
quick, quick, I am through; certainly to Heaven, they cannot eat me up
alive in half a minute!" And with this, the gay, courageous little
Mary sprang along the foot-bridge; passed the dog, which ceased its
barking, and began to fawn on her; and in a moment she was standing on
the other bank, and the black firs all round concealed from view her
father's house and the rest of the landscape.

But what was her astonishment when here! The loveliest, most
variegated flower-garden lay round her; tulips, roses, and lilies,
were glittering in the fairest colors; blue and gold-red butterflies
were wavering in the blossoms; cages of shining wire were hung on the
espaliers, with many-colored birds in them, singing beautiful songs;
and children in short white frocks, with flowing yellow hair and
brilliant eyes, were frolicking about; some playing with lambkins,
some feeding the birds, or gathering flowers and giving them to one
another; some, again, were eating cherries, grapes, and ruddy
apricots. No but was to be seen; but instead of it, a large fair
house, with a brazen door and lofty statues, stood glancing in the
middle of the space. Mary was confounded with surprise, and knew not
what to think; but, not being bashful, she went right up to the first
of the children, held out her hand, and wished the little creature
good evening.

"Art thou come to visit us, then?" asked the glittering child; "I saw
thee running, playing on the other side, but thou wert frightened for
our little dog."

"So you are not gipsies and rogues," exclaimed Mary, "as Andrew always
told me! He is a stupid thing, and talks of much he does not
understand."

"Stay with us," said the strange little girl; "thou wilt like it
well."

"But we are running a race."

"Thou wilt find thy comrade soon enough. There, take and eat."

Mary ate, and found the fruit more sweet than any she had ever tasted
in her life before; and Andrew, and the race, and the prohibition of
her parents, were entirely forgotten.

A stately woman, in a shining robe, came toward them, and asked about
the stranger child. "Fairest lady," said Mary, "I came running hither
by chance, and now they wish to keep me."

"Thou art aware, Zerina," said the lady, "that she can be here for but
a little while; besides, thou shouldst have asked my leave."

"I thought," said Zerina, "when I saw her admitted across the bridge,
that I might do it; we have often seen her running in the fields, and
thou thyself hast taken pleasure in her lively temper. She will have
to leave us soon enough."

"No, I will stay here," said the little stranger; "for here it is so
beautiful, and here I shall find the prettiest playthings, and store
of berries and cherries to boot. On the other side it is not half so
grand."

The gold-robed lady went away with a smile; and many of the children
now came bounding round the happy Mary in their mirth, and twitched
her, and incited her to dance; others brought her lambs, or curious
playthings; others made music on instruments, and sang to it.

She kept, however, by the playmate who had first met her; for Zerina
was the kindest and loveliest of them all. Little Mary cried and cried
again: "I will stay with you forever; I will stay with you, and you
shall be my sisters;" at which the children all laughed, and embraced
her. "Now, we shall have a royal sport," said Zerina. She ran into the
palace, and returned with a little golden box, in which lay a quantity
of seeds, like glittering dust. She lifted a few with her little hand,
and scattered some grains on the green earth. Instantly the grass
began to move, as in waves; and, after a few moments, bright
rose-bushes started from the ground, shot rapidly up, and budded all
at once, while the sweetest perfume filled the place. Mary also took a
little of the dust, and, having scattered it, she saw white lilies,
and the most variegated pinks, pushing up. At a signal from Zerina,
the flowers disappeared, and others rose in their room. "Now," said
Zerina, "look for something greater." She laid two pine-seeds in the
ground, and stamped them in sharply with her foot. Two green bushes
stood before them. "Grasp me fast," said she; and Mary threw her arms
about the slender form. She felt herself borne upward; for the trees
were springing under them with the greatest speed; the tall pines
waved to and fro, and the two children held each other fast embraced,
swinging this way and that in the red clouds of the twilight, and
kissed each other, while the rest were climbing up and down the trunks
with quick dexterity, pushing and teasing one another with loud
laughter when they met; if any fell down in the press, they flew
through the air, and sank slowly and surely to the ground. At length
Mary was beginning to be frightened; and the other little child sang a
few loud tones, and the trees again sank down and set them on the
ground as gently as they had lifted them before to the clouds.

They next went through the brazen door of the palace. Here many fair
women, elderly and young, were sitting in the round hall, partaking of
the fairest fruits and listening to glorious invisible music. In the
vaulting of the ceiling, palms, flowers, and groves stood painted,
among which little figures of children were sporting and winding in
every graceful posture; and with the tones of the music, the images
altered and glowed with the most burning colors; now the blue and
green were sparkling like radiant light, now these tints faded back in
paleness, the purple flamed up, and the gold took fire; and then the
naked children seemed to be alive among the flower-garlands, and to
draw breath and emit it through their ruby-colored lips; so that by
turns you could see the glance of their little white teeth, and the
lighting up of their azure eyes.

From the hall, a stair of brass led down to a subterranean chamber.
Here lay much gold and silver, and precious stones of every hue shone
out between them. Strange vessels stood along the walls, and all
seemed filled with costly things. The gold was worked into many forms,
and glittered with the friendliest red. Many little dwarfs were busied
in sorting the pieces from the heap, and putting them in the vessels;
others, hunch-backed and bandy-legged, with long red noses, were
tottering slowly along, half-bent to the ground, under full sacks,
which they bore as millers do their grain, and, with much panting,
shaking out the gold-dust on the ground. Then they darted awkwardly to
the right and left, and caught the rolling balls that were likely to
run away; and it happened now and then that one in his eagerness upset
another, so that both fell heavily and clumsily to the ground. They
made angry faces, and looked askance, as Mary laughed at their
gestures and their ugliness. Behind them sat an old crumpled little
man, whom Zerina reverently greeted; he thanked her with a grave
inclination of his head. He held a sceptre in his hand, and wore a
crown upon his brow, and all the other dwarfs appeared to regard him
as their master and obey his nod.

"What more want