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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76103 ***





GOETHE’S LITERARY ESSAYS




GOETHE AS A CRITIC


“Goethe, the greatest of modern critics, the greatest critic of all
times.”--SAINTE-BEUVE.

“That great and supreme critic.”--MATTHEW ARNOLD.

“Goethe, the most widely receptive of all critics.”--JAMES RUSSELL
LOWELL.

“Goethe, the master of all modern spirits.”--TAINE.

“The perusal of his Works would show that Criticism is also a science
of which he is master; that if ever a man had studied Art in all its
branches and bearings, from its origin in the depths of the creative
spirit to its minutest finish on the canvas of the painter, on the
lips of the poet, or under the finger of the musician, he was that
man.”--CARLYLE.

“He is also a great critic; yet he always said the best he could about
an author. Good critics are rarer than good authors.”--TENNYSON.

“The view of _Hamlet_ scattered throughout the book [_Wilhelm Meister_]
is not so much criticism as high poetry. And what else except a
poem can be born when a poet intuitively presents anew a work of
poetry?”--FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL.

“I shall die ungoethed, I doubt, so far as Poetry goes; I always
believe he was Critic and Philosopher.”--EDWARD FITZGERALD.

“For the Goethe of _Faust_, of the great lyrics, and of some other
things, I have almost unlimited admiration; but for the critical Goethe
I feel very much less.”--GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

“Goethe is the supreme hero of intellectual humanity.”--REMY DE
GOURMONT.

“Goethe, as usual, must be pronounced to have the last word of reason
and wisdom, the word which comprehends most of the truth of the
matter.”--LORD MORLEY.




  GOETHE’S
  LITERARY ESSAYS

  A SELECTION IN ENGLISH
  ARRANGED BY

  J. E. SPINGARN

  WITH A FOREWORD BY
  VISCOUNT HALDANE

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
  1921




  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.

  PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
  THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
  RAHWAY, N. J.




FOREWORD

By VISCOUNT HALDANE


Of Goethe Sainte-Beuve held that he was the “king of criticism.”
Sainte-Beuve was among the most competent of judges on such a point,
and Matthew Arnold has endorsed his conclusion. The reason for it is
not far to seek. Goethe’s gifts as a critic fell within a large whole
of knowledge which was his in a degree for which we must look back over
two thousand years to Aristotle if we wish to find a rival. He wrote
lyrics that are supreme in their kind. His capacity for observation of
nature was, as Helmholtz has pointed out, of the first order. Although
he hated philosophy, he had, none the less, a fine instinct for great
metaphysical conceptions. Spinoza and Kant both made appeal to him, and
the appeal was responded to from the depths of his nature. The world
has seen no poem like _Faust_, with the exquisite perfection of the
“Dedication” and the lyrical outbursts with which the first part is
studded, set in a structure which signifies a profound conception of
life as a whole, into which far-reaching reflection has entered. The
second part of the drama is as great in this latter regard as is the
first part in its occasional exhibitions of the purest lyrical gift.

Goethe’s work was uneven, as was his life. That is what we must expect
from the variety which both contained. But through each a great purpose
is obviously in process of continuous realization, a purpose which
never flags, of presenting the world as a place where man may work
out what is directed towards the highest and belongs to what is above
Time. It is always the effort that counts, and not any result outside,
conceived abstractly and apart from the effort. The quality of the
struggle “to conquer life and freedom daily anew” is what constitutes
the victory. We are apt to remain with Goethe’s poetry and to content
ourselves with the enjoyment of its perfection. But that is to miss
half the lesson which this man, one of the very greatest sons the earth
ever bore, has to teach us. It is his outlook on life as a whole which
we must master if we would learn for ourselves what freedom from what
is narrow means with him. And this outlook we find at least as much in
his criticism as in his lyrics. We have to turn to the _Autobiography_,
to _Meister_, and to the _Prose Sayings_, if we would find the other
half. Beyond these books, too, there remains much else which it would
occupy years for the student to discover for himself unaided.

That is why a book such as that to which these lines are written by way
of preface may prove a source of help and inspiration to the general
reader.




CONTENTS


    I. THE THEORY OF ART                                  PAGE

       On German Architecture                                3

       Introduction to the _Propylæa_                       15

       Upon the Laocoon                                     22

       The Collector and his Friends                        36

       On Truth and Probability in Works of Art             51

       Simple Imitation of Nature, Manner, Style            59

       Ancient and Modern                                   65

       Notes on Dilettantism                                71

   II. THE THEORY OF LITERATURE

       The Production of a National Classic                 83

       Goethe’s Theory of a World Literature                89

       On Epic and Dramatic Poetry                         100

       Supplement to Aristotle’s _Poetics_                 104

       On the German Theatre                               109

       Ludwig Tieck’s _Dramaturgic Fragments_              126

       On Didactic Poetry                                  130

       Superstition and Poetry                             133

       The Methods of French Criticism                     134

       On Criticism                                        140

  III. ON SHAKESPEARE

       Wilhelm Meister’s Critique of _Hamlet_              145

       Shakespeare ad Infinitum                            174

       The First Edition of _Hamlet_                       190

       _Troilus and Cressida_                              195

   IV. ON OTHER WRITERS

       Goethe as a Young Reviewer                          199

       Byron’s _Manfred_                                   202

       Byron’s _Don Juan_                                  205

       Calderon’s _Daughter of the Air_                    208

       Molière’s _Misanthrope_                             212

       Old German Folksongs                                213

       Folksongs again Commended                           220

       Laurence Sterne                                     222

       The English Reviewers                               224

       German Literature in Goethe’s Youth                 226

    V. EXTRACTS FROM THE CONVERSATIONS WITH ECKERMANN

       The Universality of Poetry, 249; Poetry and
       Patriotism, 251; Poetry and History, 253;
       Originality, 255; Personality in Art, 258;
       Subject-Matter of Poetry, 259; The Influence of
       Environment, 261; Culture and Morals, 263;
       Classic and Romantic, 263; Taste, 264; Style,
       265; Intellect and Imagination, 266; Definition
       of Poetry, 266; Definition of Beauty, 266;
       Architecture and Music, 267; Primitive Poetry,
       267; _Weltliteratur_, 267; French Critics, 268;
       The Construction of a Good Play, 268; Dramatic
       Unities 270; The Theatre, 271; Acting, 271;
       Dramatic Situations, 272; Management of the
       Theatre, 272; Menander, 273; Calderon, 273;
       Molière, 273; Shakespeare, 275; A. W. Schlegel’s
       _Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_,
       276; The French Romanticists, 277; Victor
       Hugo, 279; The “Idea” of _Tasso_ and _Faust_,
       280; Schiller, 282; _Edinburgh Review_, 283;
       Byron, 283; Scott, 286.

  APPENDIX

    I. On the Selection and Translation of the Essays
       in this Volume                                      291

   II. On the Chronology of Goethe’s Critical Studies      295

  INDEX                                                    301




THE THEORY OF ART




ON GERMAN ARCHITECTURE

(1773)

VON DEUTSCHER BAUKUNST

D. M.

ERVINI A STEINBACH


As I wandered about at your grave, noble Erwin,[1] in order to pour
out my veneration for you at the sacred spot itself, I looked for the
stone which bore this inscription: “Anno Domini 1318, XVI. Kal. Febr.
obiit Magister Ervinus, Gubernator Fabricae Ecclesiae Argentinensis;”
and when I could not find it and none of your countrymen could point it
out to me, I became sad of soul, and my heart, younger, warmer, more
tender and better than it is now, vowed a memorial to you, of marble
or sandstone, as might be in my power, when I came into the peaceful
enjoyment of my fortune.

But what need have you for a memorial! You have built the most splendid
memorial for yourself; and although the ants who crawl around there do
not trouble themselves about your name, yet you have a destiny like
that of the builder who heaped up mountains into the clouds.

To few has it been granted to create such mighty ideas in their minds,
complete, gigantic, and consistently beautiful down to the last detail,
like trees of God; to fewer was it given to find a thousand willing
hands to work, to excavate the rocky foundation, to conjure up towering
structures upon it, and then when dying to say to their sons,--I remain
with you in the works of my genius; carry on to its completion in the
clouds what I have begun.

What need have you for memorials! and from me! When the rabble utters
sacred names, it is either superstition or blasphemy. Those of feeble
spirit and taste will always have their head turned before your mighty
work, and genuine souls will come to know you without a guide.

Therefore, honored man, before I venture again my patched-up bark upon
the ocean, destined as it is more likely to death than to fame and
fortune, see, here in this grove where bloom the names of my loves, I
cut yours on a beech-tree which lifts its slender trunk high in the air
like your own tower, and I hang on it too this handkerchief filled with
gifts, not unlike that sheet which was let down from the clouds to the
holy apostle, full of clean and unclean beasts; for this is full of
flowers and buds and leaves, and some dried grass and moss and fungi,
which on my walk through these uninteresting regions I coldly gathered
as a pastime for my botanical collection,--I dedicate them to death in
your honor.

       *       *       *       *       *

What a trivial style, says the Italian, and passes by. Childishness,
lisps the Frenchman, and snaps his finger against his snuff-box à la
Grecque. What have you done that you dare to despise?

But you, O Italian, you have let the genius of the ancients, arising
from its grave, fetter and bind your own. You crept to beg for artistic
knowledge from the splendid relics of the olden time, you patched
together palaces from these sacred ruins, and consider yourself the
guardian of the secrets of art, because you can give account of the
measurements by inch and line of enormous buildings. Had you _felt_
more than you _measured_, had the spirit of the gigantic structures at
which you gazed come to you, you would not have imitated merely because
they did it thus and it is beautiful. But you would have created your
own designs, and there would have flowed out of them living beauty to
instruct you.

Thus upon your shortcomings you have plastered a whitewashing, a mere
appearance of truth and beauty. The splendid effect of pillars struck
you, you wished to use them in your building and have great rows of
columns too; so you encircled St. Peter’s with marble passageways,
which lead nowhere in particular, so that mother Nature, who despises
and hates the inappropriate and the unnecessary, drove your rabble to
prostitute that splendor for public “cloaca,” with the result that you
turn away your eyes and hold your nose before the wonder of the world.

Everything goes the same way: the whim of the artist serves the caprice
of the rich man; the writer of travels stands agape, and our beaux
esprits, called philosophers, wrest out of formless myths facts and
principles of art to be applied to the present day; and their evil
genius murders sincere men at the threshold of these mysteries.

More harmful to the genius than examples are rules. Before his time
individual men may have worked up individual parts and aspects. He
is the first from whose mind come the parts grown together into one
ever-living whole. But a school or a rule fetters all the power of
his insight and his activity. What is it to us, you modern French
philosophical critic, that the first inventor, responding to necessity,
stuck four trunks in the ground, bound on them four poles and
covered it all with branches and moss? To determine from this what
is appropriate for our present needs is like demanding that your new
Babylon be ruled by the old despotic patriarchal father-right.

And in addition it is not true that this house of yours is the most
primitive form in the world. That with two poles in front crossed
at the end, two in back and one lying straight between them for a
ridge-pole is, as we can notice every day in the huts in the fields and
vineyards, a far more primitive invention, from which you could hardly
abstract a principle for your pig-pen.

Thus none of your conclusions are able to rise into the region of
truth, but all hang in the lower atmosphere of your system. You wish to
teach us what we ought to use, since what we do use, according to your
principles cannot be justified.

The column is very dear to you, and in another clime you would be
prophet. You say: The column is the first essential ingredient of a
building, and the most beautiful. What noble elegance of form, what
pure grandeur, when they are placed in a row! Only guard against using
them inappropriately; it is their nature to be free and detached. Alas
for the unfortunates who try to join the slender shape of them to heavy
walls!

Yet it seems to me, dear abbé, that the frequent repetition of this
impropriety of building columns into walls, so that the moderns have
even stuffed the inter-columnia of ancient temples with masonry, might
have aroused in your mind some reflections. If your ears were not deaf
to the truth, these stones would have preached a sermon to you.

Columns are in no way an ingredient in our dwellings; they contradict
rather the style of all our buildings. Our houses have not their
origin in four columns placed in four corners. They are built out of
four walls on four sides, which take the place of columns, indeed
exclude all columns, and where these are used to patch up, they are
an encumbrance and a superfluity. This is true of our palaces and
churches, with the exception of a few cases, which I do not need to
mention.

Thus your buildings exhibit mere surface, which, the broader it is
extended,--the higher it is raised to the sky,--the more unendurable
must become the monotony which oppresses the soul. But Genius came to
our aid, and said to Erwin von Steinbach: Diversify the huge wall,
which you are to raise heavenward, so that it may soar like a lofty,
far-spreading tree of God, which with a thousand branches, millions of
twigs, and leaves like the sand of the sea, proclaims everywhere the
glory of God, its Master.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I went for the first time to the Minster, my head was full of the
common cant of “good taste.” From hearsay, I was an admirer of the
harmony of mass, the purity of form, and was a sworn enemy to the
confused arbitrariness of Gothic adornment. Under the term, “Gothic,”
like the article in a dictionary, I piled all the misconceptions
which had ever come into my head, of the indefinite, the unregulated,
the unnatural, the patched-up, the strung-together, the superfluous,
in art. No wiser than a people which calls the whole foreign world,
“barbarous,” everything was Gothic to me that did not fit into my
system, from the turned wooden dolls and pictures of gay colors, with
which the bourgeois nobility decorate their houses, to the dignified
relics of the older German architecture, my opinion of which, because
of some bizarre scrollwork, had been that of everybody,--“Quite buried
in ornamentation!”; consequently I had an aversion to seeing it, such
as I would have before a malformed bristling monster.

With what unexpected emotions did the sight surprise me when I actually
saw it! An impression of grandeur and unity filled my soul, which,
because it consisted of a thousand harmonizing details, I could taste
and enjoy, but by no means understand and explain. They say it is
thus with the rapture of heaven. How often I returned to enjoy this
heavenly-earthly rapture, to embrace the stupendous genius of our older
brothers in their works. How often I returned to view from every side,
at every distance, in every light of the day, its dignity and splendor.
Hard it is for the mind of man when his brother’s work is so elevated
that he can only bow down and pray. How often has the evening twilight
refreshed with its friendly calm my eyes wearied by too much gazing;
it made countless details melt together into a complete whole and
mass, and now, simple and grand, it stood before my eyes, and, full
of rapture, my power unfolded itself both to enjoy and to understand
it at once. There was revealed to me in soft intimations the genius
of the great builder. “Why are you astonished?” He whispered to me.
“All these masses were necessary, and do you not see them in all the
older churches of my city? Only I have given harmonious proportion to
their arbitrary vastnesses. See how, over the principal entrance which
commands two smaller ones on either side, the wide circle of the window
opens which corresponds to the nave of the church and was formerly
merely a hole to let the light in; see how the bell-tower demands the
smaller windows! All this was necessary, and I designed it with beauty.
But what of these dark and lofty apertures here at the side which seem
to stand so empty and meaningless? In their bold slender forms I have
hidden the mysterious strength which was to raise both of those towers
high in the air, of which alas only one stands there sadly, without
the crown of five towers which I had planned for it, so that to it and
its royal brother the country about would do homage.” And so he parted
from me, and I fell into a sympathetic mood of melancholy, until the
birds of morning, which dwelt in its thousand orifices, greeted the sun
joyously and waked me out of my slumber. How freshly it shone in the
morning rays, how joyfully I stretched my arms towards it, surveying
its vast harmonious masses, animated by countless delicate details of
structure! as in the works of eternal Nature, every form, down to the
smallest fibril, alive, and everything contributing to the purpose of
the whole! How lightly the monstrous, solidly grounded building soared
into the air! how free and delicate everything about it, and yet solid
for eternity! To your teaching, noble genius, I owe thanks that I did
not faint and sink before your heights and depths, but that into my
soul flowed a drop of that calm rapture of the mighty soul which could
look on this creation, and like God say,--“It is good!”

       *       *       *       *       *

And now I ought not to be angry, revered Erwin, when the German critic
and scholar, taking the cue from envious neighbors, and misjudging the
superiority of your work, belittles it by the little understood term,
“Gothic”; since he ought rather to give thanks that he can proclaim
loudly that this is German architecture,--our architecture,--whereas
the Italians cannot boast of any distinctively native style, much
less the French. And if you are not willing to admit to yourself this
superiority, at least show us then that the Goths have already built
in this style,--in which effort you may encounter some difficulties.
And finally, if you cannot demonstrate that there was a Homer already
before Homer, then we will gladly allow the story of small attempts,
successful and unsuccessful, and come reverently back to the work of
the master who first drew the scattered elements together into one
living whole. And you, my dear brother in the spirit, in your search
for truth and beauty, close your ears to the loud talk about the
plastic arts,--come, enjoy, survey. Beware of desecrating the name of
your noblest artist, and hasten here that you may enjoy and see his
glorious work. If it makes an unfavorable impression or none, then
farewell, hitch up, and take the road straight for Paris.

But you I would accompany, dear youth, who stand there, your soul
moved, and yet unable to harmonize the contradictions which conflict
in your mind, now feeling the irresistible power of the great whole,
now calling me a dreamer for seeing beauty where you see only violence
and roughness. Do not let a misunderstanding part us, do not let
the feeble teaching of the modern standards of beauty spoil you for
vigorous though rough strength, so that finally your sickly sensibility
is able to endure only meaningless insipidities. They would have you
believe that the fine arts originated in the tendency which they impute
to us to beautify the things about us. That is not true! For in the
sense in which it could be true, it is the bourgeois and the artisans
who use the words and not the philosopher.

Art has a long period of growth before it is beautiful, certainly
sincere and great art has, and it is often sincerer and greater
then than when it becomes beautiful. For in man there is a creative
disposition, which comes into activity as soon as his existence is
assured. As soon as he has nothing to worry about or to fear, this
semi-divinity in him, working effectively in his spiritual peace and
assurance, grasps materials into which to breathe its own spirit. Thus
the savage depicts, with strange lines and forms, ghastly figures,
lurid colors, his weapons and his body. And even if these pictures
consist of the most arbitrary and incongruous forms and lines, they
will, without any intended proportion or balance, yet have a sort of
harmony; for a unity of feeling created out of them a characteristic
whole.

Now this characteristic art is the only genuine art. If only it
comes fresh from the inner soul, expressing the original, unique
sensibilities, untroubled, indeed unconscious of any external element,
it may spring from rough savagery or from cultivated sensitiveness, yet
it will always be complete and alive. This you can see among nations
and individual men in countless degrees. The more the soul rises to the
feeling for relations, which alone are beautiful and from eternity,
whose master-chords one can demonstrate, whose mysteries one can only
feel, in which alone the life of the divine genius seeks expression
in enraptured melodies; the more this beauty pervades the soul of a
genius so that it seems to have originated with him, so that nothing
else satisfies him, so that he can bring nothing else out of himself,
the more fortunate is the artist, the more splendid is he, and the more
reverently do we stand there and worship God’s anointed.

From the level to which Erwin has mounted no one will drag him down.
Here stands his work; gaze at it and appreciate the deepest feelings
for truth and beauty and proportion, working out of a strong, sturdy,
rough German soul, out of the narrow, somber, priest-haunted “medium
aevum.”

And our own “aevum”? It has neglected its genius, driven forth its
sons to collect strange excrescences for their corruption. The agile
Frenchman, who in unscrupulous fashion collects where he will, has at
least an ingenuity in working together his booty into a sort of unity;
he builds his wonderful church of the Magdalene out of Greek columns
and German arches and vaults. From one of our architects, who was
requested to design a portal for an old German church, I have seen a
model of perfect, stately antique column-work.

How hateful our varnished doll-painters are to me I cannot express.
By their theatrical positions, their false tints, and gaily-colored
costumes, they have captured the eyes of women. But, manly Albrecht
Dürer, whom these novices laugh at, your woodcut figures are more
welcome to me.

And you yourselves, excellent men, to whom it was given to enjoy the
highest beauty, and now come down to announce your bliss, you do
prejudice to genius. It will soar and progress on no alien wings, even
though they were the wings of the morning. Its own original powers
are those which unfold in the dreams of childhood, which grow during
the life of youth, until strong and supple like the mountain-lion he
starts out after his prey. Nature does most in training these powers,
for you pedagogues can never counterfeit the multifarious scene which
she provides for a youth to draw from and enjoy in the measure of his
present strength.

Welcome, to you, young man, who have been born with a keen eye for form
and proportion, with the facility to practise in all forms. If then
there awakes gradually in you the joy of life, and you come to feel the
rapture which men know after work, fear and hope,--the spirited cries
of the laborer in the vineyard when the bounty of the harvest swells
his vats, the lively dance of the reaper when he has hung his idle
sickle high on the beam,--when all the powerful nerves of desire and
suffering live again more manfully in your brush, and you have striven
and suffered enough and have enjoyed enough, and are filled with
earthly beauty, and worthy to rest in the arms of the goddess, worthy
to feel on her bosom what gave new birth to the deified Hercules--then
receive him, heavenly beauty, thou mediator between gods and men, and
let him, more than Prometheus, carry down the rapture of the gods to
the earth.[2]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Erwin von Steinbach, one of the architects of the
Strassburg Cathedral.

[2] “What I had thought and imagined with respect to that
style of architecture, I wrote in a connected form. The first point
on which I insisted was that it should be called German, and not
Gothic; that it should be considered not foreign, but native. The
second point was that it could not be compared with the architecture
of the Greeks and Romans, because it sprang from quite another
principle. If these, living under a more favorable sky, allowed their
roof to rest upon columns, a wall, broken through, arose of its own
accord. We, however, who must always protect ourselves against the
weather, and everywhere surround ourselves with walls, have to revere
the genius who discovered the means of endowing massive walls with
variety, of apparently breaking them through, and of thus occupying
the eye in a worthy and pleasing manner on a broad surface.... If
I had been pleased to write down these views (the value of which I
will not deny) clearly and distinctly, in an intelligible style, the
paper _On German Architecture_ would then, when I published it, have
produced more effect, and would sooner have drawn the attention of
the native friends of art. But, misled by the example of Herder and
Hamann, I obscured these very simple thoughts and observations by a
dusty cloud of words and phrases, and, both for myself and others,
darkened the light which had arisen within me. However, the paper was
well received, and reprinted in Herder’s work on _German Manner and
Art_.”--Goethe, _Autobiography_ (1812). The “dear abbé” to whom Goethe
is replying in this essay is the Abbé Laugier, author of the _Essai sur
l’Architecture_ (1753).




INTRODUCTION TO THE _PROPYLÆA_

(1798)


There is no more striking sign of the decay of art than when we find
its separate provinces mixed up together.

The arts themselves, as well as their subordinate forms, are closely
related to each other, and have a certain tendency to unite, and even
lose themselves in each other; but herein lies the duty, the merit,
the dignity of the true artist, that he knows how to separate that
department in which he labors from the others, and, so far as may be,
isolates it.

It has been noticed that all plastic art tends towards painting, all
poetry to the drama; and this may furnish the text for some important
observations hereafter.

The genuine, law-giving artist strives after artistic truth;
the lawless, following a blind instinct, after an appearance of
naturalness. The former leads to the highest pinnacle of art, the
latter to its lowest step.

This is no less true of the separate arts than of art in general.
The sculptor must think and feel differently from the painter, and
must go to work differently to execute a work in relief from what he
would do with a round and complete piece of statuary. When the work
in low relief came to be brought out more and more, and by degrees
parts and figures were brought out from the ground, at last buildings
and landscapes admitted, and thus a work produced, half picture half
puppet-show, true art was on the decline; and it is to be deplored
that excellent artists have in more recent times taken this direction.

Whenever we enunciate hereafter such maxims as we esteem true, we
shall feel a real desire, since these maxims are drawn from works of
art, to have them practically tested by artists. How seldom does one
man agree with another concerning a theoretic principle; the practical
and immediately useful is far more quickly adopted. How often do we
see artists at a loss in the choice of a subject, in the general
composition, according to their rules of art, in the arrangement of
details; the painter doubtful about the choice of his colors! Then is
the time to make trial of a principle; then will it be easier to decide
the question,--Do we by its aid come nearer to the great models, and
all that we love and prize, or does it forsake us in the empirical
confusion of an experiment not thoroughly thought out?

If such maxims should prove useful in forwarding the culture of
artists, in guiding them among difficulties, they will also aid the
understanding, true estimation, and criticism of ancient and modern
works, and, _vice versa_, will again be discovered in the examination
of these works. This is all the more necessary, since, in spite of the
universally acknowledged excellence of the antique, individuals as well
as whole nations have in modern times often misconceived those very
things wherein the highest excellence of those works lies.

An exact scrutiny of these will be the best means of securing us
against this evil. Let us now take, as an example, the usual course of
proceeding of the amateur in plastic art, in order to make it evident
how necessary a thorough criticism of ancient as well as modern works
is, if we would profit by it.

No person of a fine natural perception, however uncultivated, can
see even an imperfect, incorrect cast of a fine ancient work without
being greatly impressed by it; for such a representation still gives
the idea, the simplicity and greatness of the form, in a word, the
general notion at least, such as a man of imperfect sight would see at
a distance.

We may often observe how a strong inclination towards art is awakened
through such an imperfect reproduction. But the effect is analogous
to the object that caused it, and such beginners in art are rather
impressed with a blind and indefinite feeling than with the true worth
and significance of the object itself. It is such as these who are the
authors of the theory that a too curious critical examination destroys
our pleasure, and who decry and resist the investigation of details.

But when by degrees their experience and knowledge become wider, and
a sharper cast in place of the imperfect one, or an original instead
of a cast comes under their observation, their satisfaction increases
with their insight, and continually advances when at last the originals
themselves, the perfect originals, become known to them.

We are not deterred by the labyrinth of thorough examination, when the
details are of equal perfection with the whole work. Nay, we learn
that we are able to appreciate the perfect, just so far as we are in
a condition to discern the defective: to distinguish the restored
from the original parts, the copy from the model, to contemplate in
the smallest fragments the scattered excellence of the whole, is a
satisfaction that belongs only to the perfect connoisseur; and there is
a wide difference between the contemplation of an imperfect whole with
groping sense, and the seeing and seizing, with clear eye, of a perfect
one.

He who devotes himself to any department of knowledge should aim at the
highest. Insight and Practice follow widely different paths, for in
the practical each one soon becomes aware that only a certain measure
of power is meted to him. But a far greater number of men are capable
of knowledge, of insight; we may even say that every man is so who
can deny himself, subordinate himself to objects, and does not strive
with a rigid and narrow individuality to bring in himself and his poor
one-sidedness amid the highest works of nature and art.

To speak suitably, and with real advantage to one’s self and others,
of works of art, can properly be done only in their presence. All
depends on the sight of the object. On this it depends whether the
word by which we hope to elucidate the work has produced the clearest
impression or none at all. Hence it so often happens that the author
who writes concerning works of art deals only in generalities, whereby
indeed the mind and imagination are awakened; but of all his readers,
he only will derive satisfaction who, book in hand, examines the work
itself.

On this account, therefore, we may in our essays often excite rather
than gratify the desire of our readers; for there is nothing more
natural than that they should wish to have before their eyes any
excellent work of which they read a minute criticism, to enjoy that
whole which is in question, and to subject to their own judgments the
opinions they hear concerning the parts.

But whilst it is the expectation of the authors to labor in behalf
of those who are already acquainted with some works and will see
others hereafter, we shall try to do what is possible for those who
have neither the prospect nor the retrospect. We shall make mention
of copies, point out where casts from the antique or ancient works
themselves, especially when these are within easy reach, may be found,
and thus forward, as far as in us lies, a true love and knowledge of
art.

The history of art can be based only on the highest and most complete
conception of art; only through an acquaintance with the most perfect
that man has ever been enabled to produce can the chronological and
psychological progress of mankind in art, as in other departments,
be displayed. At first a limited activity occupied itself in a dry
and dismal imitation of the insignificant as well as the significant,
then a more delicate and agreeable feeling of Nature was developed.
Afterwards, accompanied by knowledge, regularity, strength and
earnestness, aided by favorable circumstances, art rose to the highest
point, until at last it became possible for the fortunate genius who
found himself surrounded by all these auxiliaries to produce the
enchanting, the perfect.

Unfortunately, works of art, which give themselves forth with such
facility, which make men feel themselves so agreeably, which inspire
man with clearness and freedom, suggest to the artist who would emulate
them the notion of facility in their production. The last achievement
of Art and Genius being an appearance of ease and lightness, the
imitator is tempted to make it easy for himself, and to labor at this
appearance.

Thus, by degrees, art declines from its high estate, in the whole as
well as in details. But if we would form to ourselves a true conception
of art, we must descend to details of details, an occupation by no
means always agreeable and alluring, but for which gradually our eye’s
ready mastery of the whole will richly indemnify us.

If we work out certain general principles through the examination of
ancient and mediæval works of art, we shall find them particularly
needful in our judgment of contemporary productions; for in forming an
estimate of living or lately deceased artists, personal considerations,
regard or dislike for individuals, popular attraction or repulsion,
are so easily mixed up, that we are still more in need of principles
in order to express a judgment of our contemporaries. The examination
can be undertaken in two ways. Arbitrary influence is diminished, and
the case is brought into a higher court. An opportunity is afforded
for proving the principles themselves as well as their application;
and even where we cannot agree, the point in dispute is clearly and
certainly ascertained.

We especially desire that living artists, about whose works we may
perhaps have something to say, should make trial of our judgments in
this way. For every one who deserves this name is in our time called
upon to form, out of his own experience and reflection, if not a
theory, at least a certain set of receipts, by the use of which he
finds himself aided in various cases. But it must have been frequently
remarked how apt a man is, by proceeding in this way, to advance as
principles certain maxims which are commensurate with his talents, his
inclinations, his convenience. He is subject to the common lot of
mankind. How many in other departments follow the same course. But we
do not add to our culture when we simply set in motion without trouble
or difficulty what already existed in us. Every artist, like every man,
is only an individual being, and will always abide by one side; and
therefore a man should take in to himself as far as possible that which
is theoretically and practically opposed to him. The lively should look
about for strength and earnestness, the severe should keep in view
the light and agreeable, the strong should look for loveliness, the
delicate for strength, and each will thus best cultivate his peculiar
nature, while he seems to be going most out of himself. Each art
demands the whole man, the highest step of art all humanity.

The practice of the imitative arts is mechanical, and the cultivation
of the artist begins naturally in his earliest years with the
mechanical. The rest of his education is often slighted, whereas it
should be far more carefully attended to than that of others who have
the opportunity of learning from life itself. Society soon civilizes
the unpolished; a life of business makes the most open circumspect.
Literary labors, which by means of the press come before the great
public, find resistance and correction on all sides. But the artist is
for the most part confined to a narrow studio, and has few dealings
save with those who pay for his works, with a public that is often
guided only by a certain sickly feeling, with connoisseurs who worry
him, with auctioneers who receive anything new with formulas of praise
and estimation that would not be too high for the most perfect.




UPON THE LAOCOON

(1798)


A true work of art, like a true work of nature, never ceases to open
boundlessly before the mind. We examine,--we are impressed with it,--it
produces its effect; but it can never be all comprehended, still less
can its essence, its value, be expressed in words. In the present
remarks concerning the Laocoon, our object is by no means to say all
that can be said on the subject; we shall make this admirable work
rather the occasion than the subject of what we have to say. May it
soon be placed once more in a situation where all lovers of art may be
able to enjoy and speak of it, each in his own way.

We can hardly speak adequately of a high work of art without also
speaking of art in general; since all art is comprehended in it, and
each one is able, according to his powers, to develop the universal out
of such a special case. We shall therefore begin with some remarks of a
general nature.

All high works of art are expressions of humanity. Plastic art relates
particularly to the human form; it is of this we are now speaking. Art
has many steps, in all of which there have been admirable artists; but
a perfect work of art embraces all the qualities that are elsewhere
encountered only separately.

The highest works of art that we know exhibit to us--

_Living, highly organized natures._ We look, in the first place, for a
knowledge of the human body, in its parts and proportions, inward and
outward adaptation, its forms and motions generally.

_Character._ Knowledge of the varieties in form and action of their
parts; peculiarities are discriminated, and separately set forth. Out
of this results character, through which an important relation may be
established among separate works; and, in like manner, when a work is
put together, its parts may hold an analogous relation to each other.
The subject may be--

_At rest, or in motion._ A work, or its parts, may either be
self-centred, simply showing its character in a state of rest, or it
may be exhibited in movement, activity, or fullness of passionate
expression.

_Ideal._ To the attainment of this, the artist needs a deep,
well-grounded, steadfast mind, which must be accompanied by a higher
sense,in order to comprehend the subject in all its bearings, to find
the moment of expression, to withdraw this from the narrowness of fact,
and give to it, in an ideal world, proportion, limit, reality and
dignity.

_Agreeableness._ The subject and its mode of exhibition are
moreover connected with the sensible laws of art; viz., harmony,
comprehensibility, symmetry, contrast, etc.; whereby it becomes visibly
beautiful, or agreeable, as it is called.

_Beauty._ Farther, we find that it obeys the laws of spiritual beauty,
which arises from just proportion, and to which he who is complete in
the creation or production of the beautiful knows how to subject even
the extremes.

Now that I have defined the conditions which we demand of a high work
of art, much will be comprised in a few words when I say that the
Laocoon group fulfils them all, nay, that out of it alone all of them
could be developed.

It will be conceded by all that it exhibits acquaintance with the human
form, and with what is characteristic in it, and at the same time
expression and passion. In how high and ideal a way the subject is
treated will presently be shown; and no one who recognizes the harmony
with which the extremes of bodily and mental suffering are set forth
can hesitate in calling the work beautiful.

On the other hand, many will think I am uttering a paradox when I
maintain that the work is also _agreeable_. A word upon this point.

Every work of art must show on the face of it that it is such;
and this can be done only through what we call sensuous beauty,
or agreeableness. The ancients, far from entertaining the modern
notion that a work of art must have the appearance of a work of
nature, designated their works of art as such through an intentional
arrangement of parts; by means of symmetry they rendered easy for the
eye an insight into relations, and thus a complicated work was made
comprehensible. Through symmetry and opposition slight deviations
were made productive of the sharpest contrasts. The pains of the
artist were most happily bestowed to place the masses in opposition
to each other, and particularly in groups, to bring the extremities
of the bodies against each other in a harmonious position; so that
every work, when we disregard its import, and look only at its general
outline from a distance, strikes the eye by its ornamental air. The
antique vases furnish a hundred instances of this sort of agreeable
composition, and perhaps it would be possible to exhibit a series of
examples of symmetrically artistic and charming groupings, from the
most quiet vase-sculptures up to the Laocoon. I shall therefore venture
to repeat the assertion that the group of Laocoon, in addition to its
other acknowledged merits, is at once a model of symmetry and variety,
of repose and action, of contrast and gradation, which produce an
impression partly sensible, partly spiritual, agreeably stimulate the
imagination by the high pathos of the representation, and by their
grace and beauty temper the storm of passion and suffering.

It is a great advantage for a work of art to be self-included and
complete. An object at rest, exhibiting simple being, is thus complete
by and in itself. A Jupiter, the thunderbolt resting in his lap; a
Juno, reposing in her majesty and feminine dignity; a Minerva, inwardly
intent--are all subjects that have no impulse outwards, that rest upon
and in themselves; the first, the most lovely subjects of sculpture.
But within the noble round of the mythic circle of art, where these
separate self-existent natures stand and rest, there are smaller
circles, within which the figures are conceived and wrought out with
reference to other figures; for example, the nine Muses, with their
leader, Apollo, are each conceived and executed separately, but they
become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir.
When art attempts scenes of exalted passion, it can treat them also
in the same manner; it may either present to us a circle of figures
holding a passionate relation to each other, like the Niobe and her
children, pursued by Apollo and Diana, or exhibit in the same piece the
action and the motive; we have in mind such groups as the graceful boy
extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fawns
and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and animated group of Laocoon.

Sculpture is justly entitled to the high rank it holds, because it can
and must carry expression to its highest point of perfection, from
the fact that it leaves man only the absolutely essential. Thus, in
the present group, Laocoon is a bare name; the artists have stripped
him of his priesthood, his Trojan nationality, of every poetical
or mythological attribute; there remains nothing of all that fable
had clothed him with; he is a father with his two sons, in danger
of destruction from two fierce animals. In like manner, we see no
messenger of the gods, but two plain, natural serpents, powerful enough
to overcome three men, but, by no means, either in form or action,
supernatural and avenging ministers of wrath. They glide in, as it
is their nature to do, twine around, knot together, and one, being
irritated, bites. If I had to describe this work without knowing the
farther intent of it, I should say it were a Tragic Idyl. A father was
sleeping, with his two sons beside him; two serpents twined about them,
and now waking, they struggled to free themselves from the living net.

The expression of the moment is, in this work, of the highest
importance. When it is intended that a work of art shall move before
the eye, a passing moment must, of course, be chosen; but a moment ago
not a single part of the whole was to be found in the position it now
holds, and in another instant all will be changed again; so that it
presents a fresh, living image to a million beholders.

In order to conceive rightly the intention of the Laocoon, let a man
place himself before it at a proper distance, with his eyes shut; then
let him open his eyes, and shut them again instantly. By this means he
will see the whole marble in motion; he will fear lest he finds the
whole group changed when he opens his eyes again. It might be said
that, as it stands, it is a flash of lightning fixed, a wave petrified
in the moment it rushes towards the shore. The same effect is produced
by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.

The situation of the three figures is represented with a wise
gradation. In the oldest son only the extremities are entangled; the
second is encumbered with more folds, and especially by the knot around
his breast; he endeavors to get breath by the motion of his right arm;
with the left he gently holds back the serpent’s head, to prevent him
from taking another turn round his breast. The serpent is in the act of
slipping under the hand, but _does not bite_. The father, on the other
hand, tries to set himself and the children free by force; he grasps
the other serpent, which, exasperated, bites him on the hip.

The best way to understand the position of the father, both in the
whole and in detail, seems to be to take the sudden anguish of the
wound as the moving cause of the whole action. The serpent has not
bitten, but is just now biting, and in a sensitive part, above and
just behind the hip. The position of the restored head of the serpent
does not represent the bite correctly; fortunately, the remains of the
two jaws may yet be seen on the hinder part of the statue, if only
these important vestiges are not destroyed in the course of the present
paltry alterations. The serpent inflicts a wound upon the unhappy man,
in a part where we are excessively sensible to any irritation, where
even a little tickling is able to produce the action which in this case
is caused by the wound. The figure starts away towards the opposite
side, the abdomen is drawn in, the shoulder forced down, the breast
thrust out, the head sinks towards the wounded side; the secondary
portion of the situation or treatment appears in the imprisoned feet
and the struggling arms; and thus from the contrast of struggle and
flight, of action and suffering, of energy and failing strength,
results an harmonious action that would perhaps be impossible under
other conditions. We are lost in astonishment at the sagacity of the
artist; if we try to place the bite in some different position the
whole action is changed, and we find it impossible to conceive one
more fitting. This, therefore, is an important maxim: the artist has
represented a sensuous effort, he shows us also its sensuous cause.
I repeat, the situation of the bite renders necessary the present
action of the limbs. The movement of the lower part of the figure, as
if to fly, the drawing in of the abdomen, the downward action of the
shoulders and the head, the breast forced out, nay, the expression of
each feature of the face, all are determined by this instant, sharp,
unlooked-for irritation.

Far be it from me to destroy the unity of human nature, to deny the
sympathetic action of the spiritual powers of this nobly complete
man, to misconceive the action and suffering of a great nature. I
see also anguish, fear, horror, a father’s anxiety pervading these
veins, swelling this breast, furrowing this brow. I freely admit
that the highest state of mental as well as bodily anguish is here
represented; only let us not transfer the effect the work produces
on us too vividly to the piece itself; and above all, let us not be
looking for the effect of poison in a body which the serpent’s fang
has but just reached. Let us not fancy we see a death-struggle in a
noble, resisting, vigorous, but slightly wounded frame. Here let me
have leave to make an observation of importance in art: The maximum
expression of pathos that can be given by art hovers in the transition
from one state or condition to another. You see a lively child running
with all the energy and joy of life, bounding, and full of delight; he
is unexpectedly struck somewhat roughly by a playmate, or is otherwise
morally or physically hurt. This new sensation thrills like an electric
shock through all his limbs, and this transition is full of pathos in
the highest meaning; it is a contrast of which one can form no idea
without having seen it. In this case plainly the spiritual as well as
the physical man is in action. If during the transition there still
remain evident traces of the previous state, the result is the noblest
subject for plastic art, as is the case in the Laocoon where action and
suffering are shown in the same instant. Thus, for instance, Eurydice,
bitten in the heel by the snake she has trodden on, as she goes
joyfully through the meadow with the flowers she has collected, would
make a statue of great pathos, if the twofold state, the joyful advance
and its painful arrest, might be expressed not only by the flowers
that she lets fall, but by the direction of her limbs and the doubtful
fluttering of her dress.

Having now a clear conception, in this respect, of the main figure, we
shall be enabled to give a free and secure glance over the relations,
contrasts, and gradations of the collective parts of the whole.

The choice of subject is one of the happiest that can be imagined,--men
struggling with dangerous animals, and animals that do not act as a
mass of concentrated force, but with divided powers; that do not rush
in at one side, nor offer a combined resistance, but capable by their
prolonged organization of paralyzing without injuring them, three
men, or more or less. From the action of this numbing force results,
consistently with the most violent action, a pervading unity and repose
throughout the whole. The different action of the serpents is exhibited
in gradation. The one is simply twined around its victims, the other
becomes irritated and bites its antagonist. The three figures are in
like manner most wisely selected: a strong, well-developed man, but
evidently past the age of greatest energy, and therefore less able to
endure pain and suffering. Substitute in his place a robust young man
and the charm of the group vanishes. Joined with him in his suffering
are two boys, small in proportion to his figure; again still two
natures susceptible of pain.

The struggles of the youngest are powerless; he is frightened, but
not injured. The father struggles powerfully, but ineffectually; his
efforts have rather the effect to exasperate the opposed force. His
opponent, becoming irritated, wounds him. The eldest son is least
encumbered. He suffers neither anguish nor pain; he is frightened
by the sudden wounding of his father, and his movement thereupon; he
cries out, at the same moment endeavoring to free his foot from the
serpent’s fold. Here then is spectator, witness, and accessory to the
fact; and thus the work is completed. Let me here repeat what I alluded
to above,--that all three figures exhibit a twofold action, and thus
are occupied in most manifold ways. The youngest son strives to free
himself by raising his right arm, and with his left hand keeps back
the serpent’s head; he is striving to alleviate the present, and avert
the greater, evil,--the highest degree of action he can attain in his
present imprisoned condition. The father is striving to shake off the
serpents, while his body recoils from the immediate bite. The oldest
son is terrified by his father’s starting, and seeks at the same time
to free himself from the lightly entwining serpent.

The choice of the highest moment of expression has already been spoken
of as a great advantage possessed by this work of art; let us now
consider this problem in greater detail.

We assumed the case of natural serpents twining about a father sleeping
by his sons, so that in considering the separate moments, we might be
led to a climax of interest. The first moments of the serpents’ winding
about them in sleep are portentous, but not significant for art. We
might perhaps imagine an infant Hercules asleep, with a serpent twined
about him; but in this case the form in repose would show us what we
were to expect when he waked.

Let us now proceed and figure to ourselves a father with his children,
when first--let it have happened how it may--he discovers the
serpents wound about him. There is only one moment of the highest
interest,--when one of the figures is made defenseless by the pressure,
the second can still fight, but is wounded, the third still retains
a hope of escape. In the first condition is the younger son; in the
second, the father; in the third, the eldest son. Seek now to find
another, a fourth condition! Try to change the order of the _dramatis
personae_!

If we now consider the treatment from the beginning, we must
acknowledge that it has reached the highest point; and in like manner,
if we reflect upon the succeeding moments, we shall perceive that
the whole group must necessarily be changed, and that no moment can
be found equal to this in artistic significance. The youngest son
will either be suffocated by the entwining serpent, or should he in
his helpless condition exasperate it, he must be bitten. Neither
alternative could we endure, since they suppose an extremity unsuitable
for representation. As to the father, he would either be bitten by the
serpent in other places, whereby the position of the body would be
entirely changed and the previous wounds would either be lost to the
beholder or, if made evident, would be loathsome, or the serpent might
turn about and assail the eldest son, whose attention would then be
turned to himself,--the scene loses its participator, the last glimpse
of hope disappears from the group, the situation is no longer tragical,
it is fearful. The figure of the father, which is now self-centred in
its greatness and its suffering, would in that case be turned towards
the son and become a sympathizing subordinate.

Man has, for his own and others’ sufferings, only three sorts of
sensations, apprehension, terror, and compassion,--the anxious
foreseeing of an approaching evil, the unexpected realization of
present pain, and sympathy with existing or past suffering; all three
are excited by and exhibited in the present work, and in the most
fitting gradations.

Plastic art, laboring always for a single point of time, in choosing a
subject expressive of pathos will seize one that awakens terror; while
Poetry prefers such as excite apprehension and compassion. In the group
of Laocoon the suffering of the father awakens terror, and that in the
highest degree. Sculpture has done her utmost for him, but, partly to
run through the circle of human sensations, partly to soften the effect
of so much of the terrible, it excites pity for the younger son, and
apprehension for the elder, through the hope that still exists for
him. Thus, by means of variety, the artists have introduced a certain
balance into their work, have softened and heightened effect by other
effects, and completed at once a spiritual and sensuous whole.

In a word, we dare boldly affirm that this work exhausts its subject
and happily fulfils all the conditions of art. It teaches us that if
the master can infuse his feeling of beauty into tranquil and simple
subjects, this feeling can also be exhibited in its highest energy and
dignity when it manifests itself in the creation of varied characters,
and knows how, by artistic imitation, to temper and control the
passionate outbreak of human feeling. We shall give in the sequel a
full account of the statues known by the name of the family of Niobe,
as well as the group of the Farnesian Bull; these are among the few
representations of pathos that remain to us of antique sculpture.

It has been the usual fate of the moderns to blunder in their choice
of subjects of this sort. When Milo, with both his hands fast in the
cleft of a tree, is attacked by a lion, art in vain endeavors to create
a work that will excite a sincere sympathy. A twofold suffering, a
fruitless struggle, a helpless state, a certain defeat can only excite
horror, if they do not leave us cold.

Finally, a word concerning this subject in its connection with poetry.

It is doing Virgil and poetic art a great injustice to compare even
for a moment this most succinct achievement of Sculpture with the
episodical treatment of the subject in the Æneid. Since the unhappy
exile, Æneas, is to recount how he and his fellow-citizens were guilty
of the unpardonable folly of bringing the famous horse into their city,
the Poet must hit upon some way to provide a motive for this action.
Everything is subordinated to this end, and the story of Laocoon
stands here as a rhetorical argument to justify an exaggeration if
only it serves its purpose. Two monstrous serpents come out of the
sea with crested heads; they rush upon the children of the priest who
had injured the horse, encircle them, bite them, besmear them, twist
and twine about the breast and head of the father as he hastens to
their assistance, and hold up their heads in triumph while the victim,
inclosed in their folds, screams in vain for help. The people are
horror-struck and fly at once; no one dares to be a patriot any longer;
and the hearer, satiated with the horror of the strange and loathsome
story, is willing to let the horse be brought into the city.

Thus, in Virgil, the story of Laocoon serves only as a step to a higher
aim, and it is a great question whether the occurrence be in itself a
poetic subject.




THE COLLECTOR AND HIS FRIENDS

(1799)


Yesterday a stranger made his appearance, whose name I was already
familiar with, and who has the reputation of a skilful connoisseur.[3]
I was pleased to see him, made him acquainted generally with my
possessions, let him choose what he would from what I exhibited to him.
I soon noticed his cultivated eye for works of art, and especially for
their history. He knew the masters as well as the scholars; in cases of
doubtful works he was familiar with the grounds of uncertainty, and his
conversation was highly interesting to me.

Perhaps I should have been hurried on to open myself in a more lively
manner towards him, had not my resolve to sound my guest made me from
the first take a more quiet tone. His judgment in many cases agreed
with mine; in many I was forced to admire his sharp and practised
eye. The first thing that struck me was his unmitigated hatred of all
Mannerists. I was in pain for some of my favorite pictures, and was
curious to discover from what source such a dislike could spring....

Before we were all assembled I seized an opportunity to lend a helping
hand to my poor mannerists against the stranger. I spoke of their
beautiful nature, their happy handling, their grace, and added, to
keep myself safe: Thus much I say only to claim for them a certain
degree of forbearance, though I admit that that high beauty, which is
the highest end and aim of Art, is in fact quite a different thing.

He replied--with a smile that did not altogether please me, inasmuch
as it seemed to express a special self-satisfaction and a sort of
compassion for me:--Are you then stanch in the old-fashioned principle
that Beauty is the last aim of art?

I answered that I was not aware of any higher.

Can you tell me what Beauty is? he exclaimed.

Perhaps not, I replied; but I can show it to you. Let us go and see,
even by candlelight, a fine cast of Apollo or a beautiful marble bust
of Bacchus that I possess, and try if we cannot agree that they are
beautiful.

Before we go upon this quest, said he, it would be necessary for us
to examine more closely this word Beauty and its derivation. Beauty
(_Schönheit_) comes from show (_Schein_); it is an appearance, and
not worthy to be the object of art. The perfectly characteristic only
deserves to be called beauty; without Character there is no Beauty.

Surprised by this mode of expression, I replied: Granted, though it be
not proved, that beauty must be characteristic; yet from this it only
follows that character lies at the root of beauty, but by no means that
Beauty and Character are the same. Character holds to the beautiful the
same relation that the skeleton does to the living man. No one will
deny that the osseous system is the foundation of all highly organized
forms. It consolidates and defines the form, but is not the form
itself; still less does it bring about that last appearance which, as
the veil and integument of an organized whole, we call Beauty.

I cannot embark in similitudes, said my guest, and from your own words,
moreover, it is evident that beauty is something incomprehensible, or
the effect of something incomprehensible. What cannot be comprehended
is naught; what we cannot make clear by words is nonsense.

_I._--Can you then clearly express in words the effect that a colored
body produces on your eyes?

_He._--That is again a metaphor that I will not be drawn into. It is
enough that character can be indicated. You find no beauty without
it, else it would be empty and insignificant. All the beauty of the
Ancients is only Character, and only out of this quality is beauty
developed.

Our Philosopher[4] had arrived meanwhile and was conversing with my
nieces, when, hearing us speak earnestly, he stepped forward; and the
stranger, stimulated by the accession of a new hearer, proceeded:

That is just the misfortune when good heads, when people of merit, get
hold of such false principles, which have only an appearance of truth,
and spread them wider and wider. None appropriate them so willingly as
those who know and understand nothing of the subject. Thus has Lessing
fastened upon us the principle that the ancients cultivated only
the beautiful; thus has Winckelmann put us to sleep with his “noble
simplicity and serene greatness”; whereas the art of the ancients
appears in all imaginable forms. But these gentlemen tarry by Jupiter
and Juno, Genii and Graces, and hide the ignoble forms and skulls of
Barbarians, the rough hair, foul beard, gaunt bones, and wrinkled skin
of deformed age, the protruding veins and hanging breasts.

In the name of God, I exclaimed, are there then independent,
self-existing works of the best age of Ancient Art that exhibit such
frightful objects? Or are they not rather subordinate works, occasional
pieces, creations of an art that must demean itself according to
outward circumstances, an art on the decline?

_He._--I give you the specification, you can yourself search and judge.
But you will not deny that the Laocoon, that Niobe, that Dirce with her
stepsons, are self-subsistent works of art. Stand before the Laocoon
and contemplate nature in full revolt and desperation. The last choking
pang, the desperate struggle, the maddening convulsion, the working
of the corroding poison, the vehement fermenting, the stagnating
circulation, suffocating pressure, and paralytic death.

The Philosopher seemed to look at me with astonishment, and I answered:
We shudder, we are horrified at the bare description. In sooth, if it
be so with the group of Laocoon, what are we to say of the pleasure we
find in this as in every other true work of art? But I will not meddle
in the question. You must settle it with the authors of the _Propylæa_,
who are of just the opposite mind.

It must be admitted, said my guest, that all Antiquity speaks for
me; for where do horror and death rage more hideously than in the
representation of the Niobe?

I was confounded by this assertion, for only a short time before I
had been looking at the copperplates in Fabroni, which I immediately
brought forward and opened. I find no trace in the statues of raging
horror and death, but rather the greatest subordination of tragical
situation under the highest ideas of dignity, nobleness, beauty, and
simplicity. I trace everywhere the artistic purpose to dispose the
limbs agreeably and gracefully. The character is expressed only in the
most general lines, which run through the work like a sort of ideal
skeleton.

_He._--Let us turn to the bas-reliefs, which we shall find at the end
of the book.

We turned to them.

_I._--Of anything horrible, to speak truly, I see no trace here either.
Where is this rage of horror and death? I see figures so artfully
interwoven, so happily placed against or extended upon each other, that
while they remind me of a mournful destiny, they give room at the same
time for the most charming imaginations. All that is characteristic is
tempered, the violent is elevated, and I might say that Character lies
at the foundation; upon it rest simplicity and dignity; the highest
aim of art is beauty and its last effect the feeling of pleasure. The
agreeable, which may not be immediately united with the characteristic,
comes remarkably before our eyes in these sarcophagi. Are not the
dead sons and daughters of Niobe here made use of as ornaments? This
is the highest luxury of art; she adorns no longer with flowers and
fruits, but with the corpses of men, with the greatest misfortune that
can befall a father or mother, to see a blooming family all at once
snatched away. Yes, the beauteous genius who stands beside the grave,
his torch reversed, has stood beside the artist as he invented and
perfected, and over his earthly greatness has breathed a heavenly grace.

My guest looked at me with a smile, and shrugged his shoulders.
Alas,--said he, as I concluded,--alas, I see plainly that we can never
agree. What a pity that a man of your acquirements, of your sense,
will not perceive that these are all empty words; that to a man of
understanding Beauty and Ideal must always be a dream which he cannot
translate into reality, but finds to be in direct opposition to it....

_I._--Will you allow me also to put in a word?

_The guest_ (somewhat scornfully.)--With all my heart, and I hope
nothing about mere phantoms.

_I._--I have some acquaintance with the poetry of the ancients, but
have little knowledge of the plastic arts.

_Guest._--That I regret; for in that case we can hardly come to an
understanding.

_I._--And yet the fine arts are nearly related, and the friends of the
separate arts should not misunderstand each other.

_Uncle._--Let us hear what you have to say.

_I._--The old tragic writers dealt with the stuff in which they worked
in the same way as the plastic artists, unless these engravings,
representing the family of Niobe, give an altogether false impression
of the original.

_Guest._--They are passably good. They convey an imperfect but not a
false impression.

_I._--Well, then, to that extent we can take them for a ground to go
upon.

_Uncle._--What is it you assert of the treatment of the ancient tragic
writers?

_I._--The subjects they chose, especially in the early times, were
often of an unbearable frightfulness.

_Guest._--Were the ancient fables insupportably frightful?

_I._--Undoubtedly; in the same manner as your account of the Laocoon.

_Guest._--Did you find that also unbearable?

_I._--I ask pardon. I meant the thing you describe, not your
description.

_Guest._--And the work itself also?

_I._--By no means the work itself, but that which you have seen in
it,--the fable, the history, the skeleton,--that which you name the
characteristic. For if the Laocoon really stood before our eyes such as
you have described it, we ought not to hesitate a moment to dash it to
pieces.

_Guest._--You use strong expressions.

_I._--One may do that as well as another.

_Uncle._--Now then for the ancient tragedies.

_Guest._--Yes, these insupportable subjects.

_I._--Very good; but also this manner of treatment that makes
everything endurable, beautiful, graceful.

_Guest._--And that is effected by means of “simplicity and serene
greatness?”

_I._--So it appears.

_Guest._--By the softening principle of Beauty?

_I._--It can be nothing else.

_Guest._--And the old tragedies were after all not frightful?

_I._--Hardly, so far as my knowledge extends, if you listen to the
poets themselves. In fact, if we regard in poetry only the material
which lies at the foundation, if we are to speak of works of art as if
in their place we had seen the actual circumstances, then even the
tragedies of Sophocles can be described as loathsome and horrible.

_Guest._--I will not pass judgment on poetry.

_I._--Nor I on plastic art.

_Guest._--Yes, it is best for each to stick to his own department.

_I._--And yet there is a common point of union for all the arts
wherefrom the laws of all proceed.

_Guest._--And that is--

_I._--The soul of man.

_Guest._--Ay, ay; that is just the way with you gentlemen of the new
school of philosophy. You bring everything upon your own ground and
province; and, in fact, it is more convenient to shape the world
according to your ideas than to adapt your notions to the truth of
things.

_I._--Here is no question of any metaphysical dispute.

_Guest._--If there were I should certainly decline it.

_I._--I shall admit for the sake of argument that Nature can be
imagined as absolutely apart from man, but with him art necessarily
concerns itself, for art exists only through man and for man.

_Guest._--Where does all this tend?

_I._--You yourself, when you make Character the end of art, appoint the
understanding, which takes cognizance of the characteristic, as the
judge.

_Guest._--To be sure I do. What I cannot seize with my understanding
does not exist for me.

_I._--Yet man is not only a being of thought, but also of feeling. He
is a whole; a union of various, closely connected powers; and to this
whole of man the work of art is to address itself. It must speak to
this rich unity, this simple variety in him.

_Guest._--Don’t carry me with you into these labyrinths, for who could
ever help us out again?

_I._--It will then be best for us to give up the dispute and each
retain his position.

_Guest._--I shall at least hold fast to mine.

_I._--Perhaps a means may still be found whereby, if one does not take
the other’s position, he can at least observe him in it.

_Guest._--Propose it then.

_I._--We will for a moment contemplate art in its origin.

_Guest._--Good.

_I._--Let us accompany the work of art on its road to perfection.

_Guest._--But only by the way of experience, if you expect me to
follow. I will have nothing to do with the steep paths of speculation.

_I._--You allow me to begin at the beginning?

_Guest._--With all my heart.

_I._--A man feels an inclination for some object; let us suppose a
single living being.

_Guest._--As, for instance, this pretty lap-dog.

_Julia._--Come, Bello! It is no small honor to serve as example in such
a discussion.

_I._--Truly, the dog is pretty enough, and if the man we are speaking
of had the gift of imitation, he would try in some way to make a
likeness of it. But let him prosper never so well in his imitation, we
are still not advanced, for we have at best only two Bellos instead of
one.

_Guest._--I will not interrupt, but wait and see what is to become of
this.

_I._--Suppose that this man, to whom for the sake of his talent we will
give the name of Artist, has by no means satisfied himself as yet; that
his desire seems to him too narrow, too limited; that he busies himself
about more individuals, varieties, kinds, species, in such wise that
at last not the creature itself, but the Idea of the creature stands
before him, and he is able to express this by means of his art.

_Guest._--Bravo! That is just my man, and his work must be
characteristic.

_I._--No doubt.

_Guest._--And there I would stop and go no farther.

_I._--But we go beyond this.

_Guest._--I stop here.

_Uncle._--I will go along for the sake of experiment.

_I._--By this operation we may arrive at a canon useful indeed, and
scientifically valuable, but not satisfactory to the soul of man.

_Guest._---How then are you going to satisfy the fantastic demands of
this dear soul?

_I._--Not fantastic; it is only not satisfied in its just claims. An
old tradition informs us that the Elohim once took counsel together,
saying, let us make man after our own image; and man says therefore,
with good cause, let us make gods and they shall be in our image.

_Guest._--We are getting into a dark region.

_I._--There is only one light that can aid us here.

_Guest._--And that is?

_I._--Reason.

_Guest._--How far it be a guide or a will-o’-wisp is hard to say.

_I._--We need not give it a name; but let us ask ourselves what are
the demands the soul makes of a work of art. It is not enough that it
fulfils a limited desire, that it satisfies our curiosity, or gives
order and stability to our knowledge; that which is Higher in us must
be awakened; we must be inspired with reverence, and feel ourselves
worthy of reverence.

_Guest._--I begin to be at a loss to comprehend you.

_Uncle._--But I think I am able to follow in some measure;--how far,
I shall try to make clear by an example. We will suppose our artist
had made an eagle in bronze which perfectly expressed the idea of the
species, but now he would place him on the sceptre of Jupiter. Do you
think it would be perfectly suitable there?

_Guest._--It would depend.

_Uncle._--I say, No! The artist must first impart to him something
beyond all this.

_Guest._--What then?

_Uncle._--It is hard to express.

_Guest._--So I should think.

_I._--And yet something may be done by approximation.

_Guest._--To it then.

_I._--He must give to the eagle what he gave to Jupiter, in order to
make him into a God.

_Guest._--And this is--

_I._--The Godlike,--which in truth we should never become acquainted
with, did not man feel and himself reproduce it.

_Guest._--I continue to hold my ground, and let you ascend into the
clouds. I see that you mean to indicate the high style of the Greeks,
which I prize only so far as it is characteristic.

_I._--It is something more to us, however; it answers to a high demand,
but still not the highest.

_Guest._--You seem to be very hard to satisfy.

_I._--It beseems him to demand much for whom much is in store. Let me
be brief. The human soul is in an exalted position when it reverences,
when it adores; when it elevates an object and is elevated by it again.
But it cannot remain long in this state. The general concept of genus
leaves it cold; the Ideal raises it above itself; but now it must
return again into itself; and it would gladly enjoy once more that
affection which it then felt for the Individual, without coming back
to the same limited view, and will not forego the significant, the
spirit-moving. What would become of it now, if Beauty did not step in
and happily solve the riddle? She first gives life and warmth to the
Scientific, and breathing her softening influence and heavenly charm
over even the Significant and the High, brings it back to us again. A
beautiful work of art has gone through the entire circle; it becomes
again an Individual that we can embrace with affection, that we can
make our own.

_Guest._--Have you done?

_I._--For the present. The little circle is completed; we have come
back to our starting point; the soul has made its demands, and those
demands have been satisfied. I have nothing further to add. (Here our
good uncle was peremptorily called away to a patient.)

_Guest._--It is the custom of you philosophic gentlemen to engage in
battle behind high-sounding words, as if it were an ægis.

_I._--I can assure you that I have not now been speaking as a
philosopher. These are mere matters of experience.

_Guest._--Do you call that experience, whereof another can comprehend
nothing?

_I._--To every experience belongs an organ.

_Guest._--Do you mean a separate one?

_I._--Not a separate one; but it must have one peculiarity.

_Guest._--And what is that?

_I._--It must be able to produce.

_Guest._--Produce what?

_I._--The experience! There is no experience which is not brought
forth, produced, created.

_Guest._--This is too much!

_I._--This is particularly the case with artists.

_Guest._--Indeed! How enviable would the portrait painter be, what
custom would he not have, if he could reproduce all his customers
without troubling people with so many sittings!

_I._--I am not deterred by your instance, but rather am convinced
no portrait can be worth anything that the painter does not in the
strictest sense create.

_Guest_ (springing up).--This is maddening! I would you were making
game of me, and all this were only in jest. How happy I should be to
have the riddle explained in that manner! How gladly would I give my
hand to a worthy man like you!

_I._--Unfortunately, I am quite in earnest, and cannot come to any
other conclusion.

_Guest._--Now I did hope that in parting we should take each other’s
hand, especially since our good host has departed, who would have
held the place of mediator in your dispute. Farewell, Mademoiselle!
Farewell, Sir! I shall inquire to-morrow whether I may wait on you
again.

So he stormed out of the door, and Julia had scarce time to send the
maid, who was ready with the lantern, after him. I remained alone with
the sweet child, for Caroline had disappeared some time before,--I
think about the time that my opponent had declared that mere beauty,
without character, must be insipid.

You went too far, my friend, said Julia, after a short pause. If he did
not seem to me altogether in the right, neither can I give unqualified
assent to you; for your last assertion was only made to tease him. The
portrait painter must make the likeness a pure creation?

Fair Julia, I replied, how much I could wish to make myself clear to
you upon this point. Perhaps in time I shall succeed. But you, whose
lively spirit is at home in all regions, who not only prize the artist
but in some sense anticipate him, and who know how to give form to what
your eyes have never seen, as if it stood bodily before you, you should
be the last to start when the question is of creation, of production.

_Julia._--I see it is your intention to bribe me. That will not be
hard, for I like to listen to you.

_I._--Let us think well of man, and not trouble ourselves if what we
say of him may sound a little bizarre. Everybody admits that the poet
must be born. Does not every one ascribe to genius a creative power,
and no one thinks he is repeating a paradox? We do not deny it to works
of fancy; but the inactive, the worthless man will not become aware of
the good, the noble, the beautiful, either in himself or others. Whence
came it, if it did not spring from ourselves? Ask your own heart. Is
not the method of intercourse born with intercourse? Is it not the
capacity for good deeds that rejoices over the good deed? Who ever
feels keenly without the wish to express that feeling? and what do we
express but what we create? and in truth, not once only, that it may
exist and there end, but that it may operate, ever increase, and again
come to life, and again create. This is the god-like power of love, of
the singing and speaking of which there is no end, that it reproduces
at every moment the noble qualities of the beloved object, perfects it
in the least particulars, embraces it in the whole, rests not by day,
sleeps not by night, is enchanted with its own work, is astonished at
its own restless activity, ever finds the familiar new, because at
every moment it is re-created in the sweetest of all occupations. Yes,
the picture of the beloved cannot grow old, for every moment is the
moment of its birth.

The maid returned from lighting the stranger. She was highly satisfied
with his liberality, for he had given her a handsome _pourboire_; but
she praised his politeness still more highly, for he had dismissed her
with a friendly word, and, moreover, called her “Pretty Maid.”

I was not in a humor to spare him, and exclaimed: “Oh, yes! I can
easily credit that one who denies the ideal should take the common for
the beautiful.”


FOOTNOTES:

[3] Alois Hirt, protagonist of the theory of the
“characteristic.”

[4] Schiller.




ON TRUTH AND PROBABILITY IN WORKS OF ART

_A Dialogue_

(1798)


In a certain German theatre there was represented a sort of oval
amphitheatrical structure, with boxes filled with painted spectators,
seemingly occupied with what was being transacted below. Many of the
real spectators in the pit and boxes were dissatisfied with this, and
took it amiss that anything so untrue and improbable was put upon them.
Whereupon the conversation took place of which we here give the general
purport.

_The Agent of the Artist._--Let us see if we cannot by some means agree
more nearly.

_The Spectator._--I do not see how such a representation can be
defended.

_Agent._--Tell me, when you go into a theatre, do you not expect all
you see to be true and real?

_Spectator._--By no means! I only ask that what I see shall appear true
and real.

_Agent._--Pardon me if I contradict even your inmost conviction and
maintain this is by no means the thing you demand.

_Spectator._--That is singular! If I did not require this, why should
the scene painter take so much pains to draw each line in the most
perfect manner, according to the rules of perspective, and represent
every object according to its own peculiar perfection? Why waste so
much study on the costume? Why spend so much to insure its truth, so
that I may be carried back into those times? Why is that player most
highly praised who most truly expresses the sentiment, who in speech,
gesture, delivery, comes nearest the truth, who persuades me that I
behold not an imitation, but the thing itself?

_Agent._--You express your feelings admirably well, but it is harder
than you may think to have a right comprehension of our feelings. What
would you say if I reply that theatrical representations by no means
seem really true to you, but rather to have only an appearance of truth?

_Spectator._--I should say that you have advanced a subtlety that is
little more than a play upon words.

_Agent._--And I maintain that when we are speaking of the operations
of the soul, no words can be delicate and subtle enough; and that this
sort of play upon words indicates a need of the soul, which, not being
able adequately to express what passes within us, seeks to work by way
of antithesis, to give an answer to each side of the question, and
thus, as it were, to find the mean between them.

_Spectator._--Very good. Only explain yourself more fully, and, if you
will oblige me, by examples.

_Agent._--I shall be glad to avail myself of them. For instance, when
you are at an opera, do you not experience a lively and complete
satisfaction?

_Spectator._--Yes, when everything is in harmony, one of the most
complete I know.

_Agent._--But when the good people there meet and compliment each other
with a song, sing from billets that they hold in their hands, sing you
their love, their hatred, and all their passions, fight singing, and
die singing, can you say that the whole representation, or even any
part of it, is true? or, I may say, has even an appearance of truth?

_Spectator._--In fact, when I consider, I could not say it had. None of
these things seems true.

_Agent._--And yet you are completely pleased and satisfied with the
exhibition?

_Spectator._--Beyond question. I still remember how the opera used to
be ridiculed on account of this gross improbability, and how I always
received the greatest satisfaction from it, in spite of this, and find
more and more pleasure the richer and more complete it becomes.

_Agent._--And you do not then at the opera experience a complete
deception?

_Spectator._--Deception, that is not the proper word,--and yet,
yes!--But no--

_Agent._--Here you are in a complete contradiction, which is far worse
than a quibble.

_Spectator._--Let us proceed quietly; we shall soon see light.

_Agent._--As soon as we come into the light, we shall agree. Having
reached this point, will you allow me to ask you some questions?

_Spectator._--It is your duty, having questioned me into this dilemma,
to question me out again.

_Agent._--The feeling you have at the exhibition of an opera cannot be
rightly called deception?

_Spectator._--I agree. Still it is a sort of deception; something
nearly allied to it.

_Agent._--Tell me, do you not almost forget yourself?

_Spectator._--Not almost, but quite, when the whole or some part is
excellent.

_Agent._--You are enchanted?

_Spectator._--It has happened more than once.

_Agent._--Can you explain under what circumstances?

_Spectator._--Under so many, it would be hard to tell.

_Agent._--Yet you have already told when it is most apt to happen,
namely, when all is in harmony.

_Spectator._--Undoubtedly.

_Agent._--Did this complete representation harmonize with itself or
some other natural product?

_Spectator._--With itself, certainly.

_Agent._--And this harmony was a work of art?

_Spectator._--It must have been.

_Agent._--We have denied to the opera the possession of a certain sort
of truth. We have maintained that it is by no means faithful to what it
professes to represent. But can we deny to it a certain interior truth,
which arises from its completeness as a work of art?

_Spectator._--When the opera is good, it creates a little world of
its own, in which all proceeds according to fixed laws, which must be
judged by its own laws, felt according to its own spirit.

_Agent._--Does it not follow from this, that truth of nature and truth
of art are two distinct things, and that the artist neither should nor
may endeavor to give his work the air of a work of nature?

_Spectator._--But yet it has so often the air of a work of nature.

_Agent._--That I cannot deny. But may I on the other hand be equally
frank?

_Spectator._--Why not? our business is not now with compliments.

_Agent._--I will then venture to affirm, that a work of art can seem
to be a work of nature only to a wholly uncultivated spectator; such
a one the artist appreciates and values indeed, though he stands on
the lowest step. But, unfortunately, he can only be satisfied when
the artist descends to his level; he will never rise with him, when,
prompted by his genius, the true artist must take wing in order to
complete the whole circle of his work.

_Spectator._--Your remark is curious; but proceed.

_Agent._--You would not let it pass unless you had yourself attained a
higher step.

_Spectator._--Let me now make trial, and take the place of questioner,
in order to arrange and advance our subject.

_Agent._--I shall like that better still.

_Spectator._--You say that a work of art could appear as a work of
nature only to an uncultivated person?

_Agent._--Certainly. You remember the birds that tried to eat the
painted cherries of the great master?

_Spectator._--Now does not that show that the cherries were admirably
painted?

_Agent._--By no means. It rather convinces me that these connoisseurs
were true sparrows.

_Spectator._--I cannot, however, for this reason concede that this work
could have been other than excellent.

_Agent._--Shall I tell you a more modern story?

_Spectator._--I would rather listen to stories than arguments.

_Agent._--A certain great naturalist, among other domesticated animals,
possessed an ape, which he missed one day, and found after a long
search in the library. There sat the beast on the ground, with the
plates of an unbound work of Natural History scattered about him.
Astonished at this zealous fit of study on the part of his familiar,
the gentleman approached, and found, to his wonder and vexation, that
the dainty ape had been making his dinner of the beetles that were
pictured in various places.

_Spectator._--It is a droll story.

_Agent._--And seasonable, I hope. You would not compare these colored
copperplates with the work of so great an artist?

_Spectator._--No, indeed.

_Agent._--But you would reckon the ape among the uncultivated amateurs?

_Spectator._--Yes, and among the greedy ones! You awaken in me a
singular idea. Does not the uncultivated amateur, just in the same
way, desire a work to be natural, that he may be able to enjoy it in a
natural, which is often a vulgar and common way?

_Agent._--I am entirely of that opinion.

_Spectator._--And you maintain, therefore, that an artist lowers
himself when he tries to produce this effect?

_Agent._--Such is my firm conviction.

_Spectator._--But here again I feel a contradiction. You did me just
now the honor to number me, at least, among the half-cultivated
spectators.

_Agent._--Among those who are on the way to become true connoisseurs.

_Spectator._--Then explain to me, Why does a perfect work of art appear
like a work of nature to me also?

_Agent._--Because it harmonizes with your better nature. Because it is
above natural, yet not unnatural. A perfect work of art is a work of
the human soul, and in this sense, also, a work of nature. But because
it collects together the scattered objects, of which it displays even
the most minute in all their significance and value, it is above
nature. It is comprehensible only by a mind that is harmoniously
formed and developed, and such an one discovers that what is perfect
and complete in itself is also in harmony with himself. The common
spectator, on the contrary, has no idea of it; he treats a work of
art as he would any object he meets with in the market. But the true
connoisseur sees not only the truth of the imitation, but also the
excellence of the selection, the refinement of the composition, the
superiority of the little world of art; he feels that he must rise to
the level of the artist, in order to enjoy his work; he feels that he
must collect himself out of his scattered life, must live with the
work of art, see it again and again, and through it receive a higher
existence.

_Spectator._--Well said, my friend. I have often made similar
reflections upon pictures, the drama, and other species of poetry, and
had an instinct of those things you require. I will in future give more
heed both to myself and to works of art. But if I am not mistaken,
we have left the subject of our dispute quite behind. You wished to
persuade me that the painted spectators at our opera are admissible,
and I do not yet see, though we have come to an agreement, by what
arguments you mean to support this license, and under what rubric I am
to admit these painted lookers-on.

_Agent._--Fortunately, the opera is repeated to-night; I trust you will
not miss it.

_Spectator._--On no account.

_Agent._--And the painted men?

_Spectator._--Shall not drive me away, for I think myself something
more than a sparrow.

_Agent._--I hope that a mutual interest may soon bring us together
again.




SIMPLE IMITATION OF NATURE, MANNER, STYLE

(1789)


It does not seem to be superfluous to define clearly the meaning we
attach to these words, which we shall often have occasion to make use
of. For, however long we may have been in the habit of using them, and
however they may seem to have been defined in theoretical works, still
every one continues to use them in a way of his own, and means more or
less by them, according to the degree of clearness or uncertainty with
which he has seized the ideas they express.


_Simple Imitation of Nature_

If an artist, in whom we must of course suppose a natural talent, is in
the first stage of progress, and after having in some measure practised
eye and hand, turns to natural objects, uses all care and fidelity in
the most perfect imitation of their forms and colors, never knowingly
departs from nature, begins and ends in her presence every picture that
he undertakes,--such an artist must possess high merit, for he cannot
fail of attaining the greatest accuracy, and his work must be full of
certainty, variety and strength.

If these conditions are clearly considered, it will be easily seen
that a capable but limited talent can in this way treat agreeable but
limited subjects.

Such subjects must always be easy to find. Leisurely observation and
quiet imitation must be allowed for; the disposition that occupies
itself in such works must be a quiet one, self-contained, and satisfied
with moderate gratification.

This sort of imitation will thus be practised by men of quiet, true,
limited nature, in the representation of dead or still-life subjects.
It does not by its nature exclude a high degree of perfection.


_Manner_

But man finds, usually, such a mode of proceeding too timid and
inadequate. He perceives a harmony among many objects, which can only
be brought into a picture by sacrificing the individual. He gets tired
of using Nature’s letters each time to spell after her. He invents
a way, devises a language for himself, so as to express in his own
fashion the idea his soul has attained, and give to the object he has
so many times repeated a distinctive form, without having recourse
to nature itself each time he repeats it, or even without recalling
exactly the individual form.

Thus a language is created, in which the mind of the speaker expresses
and utters itself immediately; and as in each individual who thinks,
the conceptions of spiritual objects are formed and arranged
differently, so will every artist of this class see, understand,
and imitate the outward world in a different manner, will seize its
phenomena with a more or less observant eye, and reproduce them more
accurately or loosely.

We see that this species of imitation is applied with the best effect
in cases where a great whole comprehends many subordinate objects.
These last must be sacrificed in order to attain the general expression
of the whole, as is the case in landscapes, for instance, where the aim
would be missed if we attended too closely to the details, instead of
keeping in view the idea of the whole.


_Style_

When at last art, by means of imitation of Nature, of efforts to
create a common language, and of clear and profound study of objects
themselves, has acquired a clearer and clearer knowledge of the
peculiarities of objects and their mode of being, oversees the classes
of forms, and knows how to connect and imitate those that are distinct
and characteristic,--then will _Style_ reach the highest point it is
capable of, the point where it may be placed on a par with the highest
efforts of the human mind.

Simple Imitation springs from quiet existence and an agreeable subject;
Manner seizes with facile capacity upon an appearance; Style rests upon
the deepest foundations of knowledge, upon the essence of things, so
far as we are able to recognize it in visible and comprehensible forms.

       *       *       *       *       *

The elaboration of what we have advanced above would fill whole
volumes; and much is said upon the subject in books, but a true
conception of it can only be arrived at by the study of nature and
works of art. We subjoin some additional considerations, and shall have
occasion to refer to these remarks whenever plastic art is in question.

It is easy to see that these three several ways of producing works of
art are closely related, and that one may imperceptibly run into the
others.

The simple imitation of subjects of easy comprehension (we shall take
fruits and flowers as an example) may be carried to a high point of
perfection. It is natural that he who paints roses should soon learn to
distinguish and select the most beautiful, and seek for such only among
the thousand that summer affords. Thus we have arrived at selection,
although the artist may have formed no general idea of the beauty of
roses. He has to do with comprehensible forms; everything depends upon
the manifold purpose and the color of the surface. The downy peach,
the finely dusted plum, the smooth apple, the burnished cherry, the
dazzling rose, the manifold pink, the variegated tulip, all these he
can have at will in his quiet studio in the perfection of their bloom
and ripeness. He can put them in a favorable light; his eye will
become accustomed to the harmonious play of glittering colors; each
year would give him a fresh opportunity of renewing the same models,
and he would be enabled, without laborious abstraction, by means of
quiet imitative observation, to know and seize the peculiarities of
the simple existence of these subjects. In this way were produced the
masterpieces of a Huysum and Rachel Ruysch, artists who seem almost to
have accomplished the impossible. It is evident that an artist of this
sort must become greater and more characteristic, if in addition to his
talent, he is also acquainted with botany; if he knows, from the root
up, the influences of the several parts upon the expansion and growth
of the plant, their office, and reciprocal action; if he understands
and reflects upon the successive development of leaves, fruit,
flowers, and the new germ. By this means he will not only exhibit his
taste in the selection of superficial appearance, but will at once win
admiration and give instruction through a correct representation of
properties. In this wise it might be said that he had formed a style;
while, on the other hand, it is easy to see how such a master, if he
proceeded with less thoroughness, if he endeavored to give only the
striking and dazzling, would soon pass into mannerism.

Simple Imitation therefore labors in the ante-chamber that leads to
Style. In proportion to the truth, care, and purity with which it
goes to work, the composure with which it examines and feels, the
calmness with which it proceeds to imitate, the degree of reflection
it uses, that is to say, with which it learns to compare the like and
separate the unlike, and to arrange separate objects under one general
idea,--will be its title to step upon the threshold of the sanctuary
itself.

If now we consider Manner more carefully, we shall see that it may be,
in the highest sense and purest signification of the word, the middle
ground between simple imitation of nature and style.

The nearer it approaches, with its more facile treatment, to faithful
imitation and on the other side, the more earnestly it endeavors to
seize and comprehensibly express the character of objects, the more
it strives, by means of a pure, lively, and active individuality, to
combine the two, the higher, greater, and more worthy of respect it
will become. But if such an artist ceases to hold fast by and reflect
upon nature, he will soon lose sight of the true principles of art,
and his manner will become more and more empty and insignificant in
proportion as he leaves behind simple imitation and style.

We need not here repeat that we use the word Manner in a high and
honorable sense, so that artists who, according to our definition,
would be termed Mannerists have nothing to complain of. It is only
incumbent upon us to preserve the word Style in the highest honor, in
order to have an expression for the highest point art has attained or
ever can attain. To be aware of this point is in itself a great good
fortune, and to enter upon its consideration in company with sensible
people, a noble pleasure, for which we hope to have many opportunities
in the sequel.




ANCIENT AND MODERN

(1818)


I have been obliged, in what precedes, to say so much in favor of
antiquity, and particularly of the plastic artists of those times,
that I may possibly be misunderstood, which so often happens where the
reader, instead of preserving a just balance, throws himself at once
into the opposite scale. I therefore seize the present opportunity to
explain my meaning, using plastic art as a symbol of the never-ceasing
life of human actions and affairs.

A young friend, Karl Ernst Schubarth, in his pamphlet, _A Critique on
Goethe_, which in every respect calls for my esteem and thanks, says:
“I do not agree with those worshipers of the ancients, among whom is
Goethe himself, who maintain that in high and complete development of
humanity nothing has ever been arrived at to compare with the Greeks.”
Fortunately, Schubarth’s own words give us an opportunity to adjust
this difference, where he says, “As to our Goethe, let me say that I
prefer Shakespeare to him, for this reason,--that in Shakespeare I seem
to find a strong, unconscious man, who is able, with perfect certainty,
and without reasoning, reflecting, subtilizing and classifying, to
seize with never-failing hand the true and false in man, and express it
quite naturally; whilst in Goethe, though I recognize the same ultimate
aim, I am always fighting with obstacles, and must be always taking
heed lest I accept for plain truth what is only an exhibition of plain
error.”

Here our friend hits the nail on the head; for in that very point where
he places me below Shakespeare do we stand below the ancients. And what
is it we advance concerning the ancients? Any talent, the development
of which is not favored by time and circumstances, and must on that
account work its way through a thousand obstacles, and get rid of a
thousand errors, must always be at a disadvantage, when compared with
a contemporary one that has the opportunity to cultivate itself with
facility and act to the extent of its capacity without opposition.

It often happens that people who are no longer young are able, out of
the fullness of their experience, to furnish an illustration that will
explain or strengthen an assertion; and this is my excuse for relating
the following anecdote. A practised diplomatist who had desired my
acquaintance, after the first interview, when he had had but little
opportunity of seeing or conversing with me, remarked to his friends:
“Voilà un homme qui a eu de grands chagrins!” These words set me to
thinking. The skilful physiognomist’s eye did not deceive him, only he
laid to the effect of suffering the phenomenon that should also have
been ascribed to opposition. An observant, straightforward German might
have said, “Here is a man who has had a very hard time of it.” Since,
then, the signs of past endurance and of persevering activity do not
disappear from the face, it is no wonder if all that remains of us
and our strivings should bear the same impress, and indicate, to the
attentive observer, a mode of being whose aim has been to preserve its
balance alike under circumstances of happiest development or narrowest
limitation, and to maintain the stubbornness, if it could not always
the highest dignity, of human existence.

But letting pass old and new, past and present, we may in general
assert that every artistic production places us in the same state of
mind the author was in. If that was clear and bright, we shall feel
free; if that was narrow, timid, or anxious, we shall feel limited in
the same proportion.

Upon reflection, we should add that this refers only to treatment.
Material and import do not enter into consideration. If we bear in mind
this principle, and look around in the world of art, we maintain that
every work will afford us pleasure which the artist himself produced
with ease and facility. What amateur does not rejoice in the possession
of a successful drawing or etching of our Chodowiecki? We see in them
such an immediate apprehension of nature, as we know it, that they
leave nothing to wish for. But he would not be able to go beyond his
mark and line, without losing all the advantage he derives from his
peculiar qualifications.

We shall even go farther, and confess that we have derived great
pleasure from Mannerists, when the manner has not been carried too far,
and that we are pleased with the possession of their works. The artists
who have received this name have been gifted with uncommon talent, but
became early aware that, in the state of the times as well as of the
schools into which they were cast by fate, there was no room for minute
labor, but that they must choose their part, and perfect themselves
speedily. They therefore made themselves a language, into which they
could, without farther trouble, translate with ease and dexterity
all visible subjects, and exhibit to us representations of all sorts
of scenes with greater or less success. Thus whole nations have been
entertained and hoodwinked for long periods of time, until at last one
or another artist has found the way back to nature and a higher feeling
of art.

We may perceive, by the Herculanean antiquities, how the ancients also
fell into this kind of manner; only their models were too great, too
present, fresh, and well preserved, for their second and third rate
artists to be able to lose themselves entirely in insignificance.

Let us now assume a higher and more agreeable point of view, and
consider the talent with which Raphael was so singularly gifted. Born
with the happiest natural gifts, at a time when art combined the most
conscientious labor, attention, industry, and truth, the young man was
already led by excellent masters to the threshold, and had only to
raise his foot to enter the temple. Disciplined by Perugino in the most
careful elaboration, his genius was developed by Leonardo da Vinci and
Michelangelo. Neither of these artists, in spite of their long life
and the cultivation of their powers, seems ever to have reached the
true enjoyment of artistic production. The former, if we look closely,
wearied himself with thought, and dissipated his powers in mechanical
inquiries; and we have to blame the latter for spending his fairest
years among stone quarries, getting out marble blocks and slabs, so
that, instead of carrying out his intention of carving all the heroes
of the Old and New Testament, he has left only his Moses as an example
of what he could and should have done. Raphael, however, during his
whole life, ever increased in the even facility of his work. We see
in him the development of the intellectual and active powers, which
preserve such remarkable balance that it may be affirmed that no modern
artist has possessed such purity and completeness of thought and such
clearness of expression. In him we have another instance of a talent
that pours out to us the freshest water from the purest source. He
never affects a Greek manner, but feels, thinks, works like a Greek. We
see the fairest talent developed in the most favorable hours. The same
thing occurred, under like conditions and circumstances, in the time of
Pericles.

It may therefore always be maintained that native talent is indeed
indispensable to production, but equally indispensable is a
commensurate development in the provinces of nature and art. Art cannot
dispense with its prerogatives, and cannot achieve perfection without
favorable outward circumstances.

Consider the school of the Caracci. Here was a ground-work of talent,
earnestness, industry, and consistent development; here was an element
for the natural and artistic development of admirable powers. We see a
whole dozen of excellent artists produced by it, each practising and
cultivating his peculiar talent according to the same general idea, so
that it hardly seems possible that after times should produce anything
similar.

Let us consider the immense stride made by the highly gifted Rubens
into the world of art! He too was no son of earth; look at the rich
inheritance he was heir to, from the old masters of the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, through all the admirable artists of the
sixteenth, at the close of which he was born.

Again, think of the crowd of Dutch painters of the seventeenth century,
whose great abilities found development now at home, now south, now
north, until we can no longer deny the incredible sagacity with which
their eye pierced into nature, and the facility with which they have
succeeded in expressing her legitimate charm, so as to enchant us
everywhere. Nay, in proportion as we possess their productions, we
are willing to limit ourselves for long stretches of time to their
study and admiration, and are far from blaming those amateurs who are
contented with the possession and enjoyment of this class of pictures
exclusively.

In the same way, we could bring a hundred examples in support of
our assertion. To see distinctly, to apprehend clearly, to impart
with facility,--these are the qualities that enchant us; and when we
maintain that all these are to be found in the genuine Greek works,
united with the noblest subjects, the most unerring and perfect
execution, it will be seen why it is we always begin and end with them.
Let each one be a Greek in his own way, but let him be a _Greek_!

The same is true of literary merit. What is comprehensible is always
the first to attract us and give us complete satisfaction. If we even
take the works of one and the same poet, we shall find some that seem
to indicate a degree of laborious effort, and others again affect us
like natural products, because the talent was commensurate with the
form and import. And once more, it is our firm belief that although any
age may give birth to the fairest talent, it is not given to all to be
able to develop it in its perfect proportions.




NOTES ON DILETTANTISM

(1799)


Dilettantism presupposes Art, as botch-work does handicraft.--Idea
of Artist, in opposition to Dilettante.--Practice of Art
scientifically.--Adoption of an Objective Art.--Legitimate progress and
advancement.--Calling and profession.--Connection with a world of Art
and Artists.--Schools.

The Dilettante does not hold the same relation to all the arts.

All the arts have an objective and a subjective side, and according as
one or the other of these is predominant, the Dilettante has value or
not.

Where the subjective of itself is of great importance, the Dilettante
must and can approximate to the artist. For instance, oratory, lyrical
poetry, music, dance.

Where the reverse is the case, there is a more marked distinction
between Artist and Dilettante, as in architecture, the arts of design,
epic and dramatic poetry.

       *       *       *       *       *

Art itself gives laws, and commands the time.

Dilettantism follows the lead of the time.

When masters in art follow a false taste, the Dilettante expects so
much the sooner to reach the level of art.

The Dilettante, receiving his first impulse to self-production from
the effect of works of art on him, confounds these effects with the
objective causes and motives, and would now make the state of feeling
he has been put into productive and practical; as if out of the
fragrance of flowers one should try to reproduce flowers themselves.

The _speaking to the feelings_, the last effect of all poetical
organization, but which presupposes the concurrences of the whole of
art, seems to the Dilettante to be the thing itself, and out of it he
endeavors to produce.

In general, the Dilettante, in his ignorance of himself, puts the
passive in the place of the active, and because he receives a lively
impression from effects, thinks from these impressed effects to produce
other effects.

The peculiar want of the Dilettante is _Architectonic_, in the highest
sense,--that practical power which creates, forms, constitutes. Of this
he has only a sort of misgiving, and submits himself to his material,
instead of commanding it.

It will be found that the Dilettante runs particularly to neatness,
which is the completion of the thing in hand, wherefrom a sort of
illusion arises, as if the thing itself were worthy of existing.
The same holds true of accuracy (_accuratesse_), and all the last
conditions of Form, which can just as well accompany the formless.

General principles on which Dilettantism is allowable:--

When the Dilettante subjects himself to the severest rules at the
outset, and undertakes to complete all the successive steps with the
greatest strictness,--which he can the better afford to do, inasmuch as
(1) the goal is not demanded of him; and, (2) if he wishes to retreat,
he has prepared the surest path to connoisseurship.

In opposition to the general maxim, the Dilettante will thus be subject
to more severe criticism than the Artist, who, resting upon a secure
basis of art, incurs less danger in departing from rules, and may even
by that means enlarge the province of art itself. The true artist
rests firmly and securely upon himself. His endeavor, his mark, is
the highest aim of art. In his own estimation he will always be far
from that aim, and necessarily, therefore, will be always modest in
regard to art or the idea of art, and will maintain that he has as
yet accomplished little, no matter how excellent his work may be, or
how high his consciousness of superiority, in reference to the world,
may reach. Dilettanti, or real botchers, seem, on the other hand, not
to strive towards an aim, not to see what is beyond, but only what is
beside them. On this account they are always comparing, are for the
most part extravagant in their praise, unskilful where they blame, have
an infinite deference for their like, thus giving themselves an air of
friendliness and fairness, which is in fact only to exalt themselves.


_Dilettantism in Lyrical Poetry_

The fact that the German language was in the beginning applied to
poetry, not by any one great poetic genius, but through merely middling
heads, must inspire Dilettantism with confidence to essay itself in it.

The cultivation of French literature and language has made even
Dilettanti more artistic.

The French were always more rigorous, tended to severer correctness,
and demanded even of Dilettanti taste and spirit within, and externally
a faultless diction.--In England, Dilettantism held more by Latin and
Greek.--Sonnets of the Italians.

Impudence of the latest Dilettantism, originated and maintained through
reminiscences of a richly cultivated poetic dialect, and the facility
of a good mechanical exterior.

Polite literature of universities, induced by a modern method
of study.--Lady poems.--Schöngeisterei (bel esprit).--Annual
_Keepsakes_.--Musenalmanache.--Journals.--Beginning and spread of
translations.

Immediate transition from the classes and the university to
authorship.--Epoch of ballads, and songs of the people.--Gessner,
poetic prose.--Imitation of the bards.--Bürger’s influence on
sing-song.--Rhymeless verses.--Klopstockean odes.--Claudius.--Wieland’s
laxity.--In earlier times: Latin verses; pedantism; more handicraft;
skill, without poetic spirit.


_Dilettantism in Pragmatic Poetry_

Reasons why the Dilettante hates the powerful, the passionate, the
characteristic, and only represents the middling, the moral.

The Dilettante never paints the object, but only the feeling it gives
rise to in him.

He avoids the character of the object.

All Dilettante creations in this style of poetry will have a
pathological character, and express only the attractions and repulsions
felt by their author.

The Dilettante thinks to reach poetry by means of his wits.

Dramatic botchers go mad when they desire to give effect to their work.


_Dilettantism in Dramatic Art_

French comedy is, even among amateurs, _obligato_, and a social
institution.

Italian amateur-comedy is founded on a puppet, or puppet-like,
representation.

Germany, in former times, Jesuit-schools.

In later times: French amateur comedies, for aiding the cultivation of
the language, in noble houses.

Mixing up of ranks in German amateur-comedy.

Conditions, under which, perhaps, a moderate practice in theatrical
matters may be harmless and allowable, or even in some measure
advantageous:

Permanence of the same company.

To avoid passionate pieces, and choose such as are reflective and
social.

To admit no children or very young persons.

Greatest possible strictness in outward forms.


_Advantages of Dilettantism in General_

It prevents an entire want of cultivation.

Dilettantism is a necessary consequence of a general extension of art,
and may even be a cause of it.

It can, under certain circumstances, help to excite and develop a true
artistic talent.

Elevates handicraft to a certain resemblance to art.

Has a civilizing tendency.

In case of crude ignorance, it stimulates a certain taste for art, and
extends it to where the artist would not be able to reach.

Gives occupation to productive power, and cultivates something serious
in man.

Appearances are changed into ideas.

Teaches to analyze impressions.

Aids the appropriation and reproduction of forms.


_In Lyrical Poetry_

Cultivation of language in general.

More manifold interest “in humanioribus,” in contrast to the crudeness
of the ignorant, or the pedantic narrowness of the mere man of business
or pedant.

Cultivation of the feelings and of the verbal expression of the same.

The cultivated man ought to be able to express his feelings with poetic
beauty.

Idealization of concepts regarding objects of common life. Cultivation
of the imagination, especially as an integral part of the culture of
the intellect.

Awaking and direction of the productive imagination to the highest
functions of the mind in the sciences and practical life.

Cultivation of the sense of the rhythmical.

There being no objective laws, either for the internal or external
construction of a poem, the amateur ought to hold fast to acknowledged
models much more strongly than the master does, and rather imitate the
good that exists than strive after originality; and in the external and
metrical parts, follow strictly the well-known general rules.

And as the Dilettante can only form himself after models, he ought, in
order to avoid one-sidedness, to acquire the most universal knowledge
of all models, and survey the field of poetic literature even more
perfectly than is required of the artist himself.


_In the Dramatic Art_

Opportunity of farther cultivation in declamation.

Attention to one’s own representations.

Participates in the advantages predicated of Dancing.

Exercise of the Memory.

Sensuous attention and accuracy.


_Disadvantage of Dilettantism in General_

The Dilettante jumps over the steps, stops at certain steps which he
regards as the end, and from which he thinks himself justified in
judging of the whole; this prevents his perfectibility.

He subjects himself to the necessity of working by false rules, because
he cannot work even as a Dilettante without some rules, and he does not
understand the true objective rules.

He departs more and more from the truth of objects, and loses himself
in subjective errors.

Dilettantism deprives art of its element, and spoils art’s public by
depriving it of its earnestness and strictness.

All tendency to easy contentment destroys art, and Dilettantism brings
in indulgence and favor. At the expense of the true artists, it brings
into notice those that stand nearest to Dilettantism.

With Dilettantism the loss is always greater than the gain.

From handicraft the way is open to rise to art, but not from botch-work.

Dilettantism favors the indifferent, partial, and characterless.

Injury Dilettanti do to art by bringing artists down to their level.

Can bear no good artist near them.

In all cases where the art itself has no proper regulative power, as in
Poetry, the art of Gardening, acting, the injury Dilettantism does is
greater, and its pretensions more arrogant. The worst case is that of
histrionic art.


_In Lyrical Poetry_

Belletristic shallowness and emptiness, withdrawal from solid studies,
or superficial treatment.

A greater danger exists in this than in the other arts of mistaking
a merely Dilettante dexterity for a true genius for art, and in this
case, the subject is worse off than in any other Dilettantism, because
its existence becomes an entire nullity; for the poet is nothing at all
except through earnestness and conformity to art.

Dilettantism in general, but especially in poetry, weakens the feeling
and perception for the good that lies beyond it, and whilst it is
indulgent to a restless desire to produce, which leads it to nothing
perfect, robs itself of all the culture it might derive through the
perception of foreign excellences.

Poetical Dilettantism may be of two sorts. Either it neglects the
(indispensable) mechanical, and thinks enough done if it shows mind
and feeling; or it seeks poetry only in the mechanical, acquiring a
technical dexterity therein, but without spirit or significance. Both
are injurious, but the former rather injures the art, and the latter
the subject.

All Dilettanti are Plagiarists. They enervate and pull to pieces all
that is original in manner or matter, and at the same time imitate,
copy, and piece out their own emptiness with it. Thus the language gets
filled with phrases and formulae stolen from all sides, which have no
longer any meaning, and you may read whole books written in a fine
_style_ and containing nothing. In a word, all that is really beautiful
and good in true poetry is profaned, rendered common, and degraded.


_In Pragmatical Poetry_

All the disadvantages of Dilettantism in Lyrical Poetry apply here in
a far higher degree. Not the art alone, but the subject also, suffers
more.

Mixing up of different kinds.


_In Histrionic Art_

Caricature of one’s own faulty individuality.

Incapacitates the mind for all occupation, through the illusion of a
fantastic mode of viewing objects.

Expense of interest and passion, without fruit.

Eternal circle of monotonous, ever repeated, ineffectual activity.

(There is nothing so attractive to Dilettanti as rehearsals.
Professional actors hate them.)

Special forbearance and pampering of theatrical Dilettanti with
applause.

Eternal stimulation towards a passionate condition and behavior,
without balance.

Feeding all hateful passions, with the worst results for civic and
domestic existence.

Blunting the feeling for poetry.

Use of exalted language for commonplace sentiments.

A rag-fair of thoughts, commonplaces, and descriptions in the memory.

Pervading affectation and mannerism, reaching also into life.

Most injurious indulgence towards the indifferent and faulty, in a
public and quite personal case.

The general tolerance for the home-made becomes in this case more
pronounced.

Most pernicious use of amateur comedies for the education of children,
where it turns into caricature. In the same manner, the most dangerous
of all amusements for universities, &c.

Destruction of the ideality of art, because the Dilettante, not being
able to raise himself through the appropriation of artistic ideas and
traditions, must do all through a pathological reality.




THE THEORY OF LITERATURE




THE PRODUCTION OF A NATIONAL CLASSIC[5]

(_Literarischer Sansculottismus_)

(1795)


Those who consider it an absolute duty to connect definite concepts
with the words which they employ in speaking and writing will very
rarely use the expressions, “classical author” and “classical work.”

What are the conditions that produce a classical national author? He
must, in the first place, be born in a great commonwealth, which after
a series of great and historic events has become a happy and unified
nation. He must find in his countrymen loftiness of disposition, depth
of feeling, and vigor and consistency of action. He must be thoroughly
pervaded with the national spirit, and through his innate genius feel
capable of sympathizing with the past as well as the present. He must
find his nation in a high state of civilization, so that he will have
no difficulty in obtaining for himself a high degree of culture. He
must find much material already collected and ready for his use, and a
large number of more or less perfect attempts made by his predecessors.
And finally, there must be such a happy conjuncture of outer and inner
circumstances that he will not have to pay dearly for his mistakes, but
that in the prime of his life he may be able to see the possibilities
of a great theme and to develop it according to some uniform plan into
a well-arranged and well-constructed literary work.

If any one, who is endowed with clearness of vision and fairness of
mind, contrasts these conditions under which alone a classic writer,
especially a classic prose-writer, is possible, with the conditions
under which the best Germans of this century have worked, he will
respect and admire what they have succeeded in doing, and notice with
tactful regret in what they have failed.

An important piece of writing, like an important speech, can only
be the outgrowth of actual life. The author no more than the man of
action can fashion the conditions under which he is born and under
which he acts. Each one, even the greatest genius, suffers in some
respects from the social and political conditions of his age, just as
in other respects he benefits by them. And only from a real nation
can a national writer of the highest order be expected. It is unfair,
however, to reproach the German nation because, though closely held
together by its geographical position, it is divided politically. We do
not wish for Germany those political revolutions which might prepare
the way for classical works.

And so any criticism which approaches the question from such a false
point of view is most unfair. The critic must look at our conditions,
as they were and as they now are; he must consider the individual
circumstances under which German writers obtained their training, and
he will easily find the correct point of view. There is nowhere in
Germany a common centre of social culture, where men of letters might
gather together and perfect themselves, each one in his particular
field, in conformity with the same standard. Born in the most widely
scattered portions of the land, educated in the most diverse ways, left
almost entirely to themselves or to impressions derived from the most
varied environments, carried away by a special liking for this or that
example of German or foreign literature, the German men of letters are
forced, without any guidance, to indulge in all sorts of experiments,
even in botch-work, in order to try their powers. Only gradually and
after considerable reflection do they realize what they ought to do.
Practice alone teaches them what they can do. Again and again the
bad taste of a large public, which devours the bad and the good with
equal pleasure, leads them into doubt. Then again an acquaintance
with the educated though widely scattered population of the great
empire encourages them, and the common labors and endeavors of their
contemporaries fortify them. Such are the conditions under which German
writers finally reach man’s estate. Then concern for their own support,
concern for a family, force them to look about in the world at large,
and often with the most depressing feeling, to do work for which they
have no respect themselves, in order to earn a livelihood, so that
they can devote themselves to that kind of work with which alone their
cultured minds would occupy themselves. What German author of note will
not recognize himself in this picture, and will not confess with modest
regret that he often enough sighed for an opportunity to subordinate
sooner the peculiarities of his original genius to a general national
culture, which unfortunately did not exist?

For foreign customs and literatures, irrespective of the many
advantages they have contributed to the advancement of the higher
classes, have prevented the Germans from developing sooner as Germans.

And now let us look at the work of German poets and prose-writers of
recognized ability. With what care and what devotion did they not
follow in their labors an enlightened conviction! It is, for example,
not saying too much, when we maintain that a capable and industrious
literary critic, through a comparison of all the editions of our
Wieland,--a man of whom we may proudly boast in spite of the snarling
of all our literary parasites,--could develop the whole theory of
good taste simply from the successive corrections of this author, who
has so indefatigably worked toward his own improvement. We hope that
every librarian will take pains to have such a collection made, while
it is still possible, and then the next century will know how to make
grateful use of it.

In the future we may perhaps be bold enough to lay before the public a
history of the development of our foremost writers, as it is shown in
their works. We do not expect any confessions, but if they would only
themselves impart to us, as far as they see fit, those facts which
contributed most to their development, and those which stood most in
the way of it, the influence of the good they have done would become
still more far-reaching.

For if we consider what superficial critics take least notice of,--the
good fortune which young men of talent enjoy nowadays in being able to
develop earlier, and to attain sooner a pure style appropriate to the
subject at hand,--to whom do they owe it but to their predecessors in
the last half of this century, each of whom in his own way has trained
himself with unceasing endeavor amidst all sorts of hindrances?
Through this circumstance a sort of invisible school has sprung up, and
the young man who now enters it gets into a much larger and brighter
circle than the earlier author, who had to roam through it first
himself in the faint light of dawn, in order to help widen it gradually
and as it were only by chance. The pseudo-critic, who would light the
way for us with his little lamp, comes much too late; the day has
dawned, and we shall not close our shutters again.

Men do not give vent to their ill humor in good society; and he must be
in a very bad humor, who at this present moment, when almost everybody
writes well, denies that Germany has writers of the first order. One
does not need to go far to find an agreeable novel, a clever sketch, a
clearly written essay on this or that subject. What proof do not our
critical papers, journals, and compends furnish of a uniformly good
style? The Germans show a more and more thorough mastery of facts,
and the arrangement of the material steadily gains in clearness. A
dignified philosophy, in spite of all the opposition of wavering
opinions, makes them more and more acquainted with their intellectual
powers, and facilitates the use of them. The numerous examples of
style, the preliminary labors and endeavors of so many men, enable a
young man now sooner to present with clearness and grace and in an
appropriate manner what he has received from without and developed
within himself. Thus a healthy and fair-minded German sees the writers
of his nation at a fair stage of development, and is convinced that
the public, too, will not let itself be misled by an ill-humored
criticaster. Such a one ought to be barred from society, from which
every one should be excluded whose destructive work might only make
productive writers disheartened, the sympathetic public listless, and
the onlookers distrustful and indifferent.


FOOTNOTES:

[5] Reply to a critic who complained of “the poverty of the
Germans in great classical prose works,” and indiscriminately attacked
all the writers of the time.




GOETHE’S THEORY OF A WORLD LITERATURE


I (1827)

Everywhere we hear and read of the progress of the human race, of the
broader view of international and human relations. Since it is not my
office here to define or qualify these broad generalities, I shall
merely acquaint my friends with my conviction that there is being
formed a universal world-literature, in which an honorable rôle is
reserved for us Germans. All the nations review our work; they praise,
censure, accept, and reject, imitate and misrepresent us, open or close
their hearts to us. All this we must accept with equanimity, since this
attitude, taken as a whole, is of great value to us.

We experience the same thing from our own countrymen, and why should
the nations agree among themselves if fellow-citizens do not understand
how to unite and coöperate with each other? In a literary sense we have
a good start of the other nations; they will always be learning to
prize us more, even if they only show it by borrowing from us without
thanks, and making use of us without giving recognition of the fact.

As the military and physical strength of a nation develops from
its internal unity and cohesion, so must its æsthetic and ethical
strength grow gradually from a similar unanimity of feeling and
ideas. This, however, can only be accomplished with time. I look
back as a coöperator in this work over many years and reflect how
a German literature has been brought together out of heterogeneous,
if not conflicting, elements,--a literature which for that reason
is only peculiarly _one_ in the sense that it is composed in _one_
language,--which, however, out of a variety of wholly different
talents and abilities, minds and actions, criticisms and undertakings,
gradually draws out to the light of day the true inner soul of a people.


II (1827)

My sanguine suggestion that our present active epoch with its
increasing communication between the nations might soon hope for a
world-literature has been taken up by chance by our neighbors of the
west, who indeed can accomplish great things in this same direction.
They express themselves on the subject in the following manner:


_Le Globe_, Tome V., No. 91.

  “Every nation indeed, when its turn comes, feels that tension which,
  like the attractive power of physical bodies, draws one towards
  the other, and eventually will unite in one universal sympathy all
  the races of which humanity consists. The endeavor of scholars to
  understand one another and compare one another’s work is by no means
  new; the Latin language in former times has provided an admirable
  vehicle for this purpose. But however they labored and strove, the
  barriers by which peoples were separated began to divide them also,
  and hurt their intellectual intercourse. The instrument of which they
  made use could only satisfy a certain range and course of ideas,
  so that they touched each other only through the intellect, instead
  of directly through the feelings and through poetry. Travel, the
  study of languages, periodical literature, have taken the place of
  that universal language, and establish many intimate and harmonious
  relations which _it_ could never cultivate. Even the nations that
  devote themselves chiefly to trade and industry are most concerned
  with this exchange of ideas. England, whose home activity is so
  tremendous, whose life is so busy, that it seems as if it would be
  able to study nothing but itself, at the present time is showing a
  symptom of this need and desire to broaden its connection with the
  outside world and widen its horizon. Its Reviews, with which we are
  already familiar, are not enough for them; two new periodicals,
  devoted especially to foreign literature, and coöperating together
  towards that end, are to appear regularly.”

Of the first of these English journals, _The Foreign Quarterly Review_,
there are already two volumes in our hands; the third we expect
directly, and we shall in the course of these pages often refer to the
views of important men who are giving proof, with so much insight and
industry, of their interest in foreign literature.

But first of all we must confess that it made us smile to see,
at the end of the old year, more than thirty literary almanacs
(_Taschenbücher_), already noticed in an English journal,--not indeed
reviewed, but at least referred to with some characteristic comments.
It is pleasant that our productions of this sort meet with approval
and find a market over there, since we are also obliged to buy their
similar works for good money. Little by little we shall discover, I
suppose, whether the balance of this trade turns out to our advantage.

But these trivial considerations must give place to more serious ones.
Left to itself every literature will exhaust its vitality, if it is
not refreshed by the interest and contributions of a foreign one. What
naturalist does not take pleasure in the wonderful things that he sees
produced by reflection in a mirror? Now what a mirror in the field of
ideas and morals means, every one has experienced in himself, and once
his attention is aroused, he will understand how much of his education
he owes to it.


III (1828)

The _Edinburgh Review_, as well as the current _Foreign_ and _Foreign
Quarterly Reviews_, we can only mention briefly here.

These journals, as they win an ever wider public, will contribute in
the most effective way towards that universal world-literature for
which we are hoping. Only, we repeat, the idea is not that the nations
shall think alike, but that they shall learn how to understand each
other, and, if they do not care to love one another, at least that they
will learn to tolerate one another. Several societies now exist for
the purpose of making the British Isles acquainted with the continent,
and are working effectively and with a practical unanimity of opinion.
We continentals can learn from them the intellectual background of
the time across the channel, what they are thinking and what their
judgments about things are. On the whole, we acknowledge gladly that
they go about the work with intense seriousness, with industry and
tolerance and general good-will. The result for us will be that we
shall be compelled to think again of our own recent literature, which
we have in some measure already put to one side, and to consider and
examine it anew. Especially worthy of notice is their profitable method
of starting with any considerable author, and going over the whole
field in which he worked.

The methods and manner of these critics deserve our consideration in
many ways. Although varying on many points, yet there is an agreement
in criticism upon the main issues, which seems to indicate, if not
a coterie, yet a number of contemporary critics who have come to a
similar attitude and point of view. Worthy of our admiration are the
honest and sincere application, the careful labors, which they devote
to surveying our complex artistic and literary world, and to looking
over it with a just and fair attitude and vision. We shall hope often
to be able to return to them and their work.


IV (1829)

MORE ABOUT A WORLD LITERATURE


_The Difficulties_

If a world-literature, such as is inevitable with the ever-increasing
facility of communication, is to be formed in the near future, we must
expect from it nothing more and nothing different from what it can and
does accomplish.

The wide world, extensive as it is, is only an expanded fatherland,
and will, if looked at aright, be able to give us no more than what
our home soil can endow us with also. What pleases the crowd spreads
itself over a limitless field, and, as we already see, meets approval
in all countries and regions. The serious and intellectual meets with
less success, but those who are devoted to higher and more profitable
things will learn to know each other more quickly and more intimately.
For there are everywhere in the world such men, to whom the truth and
the progress of humanity are of interest and concern. But the road
which they pursue, the pace which they keep, is not to everybody’s
liking; the particularly aggressive wish to advance faster, and so
turn aside, and prevent the furthering of that which they could
promote. The serious-minded must therefore form a quiet, almost
secret, company, since it would be futile to set themselves against
the current of the day; rather must they manfully strive to maintain
their position till the flood has past. Their principal consolation,
and indeed encouragement, such men must find in the fact that truth
is serviceable. If they can discover this relation, and exhibit its
meaning and influence in a vital way, they will not fail to produce a
powerful effect, indeed one that will extend over a range of years.


_The Encouragements_

Since it is often profitable to present to the reader not one’s bald
thought, but rather to awaken and stimulate his own thinking, it may be
useful to recall the above observation which I had occasion to write
down some time ago.

The question whether this or that occupation to which a man devotes
himself is useful recurs often enough in the course of time, and must
come before us especially at this time when it is no longer permitted
to any one to live quietly according to his tastes, satisfied,
moderate, and without demands upon him. The external world is so
importunate and exciting that each one of us is threatened with being
carried away in the whirlpool. In order to satisfy his own needs, each
one sees himself compelled to attend almost instantaneously to the
requirements of others; and the question naturally arises whether he
has any skill or readiness to satisfy these pressing duties. There
seems to be nothing left to us to say than that only the purest and
strictest egoism can save us; but this must be a self-conscious
resolution, thoroughly felt and calmly expressed.

Let each one ask himself for what he is best fitted, and let him
cultivate this most ardently and wisely in himself and for himself;
let him consider himself successively as apprentice, as journeyman, as
older journeyman, and finally, but with the greatest of circumspection,
as master.

If he can, with discriminating modesty, increase his demands on the
external world only with the growth of his own capabilities, thus
insinuating himself into the world’s good graces by being useful, then
he will attain his purpose step by step, and if he succeeds in reaching
the highest level, will be able to influence men and things with ease.

Life, if he studies it closely, will teach him the opportunities and
the hindrances which present or intrude themselves upon him; but this
much the man of practical wisdom will always have before his eyes:--To
tire oneself out for the sake of the favor of to-day brings no profit
for to-morrow or after.


_Other Considerations_

Every nation has peculiarities by which it is distinguished from the
others, and it is by these distinguishing traits that nations are also
attracted to and repelled from one another. The external expressions
of these inner idiosyncrasies appear to the others in most cases
strikingly disagreeable, or, if endurable, merely amusing. This is
why, too, we always respect a nation less than it deserves. The inner
traits, on the other hand, are not known or recognized, by foreigners
or even by the nation itself; for the inner nature of a whole nation,
as well as the individual man, works all unconsciously. At the end we
wonder, we are astounded, at what appears.

These secrets I do not pretend to know, much less to have the
cleverness to express them if I did. Only this much will I say,--that,
so far as my insight goes, the characteristic intellectual and
spiritual activity of the French is now at its height again, and for
that reason will exercise soon again a great influence on the civilized
world. I would gladly say more, but it leads too far; one has to be so
detailed in order to be understood, and to make acceptable what one has
to say.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not merely permissible but highly admirable that a society of
Germans was formed for the special purpose of studying German poetry;
since these persons, as cultured men acquainted with the other fields
of German literature and politics both generally and in detail, were
well qualified to select and judge works of belles-lettres and use them
as a basis for intellectual, as well as pleasurable and stimulating,
conversation.

Some one may say that the best literature of a nation cannot be
discovered or recognized, unless one brings home to one’s mind the
whole complex of its circumstances and social conditions. Something
of all this can be obtained from the papers, which give us enough
detailed information of public affairs. But this is not enough; we
must add to it what foreigners in their critical journals and reviews
are accustomed to say about themselves and about other nations,
particularly the Germans,--their ideas and opinions, their interest
in and reception of our productions. If one wishes, for instance,
to acquaint oneself with modern French literature, one should study
the lectures which have been given for the last two years and are
now appearing in print,--lectures such as Guizot’s _Cours d’histoire
moderne_, Villemain’s _Cours de littérature française_, and Cousin’s
_Cours de l’histoire de la philosophie_. The significance they have
both at home and for us comes out thus in the clearest fashion. Still
more effective and interesting are perhaps the frequent numbers and
volumes of _Le Globe_, _La Revue française_, and the daily, _Le Temps_.
None of these can be spared, if we are to keep vividly before our eyes
both sides of these great movements in France and all the subsidiary
currents that spring from them.

       *       *       *       *       *

French poetry, like French literature, is not distinct in spirit from
the life and passions of the nation as a whole. In recent times it
appears naturally always as the “Opposition,” and summons every genius
to make the most of his talent in resisting the “powers that be,” which
since they are endowed with force do not need to be intellectual or
spiritual.

If we follow this verse, which reveals so much, we see deep down into
the soul of the nation, and from the way in which they judge us, more
or less favorably, we can at the same time learn to judge ourselves.
And it can do no harm to have some one make us think about ourselves.

Whoever follows the course proposed above will very quickly become
completely informed of all public affairs and semi-public affairs. In
our present admirably managed book-trade it is possible to obtain books
speedily, instead of waiting, as has often been my experience, until
the author takes occasion to send his work as a gift, so that I have
often read the book long before I received it from him.

From all this it is evident that it is no light task to keep in touch
with all the literature of the present day. Of the English, as well as
the Italian, I shall have to speak again more particularly, for there
is much more to be said.


V

(1830)

There has been talk for some time of a general world-literature, and
indeed not without justice. For the nations, after they had been shaken
into confusion and mutual conflict by the terrible wars, could not
return to their settled and independent life again without noticing
that they had learned many foreign ideas and ways, which they had
unconsciously adopted, and had come to feel here and there previously
unrecognized spiritual and intellectual needs. Out of this arose the
feeling of neighborly relations, and, instead of shutting themselves up
as before, they gradually came to desire the adoption of some sort of
more or less free spiritual intercourse.

This movement, it is true, has lasted only a short time, but still
long enough to start considerable speculation, and to acquire from it,
as one must always from any kind of foreign trade, both profit and
enjoyment.




ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY[6]

(1797)


The epic and the dramatic writer are both subject to the universal
poetic laws, especially the law of unity and the law of progressive
development. Furthermore they both deal with similar subjects and both
can use a great variety of motives. The essential difference consists
in this, that an epic poet narrates an event as completely past, while
the dramatist presents it as completely present. If one wished to
develop in detail from the nature of man these laws which both have to
follow, one would continually have to keep before his mind a rhapsodist
and an actor, each in the character of a poet, the former surrounded
by a circle of listeners quietly following with rapt attention, the
latter by an impatient throng who have come simply to see and to hear.
It would then not be difficult to deduce what is most advantageous to
either of these two forms of poetry, what subjects either will choose
preëminently, nor what motives either will make use of most frequently;
as I remarked in the beginning, neither can lay claim to any one thing
exclusively.

The subject of the epic as well as of tragedy should be based on the
purely human, it should be vital, and it should make an appeal to one’s
feelings. The best effect is produced when the characters stand upon
a certain plane of cultural advancement, so that their actions are
purely the expression of their personality and are not influenced by
moral, political or mechanical considerations. The myths of the heroic
times were especially useful to the poets on these grounds.

The epic poem represents more especially action restricted to
individuals; tragedy, suffering restricted to individuals. The epic
poem represents man as an external agent, engaged in battles, journeys,
in fact in every possible kind of undertaking, and so demands a certain
elaborateness of treatment. Tragedy, on the other hand, represents man
as an internal agent, and the action, therefore, requires but little
space in a genuine tragedy.

There are five kinds of motives:

(1) Progressive, which advance the action. These the drama uses
preëminently.

(2) Retrogressive, which draw the action away from its goal. These the
epic poem uses almost exclusively.

(3) Retarding, which delay the progress of the action or lengthen its
course. Both epic and tragic poetry use these to very great advantage.

(4) Retrospective, which introduce into the poem events which happened
before the time of the poem.

(5) Prospective, which anticipate what will happen after the time of
the poem. The epic as well as the dramatic poet uses the last two kinds
of motives to make his poem complete.

The worlds which are to be represented are common to both, namely:--

(1) The physical world, which consists first of all of the immediate
world to which the persons represented belong and which surrounds them.
In it the dramatist limits himself mostly to one locality, while the
epic poet moves about with greater freedom and in a larger sphere.
Secondly, the physical world, containing the more remote world in
which all of nature is included. This world the epic poet, who appeals
exclusively to the imagination, makes more intelligible through the use
of similes and metaphors, which figures of speech are employed more
sparingly by the dramatist.

(2) The moral world, which is absolutely common to both, and, whether
normal or pathological, is best represented in its simplicity.

(3) The world of fancies, forebodings, apparitions, chance and fate.
This is available to both, only it must of course be approximated
to the world of the senses. In this world there arises a special
difficulty for us moderns, because we cannot easily find substitutes
for the fabulous creatures, gods, soothsayers and oracles of the
ancients, however much we may desire to.

If we consider the manner of treatment as a whole, we shall find the
rhapsodist, who recites what is completely past, appearing as a wise
man, with calm deliberation surveying the events. It will be the
purpose of his recital to get his hearers into an even frame of mind,
so that they will listen to him long and willingly. He will divide
the interest evenly, because it is impossible for him to counteract
quickly a too vivid impression. He will, according to his pleasure,
go back in point of time or anticipate what is to come. We may follow
him everywhere, for he makes his appeal only to the imagination, which
originates its own images and which is to a certain extent indifferent
as to which images are called up. The rhapsodist as a higher being
ought not to appear himself in his poem; he would read best of all
behind a curtain, so that we may separate everything personal from his
work, and may believe we are hearing only the voice of the Muses.

The actor represents the very reverse of this. He presents himself as
a definite individuality. It is his desire to have us take interest
exclusively in him and in his immediate surroundings, so that we may
feel with him the sufferings of his soul and of his body, may share his
embarrassments and forget ourselves in him. To be sure he, too, will
proceed by degrees, but he can risk far more vivid effects, because by
his actual presence before the eyes of the audience he can neutralize
a stronger impression even by a weaker one. The senses of spectators
and listeners must be constantly stimulated. They must not rise to a
contemplative frame of mind, but must follow eagerly; their imagination
must be completely suppressed; no demands must be made upon it; and
even what is narrated must be vividly brought before their vision, as
it were, in terms of action.


FOOTNOTES:

[6] By Goethe and Schiller.




SUPPLEMENT TO ARISTOTLE’S _POETICS_[7]

(1827)


Every one who has concerned himself at all about the theory of poetic
art--and of tragedy in particular--will remember a passage in Aristotle
which has caused the commentators much difficulty, without their ever
having been able to convince themselves wholly of its meaning. In his
definition of tragedy this great writer seems to demand of it that,
through the representation of stirring deeds and events, which should
arouse pity and fear, the soul of the spectator should be purified of
these passions.

My thoughts and convictions in regard to this passage I can best impart
by a translation of it:--

“Tragedy is the imitation of a significant and complete action, which
has a certain extension in time and is portrayed in beautiful language
by separate individuals, each of whom plays a rôle, instead of having
all represented by one person as in the narration of a story or epic.
After a course of events arousing pity and fear, the action closes with
the equilibration of these passions.”

In the foregoing translation, I believe I have made this hitherto
dubious passage clear; it will only be necessary to add the following
remarks: Could Aristotle, notwithstanding his always objective
manner,--as, for instance, here, where he seems to be speaking
exclusively of the technique of tragedy,--be really thinking of the
effect, indeed the distant effect, upon the _spectator_? By no means!
He speaks clearly and definitely: When the course of action is one
arousing pity and fear, the tragedy must close _on the stage_ with an
equilibration, a reconciliation, of these emotions.

By “catharsis,” he understands this reconciling culmination, which is
demanded of all drama, indeed of all poetical works.

This occurs in the tragedy through a kind of human sacrifice, whether
it be rigidly worked out with the death of the victim, or, under the
influence of a favoring divinity, be satisfied by a substitute, as
in the case of Abraham and Agamemnon. But this reconciliation, this
release, is necessary at the end if the tragedy is to be a perfect
work of art. This release, on the other hand, when effected through
a favorable or desirable outcome, rather makes the work resemble an
intermediate species of art, as in the return of Alcestis. In comedy,
on the contrary, for the clearing up of all complications, which
in themselves are of little significance from the point of view of
arousing fear and hope, a marriage is usually introduced; and this,
even if it does not end life completely, does make in it an important
and serious break. Nobody wants to die, everybody to marry; and in
this lies the half-jocose, half-serious difference between tragedy and
comedy in practical æsthetics.

We shall perceive further that the Greeks did make use of their
“trilogy” for such a purpose; for there is no loftier “catharsis” than
the _Œdipus of Kolonus_, where a half-guilty delinquent,--a man who,
through a demonic strain in his nature, through the sombre vehemence as
well as greatness of his character, and through a headstrong course of
action, puts himself at the mercy of the ever-inscrutable, unalterable
powers,--plunges himself and his family into the deepest, irreparable
misery, and yet finally, after having made atonement and reparation, is
raised to the company of the gods, as the auspicious protecting spirit
of a region, revered with special sacrifices and services.

Here we find the principle of the great master, that the hero of a
tragedy must be regarded and represented neither as wholly guilty nor
as wholly innocent. In the first case the catharsis would merely result
from the nature of the story, and the murdered wretch would appear only
to have escaped the common justice which would have fallen upon him
anyway by law. In the second case, it is not feasible either; for then
there would seem to fall on human power or fate the weight of an all
too heavy burden of injustice.

But on this subject I do not wish to wax polemical, any more than on
any other; I have only to point out here how up to the present time
people have been inclined to put up with a dubious interpretation of
this passage. Aristotle had said in the _Politics_ that music could be
made use of in education for ethical purposes, since by means of the
sacred melodies the minds of those raised to frenzy by the orgies were
quieted and soothed again; thus he thought other emotions and passions
could be calmed and equilibrated. That the argument here is from
analogous cases we cannot deny; yet we think they are not identical.
The effect of music depends on its particular character, as Handel has
worked out in his “Alexander’s Feast,” and as we can see evidenced at
every ball, where perhaps after a chaste and dignified polonaise, a
waltz is played and whirls the whole company of young people away in a
bacchic frenzy.

For music, like all the arts, has little power directly to influence
morality, and it is always wrong to demand such results from them.
Philosophy and Religion alone can accomplish this. If piety and duty
must be stimulated, the arts can only casually effect this stimulation.
What they can accomplish, however, is a softening of crude manners and
morals; yet even this may, on the other hand, soon degenerate into
effeminacy.

Whoever is on the path of a truly moral and spiritual self-cultivation,
will feel and acknowledge that tragedy and tragic romance do not quiet
and satisfy the mind, but rather tend to unsettle the emotions and
what we call the heart, and induce a vague, unquiet mood. Youth is apt
to love this mood and is for that reason passionately devoted to such
productions.

We now return to our original point, and repeat: Aristotle speaks of
the _technique_ of tragedy, in the sense that the poet, making it the
object of his attention, contrives to create something pleasing to eye
and ear in a course of a completed action.

If the poet has fulfilled this purpose and his duty on his side, tying
together his knots of meaning and unraveling them again, the same
process will pass before the mind of the spectator; the complications
will perplex him, the solution enlighten him, but he will not go home
any the better for it all. He will be inclined perhaps, if he is given
to reflection, to be amazed at the state of mind in which he finds
himself at home again--just as frivolous, as obstinate, as zealous, as
weak, as tender or as cynical as he was when he went out. On this point
we believe we have said all we can until a further working out of the
whole subject makes it possible to understand it more clearly.


FOOTNOTES:

[7] “I have just re-read the _Poetics_ of Aristotle with the
greatest pleasure; intelligence in its highest manifestation is a fine
thing. It is really remarkable how Aristotle limits himself entirely to
experience, and so appears, if perhaps somewhat material, for the most
part all the more solid. It was also stimulating to me to see with what
liberality he always shields the poet against the fault-finders and the
hypercritical, how he always insists on essentials, and in everything
else is so lax that in more than one place I was simply amazed. It
is this that makes his whole view of poetry, and especially of his
favorite forms, so vivifying that I shall soon take up the book again,
especially in regard to some important passages which are not quite
clear and the meaning of which I wish to investigate further.”--Goethe
to Schiller, April 28, 1797.




ON THE GERMAN THEATRE

(1815)


Now that the German stage, as one of our best national institutions, is
emerging from an unfortunate narrowness and seclusion into freedom and
vitality, wise directors are exerting themselves to produce an effect
on a wide public, and not to confine themselves, however earnestly, to
any single institution. Poets, actors, managers, and public will come
to a better and better’ mutual understanding, but in the gratification
of the moment they must not forget what their predecessors
accomplished. Only upon a repertory which includes older plays can a
national theatre be founded. I hope that the following words will have
a favorable reception, so that the author’s courage will be stimulated
and he will come forward from time to time with similar suggestions.


_A Plan of Schiller’s, and What Came of It_

When the lamented Schiller, through the influence of the court, the
solicitations of society, and the inclinations of his friends, was
moved to change his place of residence from Jena to Weimar, and to
renounce that seclusion in which until then he had wrapt himself, he
had the theatre at Weimar particularly in his mind, and he decided to
devote his attention carefully and closely to the productions there.

And such a narrowing of his field the poet needed, for his
extraordinary genius from his youth up had sought the heights and the
depths. The power of his imagination, his poetical activity, had led
him over a great range; but in spite of the ardor with which his mind
traversed this broad range, with further experience it could not escape
his clear insight that these qualities must necessarily lead him astray
in the field of the theatre.

At Jena his friends had been witness to the perseverance and resolute
determination with which he occupied himself with “Wallenstein.” This
subject, which kept expanding at the hands of his genius, was worked
out, knit together, revised, in numerous ways, until he saw at last
that it would be necessary to divide the piece into three parts, as was
thereupon done. And afterwards he did not cease to make alterations, in
order that the principal scenes might acquire all the effect that was
possible. The result was, however, that the _Death of Wallenstein_ was
given oftener on all stages than the _Camp_ and the _Piccolomini_.

_Don Carlos_ had been condensed still earlier for the stage; and
whoever will compare this play, as it is produced, with the earlier
printed edition, will recognize the same laborious changes. For though
Schiller in sketching out the plan of his work felt bound by no
limitations, in a later revision for theatrical purposes he had the
courage, as a result of his convictions, to adapt it stringently, yes
even mercilessly, to the practical exigencies of the situation. These
meant a definite limitation of time; all the principal scenes had to
pass before the eyes of the audience in a certain period of time. All
the other scenes he omitted, and yet he could never really confine
himself to the space of three hours.

_The Robbers_, _Intrigue and Love_, _Fiesco_, productions of
an aggressive youthful impatience and indignation at a severe
and confining training, had to undergo many alterations for the
stage-production which was eagerly demanded by the public and
especially the young men. About them all he would speculate whether it
was not possible to assimilate them to a more refined taste, a taste
such as he had trained himself since to feel. On this point he was
accustomed to take long and detailed counsel with himself, in long
sleepless nights, and sometimes on pleasant evenings in talks with his
friends.

Could these discussions and suggestions have been preserved by a
shorthand writer, we should have possessed a noteworthy contribution to
productive criticism. But even more valuable will discerning readers
find Schiller’s own remarks about the projected and indeed commenced
“Demetrius,” which fine example of penetrating and critical creative
ability is preserved for us in the supplement to his works. The three
plays mentioned above, however, we decided not to touch, for what is
offensive in them is too closely bound up with their contents and form;
and we had to trust to fortune in transmitting them to posterity just
as they had sprung from a powerful and bizarre genius.

Schiller, finely matured, had not attended many performances, when his
active mind, considering the situation and taking a comprehensive view
of things, got the idea that what had been done to his own works could
be done in the case of other men’s. So he drew up a plan whereby the
work of earlier playwrights might be preserved for the German theatre,
without prejudice to contemporary writers,--the accepted material, the
contents of the works chosen, to be adapted to a form which should be
partly determined by the requirements of the stage and partly by the
ideas and spirit of the present time. For these reasons he decided to
devote the hours which were left him from his own work to constructing
plans, in company with congenial friends, whereby plays which had a
significance for our age might be revised, and a true German Theatre
founded,--not only for the benefit of the reader, who would come to
know famous plays from a new standpoint, but also for the benefit of
the numerous theatres of Germany, which would be given the opportunity
of strengthening their repertories by laying a solid foundation of
older works under the ephemeral productions of the day.

In order then to found the German Theatre on true German soil, it was
Schiller’s intention to revise Klopstock’s _Hermanns Schlacht_. The
play was taken up, but the first consideration of it produced much
doubt in his mind. Schiller’s judgment was in general very liberal,
but at the same time independent and critical. The ideal demands
which Schiller according to his nature was obliged to make were not
satisfied, and the piece was soon laid aside. Present-day criticism
requires no hints in order to discover the grounds for the decision.

Towards Lessing’s work Schiller had a singular attitude. He did not
care particularly for it,--indeed, _Emilia Galotti_ was repugnant to
him. Yet this tragedy as well as _Minna von Barnhelm_ was accepted
in the repertory. He then devoted himself to _Nathan der Weise_, and
in this revision, in which he was glad to have the coöperation of
discerning friends, the piece is played to this day, and it will be
retained on the boards, because able actors will always be found who
feel themselves equal to the rôle of Nathan. And may the German public
remember always that it is called not only to witness this well-known
piece, so excellently staged, but also to hear it and to understand it!
May there never come a time when the divine spirit of toleration and
forbearance contained in it will cease to be sacred to the nation.

The presence of the distinguished Iffland in 1796 gave occasion for
the shortening of _Egmont_ to the form in which it is now given here
and in several places at present. That Schiller rather mutilated it
in his revision is indicated by a comparison of the following scenes
with the printed play itself. The public was annoyed at the omission
of the Princess, for instance; yet there is in Schiller’s work such a
consistency that no one has dared to attempt to alter the piece for
fear that other errors and misadjustments might creep into its present
form.


_Egmont_

(_First Act_)

In an open square, cross-bow shooters. One of Egmont’s men is being
elevated to the post of captain, through his skill in shooting, and
his health and that of the lord are being drunk; public affairs are
discussed, and the characters of distinguished persons. The disposition
of the people begins to show itself. Other citizens come in; unrest is
revealed. A lawyer joins them, and begins to discuss the liberties of
the people. Dissent and quarrels follow. Egmont enters, quiets his
men, and threatens the trouble-maker. He exhibits himself as an honored
and popular prince.


(_Second Act_)

Egmont and his private secretary, through whose discourse one catches
a glimpse of the liberal, independent, audacious spirit of the hero.
Orange attempts to inculcate caution into his friend, and since word
has come of the arrival of the Duke of Alva, tries to persuade him to
flee; but all in vain.


(_Third Act_)

The citizens in fear of the impending danger; the lawyer foretells
Egmont’s fate; the Spanish watch enters, and the people scatter.

In a room in one of the houses we find Klaerchen thinking of her love
for Egmont. She seeks to spurn the affection of her lover Brackenburg,
then proceeds with mingled pleasure and dread to think of her relations
with Egmont; he enters, and all is joy and happiness.


(_Fourth Act_)

The Palace. Alva’s character becomes evident through his measures;
Ferdinand, his natural son, who is attracted by the personality of
Egmont, is ordered to take him prisoner, in order that he himself may
become accustomed to tyranny. Egmont and Alva in conversation; the
former frank and open, the latter reserved and at the same time tries
to irritate Egmont. The latter is arrested.

Brackenburg on the street; twilight. Klaerchen wishes to incite the
citizens to liberate Egmont, but they withdraw in alarm; Brackenburg,
alone with Klaerchen, attempts to calm her, but in vain.


(_Fifth Act_)

Klaerchen alone in a room. Brackenburg brings the news of preparations
for Egmont’s execution. Klaerchen takes poison, Brackenburg rushes
away, the lamp goes out, signifying that Klaerchen has passed away.

The prison, Egmont alone. The sentence of death is announced to him.
Scene with Ferdinand, his young friend. Egmont, alone, falls asleep.
Vision of Klaerchen in the background. He is waked by drums, and
follows the watch, almost with the air of the commander himself.

Concerning the last appearance of Klaerchen, opinions are divided;
Schiller was opposed to it, the author in favor of it; the public will
not allow it to be omitted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the present discussion does not attempt to deal with plays
chronologically but with reference to other considerations, and
particularly from the standpoint of author and adapter, I shall turn
next to _Stella_, which also owes its appearance in the theatre to
Schiller.

Since the action of the piece is unimpassioned and smooth, he left it
substantially unchanged, only shortening the dialogue here and there,
especially when it seemed to be passing from the dramatic to the
idyllic and elegiac. For just as there may be too many incidents in a
piece, so there may be too great an expression of feeling. So Schiller
resisted the enticements of many charming passages and struck them
relentlessly out. Well-staged, the piece was presented on January 15,
1806, for the first time, and repeated. It soon became evident that,
according to our customs, which are founded strictly on monogamy, the
relation of a man to two wives, especially as it appeared in this play,
was not to be reconciled, and for that reason was only fit material
for tragedy. For that reason the attempt of the intelligent Cecilie
to harmonize the incongruities proved futile. The piece took a tragic
turn, and ended in a way that satisfied the emotions and elevated
the feelings. At present the piece is quite competently acted, and
consequently receives the most unqualified applause. But a sweeping
assurance of this kind can hardly be of practical utility to the
playhouses which intend to put on the piece; and I therefore add in
detail some further and necessary considerations.

The rôle of Fernando every actor, not too young, will be glad to
undertake, actors, that is, who are fitted to heroic or lovers’ rôles,
and they will try to express with all the emotion and effect possible,
the impassioned dilemma in which they are placed.

The allotment of the feminine rôles is more difficult. There are
five of them,--carefully differentiated and contrasted characters.
The actress who undertakes the rôle of Stella must depict to us not
only her indestructible affection, her passionate love, her glowing
enthusiasm, but must also make us share her feeling, and carry us along
with her.

Cecilie, who at first appears weak and repressed, must soon leave this
all behind her, and appear before us as a high-spirited heroine of
courage and intelligence.

Lucia represents a person who in the midst of an easy and comfortable
life has cultivated her talents independently, does not feel the outer
pressures which force themselves upon her, but rather casts them off.
Not a trace of priggishness or conceit should appear.

The postmistress is no quarrelsome old woman, but a young, cheerful,
active widow, who would like to marry again only in order to be better
obeyed.

Ann, if possible, should be acted by a little child. In the mouth of a
child, if she speaks clearly, the decisiveness of what she has to say
sounds extremely well. If the proper contrasts and shading are given to
all these characters, this tragedy will not miss its effect.

The first act, which portrays external life, should be mastered with
extraordinary care and thoroughness, and even the unimportant incidents
ought to betray a certain artistic fitness. The sounding of the
posthorn twice, for instance, produces an agreeable and even artistic
effect. The steward also should not be impersonated by a mediocre but
by an excellent actor, who will play the rôle of the kindly old man
called to a lover’s aid.

If one considers the incredible advantage which the composer has in
being able to indicate in his score all his wishes and intentions by
a thousand words and signs, one will pardon the dramatic poet also
if he seeks to enjoin upon the directors and managers what he holds
indispensable for the success of his work.

_Die Laune des Verliebten_ was produced at the theatre in March, 1805,
just when this little piece was forty years old. In it everything
depends on the rôle of Egle. If a versatile actress can be found
who expresses the character perfectly, then the piece is safe, and
is witnessed with pleasure. One of our most agreeable and charming
actresses, who was going to Breslau, took it to the theatre there. An
ingenious writer made use of the idea of the character and composed
several pieces with this motive for the actress. _Stella_ is also at
present well received in Berlin.

Here I venture to make an observation which seems to me worth
careful consideration on the part of stage-managers. If one tries to
discover just why certain pieces, to which some worth is not to be
denied, either are never produced or else, even when they make a good
impression for a time, yet little by little disappear from the boards,
one will find that the cause lies neither with the piece nor with the
public, but that the necessary actors are lacking. For this reason it
is advisable that pieces should not be laid entirely aside or dropped
from the repertory. Rather let them be kept constantly in mind, even
if there is no opportunity to give them for years. Then when the time
comes that the rôles can be adequately filled again, one does not lose
the chance of making an excellent impression.

Thus, for instance, the German theatre would experience a great change
if a figure like the famous Seylerin should appear, with a genuine
dramatic talent trained according to our modern requirements. Speedily
would Medea, Semiramis, Agrippina and other heroines, which we think
of as so colossal, be resurrected from the grave; other rôles besides
would be transformed. Think only of such a figure as Orsina, and
_Emilia Galotti_ is quite another play; the Prince is exonerated as
soon as one realizes that so powerful and imperious a person is the
encumbrance upon his shoulders.

We turn now to the _Mitschuldigen_. That it has a certain dramatic
value may be inferred from the fact that, at a time when all German
actors seemed afraid of rhythm and rhyme, it was turned into prose and
produced at the theatre, where it could not maintain itself because
a principal feature, the poetic rhythm and the rhyme, was lacking.
But now, when the actors are more skilled in both, this attempt could
be made. Some of its crudities were removed, some archaic touches
modernized, and thus it continues to hold the boards still if the cast
is good. It was put on at the same time as _Die Laune des Verliebten_,
in March, 1805. Schiller made many suggestions for the production,
but he did not live to see the _Raetsel_ produced in September of the
same year. This had a great success, but the author desired to remain
anonymous for a long time. Afterwards, however, he published a sequel,
and the two pieces help to support each other.

Let us not hesitate in the German theatre, where there appears so much
variety besides, to place side by side pieces of similar motive and
atmosphere, in order that we may at least give a certain breadth to the
different departments of dramatic production.

_Iphigenia_, not without some abbreviation, was put on the Weimar
stage as early as 1802; _Tasso_ first in 1807 after a long and quiet
preparation. Both plays continue to hold the boards, with the support
of actors and actresses who are exceptionally excellent and well
adapted to the rôles.

Finally we shall mention _Goetz von Berlichingen_, which was produced
for the first time in September, 1804. Although Schiller himself would
not undertake this new revision, he coöperated in every possible way,
and was able by his bold resolution to facilitate for the author many
a point of revision; from the beginning to the final production he
was most influential and effective both in word and deed. Since it is
produced at few theatres, it may be worth while to relate here briefly
the action of the piece, and to point out in general the principles
according to which this revision was made.


_Goetz von Berlichingen_

(_First Act_)

By the insults which are accorded his servants by some peasants in the
inn at Bamberg, we learn of the hostility between Goetz and the Bishop.
Some horsemen in the service of this knight enter and relate that
Weislingen, the Bishop’s right-hand man, is in the neighborhood. They
hurry away to notify their master.

Goetz appears in front of a hut in the woods, alert and listening. A
stable-boy, George, declares himself a future hero. Brother Martin
expresses envy of the soldiers, husband, and father. The servants come
in with the news, Goetz hastens away, and the boy is quieted by the
present of a saint’s picture.

At Jaxthausen, Goetz’s castle, we find his wife, sister and son. The
former exhibits herself as a capable noblewoman, the latter as a
tender-hearted woman, the son as rather effeminate. Faud brings word
that Weislingen is captured and Goetz is bringing him in. The women
go out; the two knights enter; by Goetz’s frank demeanor and the
narration of old stories, Weislingen’s heart is touched. Maria and Karl
come in; the child invites them to sit down at table, Maria asks them
to be friends. The knights give each other their hands, Maria stands
between them.


(_Second Act_)

Maria and Weislingen enter. They have become lovers. Goetz and
Elizabeth appear; they are all busy with hopes and plans. Weislingen is
happy in his new situation. Franz, Weislingen’s lad, comes from Bamberg
and awakes old memories; he also draws a picture of the dangerous
Adelaide of Walldorf. His passion for this lady is not to be mistaken,
and we begin to fear that he will carry away his master with him.

Hans von Selbitz comes in, representing himself to the Lady Elizabeth
as a merry knight-errant. Goetz gives him welcome. The news that
merchants from Nuremberg are passing by to the fair is brought in; they
go out. In the forest we find the merchants from Nuremberg; they are
fallen upon and robbed. Through George, Goetz learns that Weislingen
has left him. Goetz is inclined to work off his chagrin on the captured
merchants, but he is moved to give back a jewel-box which a lover is
taking to his mistress; for Goetz thinks with sadness how he must break
the news to his sister of the loss of her betrothed.


(_Third Act_)

Two merchants appear in the pleasure-gardens at Augsburg. Maximilian,
vexed, refuses to see them. Weislingen encourages them, and makes use
of the opportunity to influence the Emperor against Goetz and other
unruly knights.

Here the relations between Weislingen and his wife Adelaide develop;
she compels him unconditionally to promote her ambitions. The growing
passion of Franz for her, the wanton arts used to seduce him, become
apparent.

We now return to Jaxthausen. Sickingen woos Maria. Selbitz brings the
news that Goetz is declared an outlaw. They seize weapons. Lerse is
announced; Goetz receives him joyfully.

We are now on a mountain; wide view, ruined tower, castle and rocks.
A gipsy family is here seeking protection from the dangers of the
military campaign and the unrest of the country. They serve to give
coherence to the following scenes. The captain of the Imperial troops
enters, gives his orders, makes himself comfortable. The gipsies cajole
him. George comes suddenly upon the summit; Selbitz is brought in
wounded, having been attacked by servants of the Emperor, and rescued
by Lerse. He is visited by Goetz.


(_Fourth Act_)

Jaxthausen. Maria and Sickingen, with them the victorious Goetz.
He is afraid that he will be surrounded. Maria and Sickingen are
married; Goetz persuades them to leave the castle. Summons, a siege,
brave resistance, the family table once more; Lerse brings news of a
capitulation; treachery.

Weislingen’s and Adelaide’s dwelling in Augsburg. Night. Adelaide’s
masked ball. It is noticeable that the Archduke is her centre of
interest at this occasion; but she is able to silence the jealous Franz
and use him for her purposes.

Tavern at Heilbronn. The Town Hall there. Goetz’s daring and boldness.
Sickingen releases him. The familiar scenes are left in.


(_Fifth Act_)

A wood. Goetz and George lying in wait for a wild animal. It is
painfully evident out here that Goetz cannot cross his boundaries. We
realize the mischief of the peasant war. The monster advances; Max
Stumpf, whom they have dragged along with them as a guide and leader,
decides to leave them and the position. Goetz, half persuaded, half
compelled, yields, announces himself as their captain for four weeks
and breaks his ban. The peasants are divided in spirit, and the devil
is loose.

Weislingen appears at the head of knights and soldiers against the
rebels, in order especially to capture Goetz, and thus free himself
from the hateful feeling of inferiority. Relations with his wife are
very strained; Franz’s overwhelming passion becomes more and more
evident. Goetz and George in the painful situation of being associated
and implicated with rebels.

A secret judgment is issued against him. Goetz flees to the gipsies and
is captured by the Imperial troops.

Adelaide’s palace. The adventuress parts with the happy youth,
after she has prevailed upon him to bring poison to her husband. An
apparition appears; a powerful scene follows.

From these dismal surroundings, we pass to a bright spring garden.
Maria is sleeping in a bower of flowers. Lerse comes to her, and rouses
her to beg Weislingen for her brother’s life.

Weislingen’s palace. The dying man, with Maria and Franz. Goetz’s
sentence to death is revoked, and we leave the dying hero in the prison
garden.

       *       *       *       *       *

The principles of the earlier revisions were again applied in this
case. The number of scene-changes was lessened, securing more
opportunity for the development of the characters, the action was
condensed, and, though with many sacrifices, the play finally
approximated genuine dramatic form. Why it has not in this form spread
more widely on the German stage will be eventually understood, I
presume, since critics are not disinclined to give accounts of the
reception on the stage of the plays of the various German authors, the
treatment they receive and the length of time their pieces last.

If these remarks are favorably received, we shall probably discuss next
the introduction of foreign plays, such as has already taken place at
the Weimar Theatre. This includes Greek and French, English, Italian
and Spanish plays, besides the comedies of Terence and Plautus, in
which masks are made use of.

Most necessary would it be perhaps to discuss Shakespeare and combat
the prejudice that the works of this extraordinary writer should be
given in the German Theatre in their complete length and breadth.
This false idea has meant the suppression of the older revisions of
Schroeder, and prevented others from prospering.

It must be emphatically insisted, and with solid reason, that in this
case as in so many others the reader must be distinguished from and
part company with the spectator; each has his rights, and neither
should be permitted to injure the other’s.




LUDWIG TIECK’S _DRAMATURGIC FRAGMENTS_

(1826)


My mind has been stimulated in many ways by this noteworthy book.

As a dramatic poet, as a writer who by extensive travels and by
personal observation and study of foreign theatres has qualified
himself as a critic of insight and knowledge in connection with
our native theatre, and as one who by scholarly study has fitted
himself to be a historian of past and present times, the author has
an assured position with the German public, which is here especially
evident and notable. In him, criticism rests upon pleasure, pleasure
upon knowledge, and these criteria, which are usually thought of as
distinct, are here fused into a satisfying whole.

His reverence for Kleist is highly praiseworthy. As far as I am
personally concerned, in spite of the sincerest desire to appreciate
him justly, Kleist always arouses in me horror and aversion, as of a
body intended by nature to be beautiful, but seized by an incurable
illness. Tieck is the very reverse; he dwells rather upon the good that
has been left by nature; the deformity he puts aside, excusing much
more than he blames. For, after all, this man of genius deserves only
our pity; on this point we do reach agreement.

I also agree with him willingly when, as champion for the unity,
indivisibility and inviolability of Shakespeare’s plays, he wants
to have them put on the stage without revision or modification from
beginning to end.

When ten years ago I was of the contrary opinion, and made more
than one attempt to select only the particularly effective parts of
Shakespeare’s plays, rejecting the disturbing and the diffuse, I was
quite right, as director of the theatre, in doing so. For I had had
experience in tormenting myself and the actors for the space of a
month, and of finally putting on a production which indeed entertained
and aroused admiration, but which on account of conditions hardly
possible to fulfil more than once, could not maintain its place in the
repertory. Still I am perfectly willing that such attempts should here
and there be made, for, on the whole, failure does no harm.

Since men are not to get rid of longing and aspiration, it is salutary
for them to direct their unsatisfied idealism towards some definite
object, to work, for instance, towards depicting a mighty though
vanished past seriously and worthily in the present. Now actors as well
as poets and readers have the opportunity to study and see Shakespeare,
and, through their endeavors to attain the unattainable, disclose the
true inner capabilities and potentialities of their own nature.

Though in these respects I completely approve of the valuable efforts
of my old co-worker, I must confess that I differ from him in some
of his utterances; as, for instance, that “Lady Macbeth is a tender,
loving soul, and as such should be played.” I do not consider such
remarks to be really the author’s opinion, but rather paradoxes, which
in view of the weighty authority of our author can only work great harm.

It is in the nature of the case, and Tieck himself has presented
significant illustrations of the fact, that an actor who does not feel
himself to be quite in agreement with the conventional portrayal, may
in clever fashion modify and adjust it to himself and his own nature,
and fit the new interpretation so well as to provide, as it were, a new
and brilliant creation, and indemnify us for the clever fiction with
unexpected and delightful new grounds of comparison and contrast.

This we must admit as valid; but we cannot approve the case where the
theorist makes certain intimations to the actor, whereby the latter is
led astray to portray the rôle in a new manner and style against the
obvious intention of the poet.

From many viewpoints such an undertaking is questionable. The public
is looking for authority always; and it is right. For do we not act
similarly in taking counsel in joy and sorrow with those who are well
versed in the wisdom of art and of life? Whoever then has acquired any
legitimate authority in any field should strive, by continual assiduity
in holding close to the line of the true and the right, to preserve
that authority in inviolable sanctity.

An important paper is Tieck’s explanation of the _Piccolomini_ and
the _Wallenstein_. I saw these plays develop from beginning to end,
and I am filled with admiration at the degree of penetration which he
shows in treating a work which, although one of the most excellent not
only on the German stage but on all stages, yet in itself is unequal,
and for that reason often fails to satisfy the critic, although the
crowd, which does not take the separate parts with such strictness, is
necessarily charmed with it as a whole.

Most of the places where Tieck finds something to criticize, I find
reason to consider as pathological. If Schiller had not been suffering
from a long wasting disease, which finally killed him, the whole thing
would have been different. Our correspondence, which relates in the
clearest way the circumstances under which _Wallenstein_ was written,
will stimulate thoughtful people to much profitable reflection, and
persuade them to think ever more seriously how closely our æsthetics
is connected with physiology, pathology, and physics: in this way they
may realize the light which these sciences throw upon the conditions
to which individuals as well as whole nations, the most extensive
world-epochs as well as daily affairs, are subjected.




ON DIDACTIC POETRY

(1827)


Didactic poetry is not a distinct poetic style or genre in the same
sense as the lyric, epic, and dramatic. Every one will understand this
who recognizes that the latter differ in form, and therefore didactic
poetry, which derives its name from its content, cannot be put in the
same category.

All poetry should be instructive, but unobviously so. It should draw
the attention of a reader to the idea which is of value to be imparted;
but he himself must draw the lesson out of it, as he does out of life.

Didactic or schoolmasterly poetry is a hybrid between poetry and
rhetoric. For that reason, as it approximates now one and now the
other, it is able to possess more or less of poetic value. But,
like descriptive and satirical poetry, it is always a secondary and
subordinate species, which in a true æsthetic is always placed between
the art of poetry and the art of speech. The intrinsic worth of
didactic poetry, that is to say, of an edifying art-work, written with
charm and vigor, and graced with rhythm and melody and the ornament
of imaginative power, is for that reason in no way lessened. From the
rhymed chronicles, from the verse-maxims of the old pedagogues, down to
the best of this class, all have their value, considered in their place
and taken at their proper worth.

If one examines the matter closely and without prejudice, it strikes
one that didactic poetry is valuable for the sake of its popular
appeal. Even the most talented poet should feel himself honored to
have treated in this style a chapter of useful knowledge. The English
have some highly praiseworthy examples of this style. With jest and
seriousness they curry favor with the crowd, and then discuss in
explanatory notes whatever the reader must know in order to understand
the poem. The teacher in the field of æsthetics, ethics, or history has
a fine chance to systematize and clarify this chapter and acquaint his
students with the merit of the best works of this kind, not according
to the utility of their contents, but with reference to the greater or
less degree of their poetical value.

This subject should properly be quite omitted from a course on
æsthetics, but for the sake of those who have studied poetry and
rhetoric, it might be presented in special lectures, perhaps public.
Here a true comprehension, as everywhere, will prove of great advantage
to practice; for many people will grasp the difficulty of weaving
together a piece out of knowledge and imagination, of binding two
opposed elements together into a living bodily whole. The lecturer
should reveal the means by which this reconciliation can be made, and
his auditors, thereby guarded against mistakes, might each attempt in
his own way to produce a similar effect.

Among the many ways and means of effecting such a fusion, good humor is
the most certain, and could also be considered the most suitable, were
pure humor not so rare.

No more singular undertaking could easily be thought of than to
turn the geology of a district into a didactic, and indeed highly
imaginative, poem; yet this is what a member of the Geological Society
of London has done, in an attempt to popularize in this way a subject,
and promote a study usually insufferable to the thought of travelers.




SUPERSTITION AND POETRY

(1823)


Superstition is the poetry of life; both build an imaginary world, and
between the things of the actual, palpable world they anticipate the
most marvelous connections. Sympathy and antipathy govern everywhere.

Poetry is ever freeing itself from such fetters as it arbitrarily
imposes upon itself; superstition, on the contrary, can be compared
to the magic cords which draw together ever the tighter, the more
one struggles against them. The time of greatest enlightenment is
not secure from it; let it strike an uncultured century or epoch,
and the clouded mind of poor humanity begins to strive after the
impossible, to endeavor to have intercourse with and influence the
supernatural, the far-distant, the future. A numerous world of marvels
it constructs for itself, surrounded with a circle of darkness and
gloom. Such clouds hang over whole centuries, and grow thicker and
thicker. The imagination broods over a waste of sensuality; reason
seems to have turned back like Astræa to its divine origin; wisdom
is in despair, since she has no means of successfully asserting her
rights. Superstition does not harm the poet, for he knows how to make
its half-truths, to which he gives only a literary validity, count in
manifold ways for good.




THE METHODS OF FRENCH CRITICISM


I (1817)

A wealth of terms for unfavorable criticism:--

  A. abandonnée, absurde, arrogance, astuce.

  B. bafoué, bête, bêtise, bouffissure, bouquin, bourgeois,
        boursouflure, boutade, brisé, brutalité.

  C. cabale, cagot, canaille, carcan, clique, contraire, créature.

  D. déclamatoire, décrié, dégoût, dénigrement, dépourvu, déprayé,
        désobligeant, détestable, diabolique, dur.

  E. échoppe, enflure, engouement, ennui, ennuyeux, énorme, entortillé,
        éphémères, épluché, espèce, étourneau.

  F. factice, fadaise, faible, fainéant, fané, fastidieux, fatigant,
        fatuité, faux, forcé, fou, fourré, friperie, frivole, furieux.

  G. gâte, gauchement, gaucher, grimace, grossier, grossièrement.

  H. haillons, honnêtement, honte, horreur.

  I. imbécile, impertinence, impertinent, impuissant, incorrection,
        indécis, indéterminé, indifférence, indignités, inégalité,
        inguérissable, insipide, insipidité, insoutenable, intolérant,
        jouets, irréfléchi.

  L. laquais, léger, lésine, louche, lourd.

  M. maladresse, manque, maroud, mauvais, médiocre, mépris, méprise,
        mignardise, mordant.

  N. négligé, négligence, noirceur, non-soin.

  O. odieux.

  P. passable, pauvreté, pénible, petites-maisons, peupropre,
        pie-grièche, pitoyable, plat, platitude, pompeux, précieux,
        puérilités.

  R. rapsodie, ratatiné, rebattu, réchauffé, redondance, rétréci,
        révoltant, ridicule, roquet.

  S. sans succès, sifflets, singerie, somnifère, soporifique, sottise,
        subalterne.

  T. terrassé, tombée, traînée, travers, triste.

  V. vague, vexé, vide, vieillerie, volumineux.

A scanty store for praise:--

  A. animé, applaudie.

  B. brillant.

  C. charmant, correct.

  E. esprit.

  F. facile, finesse.

  G. goût, grâce, gracieux, grave.

  I. invention, justesse.

  L. léger, légèreté, libre.

  N. nombreux.

  P. piquant, prodigieux, pur.

  R. raisonnable.

  S. spirituel.

  V. verve.

“Words are the image of the soul; yet not an image, but rather a
shadow! Expressing roughly, and signifying gently, all that we have,
all that we have had in our experience! What was,--where has it gone?
and what is that which is with us now? Ah! we speak! Swiftly we catch
and seize the gifts of life as they fleet by us.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The insight and character of a man express themselves most clearly in
his judgments. In what he rejects, and what he accepts, he confesses
to what is alien to him and what he has need of; and so each year
designates unconsciously its present spiritual state, the compass of
its past life.

Thus is it also with nations; their praise and censure must always be
strictly consonant to their situation. We possessed Greek and Roman
terminology of this sort; the foregoing would give an occasion for
examining recent criticism. Like the individual man, the nation rests
on traditional ideas, foreign more often than native, both inherited
and original. But only in so far as a people has a native literature
can it judge and understand the past as it does the present. The
Englishman clings earnestly and stubbornly to classic antiquity, and
will not be convinced that the Orient has produced poets, unless he can
be shown parallel passages from Horace. What advantages, on the other
hand, Shakespeare’s independent genius has brought to the nation can
hardly be expressed.

The French by the introduction of badly understood classical principles
and an over-nice sense of form so constrained their poetry that it must
finally quite disappear, since it could not become more similar to
prose. The German was on the right road and will find it again, as soon
as he gives up the unhappy attempt to rank the _Nibelungen_ with the
_Iliad_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The favorable opinion which an excellent foreign writer has concerning
us Germans may be appropriately related here. The Privy Councilor
of the Russian Empire, Count Uvaroff, speaks thus in our honor, in a
preface addressed to an old friend and partner, and contained in his
valuable work on _Nonnus of Panopolis, the Poet_ (St. Petersburg,
1817): “The renaissance of archæology belongs to the Germans. Other
peoples may have contributed preparatory work, but if the more advanced
philological studies are ever developed to a complete whole, such a
palingenesis or regeneration could only take place in Germany. For
this reason, certain new views can hardly be expressed in any other
language, and on that account I have written in German. I hope we have
now given up the perverse notion of the political preëminence of this
or that language. It is time that every one, unconcerned about the
instrument itself, should select the language which fits most closely
the circle of ideas in which his thought is moving.”

Here speaks an able, talented, intellectual man, whose mind is above
the petty limitations of a cold literary patriotism, and who, like
a master of musical art, draws the stops of his well-equipped organ
which express the thought and feeling of each moment. Would that all
cultivated Germans would take thankfully to heart these excellent
and instructive words of his, and that intellectual youths would
be inspired to make themselves proficient in several languages, as
optional instruments of life!


II (1820)

In my article on “Urteilsworte französischer Kritiker,” a large number
of unfavorable epithets used by French critics were set off against a
scanty number of favorable words. In connection with this, the _Vrai
Liberal_ of February 4, 1819, lodges a complaint against me and accuses
me of an injustice towards the French nation. It does this with so much
civility and charm as to make me ashamed of myself, were it not for the
fact that behind my presentation of those words there lay a secret,
which I hasten to reveal to it and to my readers at this time.

I admit without hesitation that the Brussels correspondent of the _Vrai
Liberal_ is quite right when he points out how among the words of
censure which I gave there appear many peculiar ones which one would
not exactly expect; and in addition, that in the list of favorable
words, several are lacking which ought to occur to every one. In order
to explain this, and make the story clearer, I shall relate how I was
induced to make this particular list.

When Herr von Grimm forty years ago achieved an honorable entrance
into Parisian society, at that time extraordinarily talented and
intellectual, and was recognized practically as a member of this
distinguished company, he decided to send a written bulletin of
literary and other interesting matters to princely personages
and wealthy people in Germany, in order to entertain them, for a
considerable remuneration, with the characteristic life of Paris
circles, in regard to which they were curious in the outside world,
because they could well consider Paris as the centre of the cultured
world. These letters were to contain not merely news; but the best
works of Diderot, _The Nun_, _Jacques the Fatalist_, etc., were by
degrees inserted in such small portions that curiosity, attention, and
eagerness were kept alive from number to number.

Through the favor of distinguished patrons I was permitted to peruse
these bulletins regularly, and I did not neglect to study them with
great deliberation and ardor. Now, if I may be permitted to say it
to my credit, I always cheerfully recognized the superiority of
the writers and their works, treasured and admired them, and also
thankfully profited by them. For this reason I was soon struck in this
correspondence of Grimm’s with the fact that in the stories, anecdotes,
delineation of character, description, criticism, one noticed more of
censure than of praise, more derogatory than laudatory terminology. One
day in good humor, for my own consideration and edification, I began to
take down the complete expressions, and later, half in jest and half
in earnest, to split them up and arrange them alphabetically; and thus
they remained on my desk for many years.

When finally the correspondence of Grimm was published, I read it as
the document of a past age, but with care, and soon came upon many
an expression which I had noticed before; and I was convinced anew
that the censure by far exceeded the praise. Then I hunted up the
earlier work of mine and had it printed, for the sake of intellectual
edification, which did not fail me. At the moment I was not able to
give further attention to the matter; and it is therefore not unlikely
that in so voluminous a work many a word of praise and blame that has
escaped me may be found.

But in order that this reproach, which appeared to concern a whole
nation, may not be left clinging to a single author, I shall reserve
the privilege of discussing this important literary topic on more
general lines in the near future.




ON CRITICISM

(1821-24)


I

Criticism is either destructive or constructive. The former is very
easy; for one need only set up some imaginary standard, some model or
other, however foolish this may be, and then boldly assert that the
work of art under consideration does not measure up to that standard,
and therefore is of no value. That settles the matter, and one can
without any more ado declare that the poet has not come up to one’s
requirements. In this way the critic frees himself of all obligations
of gratitude toward the artist.

Constructive criticism is much harder. It asks: What did the author
set out to do? Was his plan reasonable and sensible, and how far did
he succeed in carrying it out? If these questions are answered with
discernment and sympathy, we may be of real assistance to the author
in his later works, for even in his first attempts he has undoubtedly
taken certain preliminary steps which approach the level of our
criticism.

Perhaps we should call attention to another point which is altogether
too frequently overlooked, namely, that the critic must judge a work
of art more for the sake of the author than of the public. Every day
we see how, without the least regard for the opinions of reviewers,
some drama or novel is received by men and women in the most divers
individual ways, is praised, found fault with, given or refused a
place in the heart, merely as it happens to appeal to the personal
idiosyncrasy of each reader.


II

Criticism is a practice of the Moderns. What does this mean? Just this:
If you read a book and let it work upon you, and yield yourself up
entirely to its influence, then, and only then, will you arrive at a
correct judgment of it.


III

Some of my admiring readers have told me for a long time that instead
of expressing a judgment on books, I describe the influence which they
have had on me. And at bottom this is the way all readers criticize,
even if they do not communicate an opinion or formulate ideas about it
to the public. The scholar finds nothing new in a book, and therefore
cannot praise it, while the young student, eager for knowledge, finds
that knowledge increased, and a stimulus given to his culture. The
one is stirred, while the other remains cold. This explains why the
reception of books is so varied.


IV

I am more and more convinced that whenever one has to express an
opinion on the actions or on the writings of others, unless this be
done from a certain one-sided enthusiasm, or from a loving interest
in the person and the work, the result is hardly worth considering.
Sympathy and enjoyment in what we see are in fact the only reality; and
from such reality, reality as a natural product follows. All else is
vanity.




ON SHAKESPEARE




WILHELM MEISTER’S CRITIQUE OF _HAMLET_

(1795)


Wilhelm had scarcely read one or two of Shakespeare’s plays, till their
effect on him became so strong that he could go no farther. His whole
soul was in commotion. He sought an opportunity to speak with Jarno;
to whom, on meeting with him, he expressed his boundless gratitude for
such delicious entertainment.

“I clearly enough foresaw,” said Jarno, “that you would not remain
insensible to the charms of the most extraordinary and most admirable
of all writers.”

“Yes,” exclaimed our friend, “I cannot recollect that any book,
any man, any incident of my life, has produced such important
effects on me, as the precious works to which by your kindness I
have been directed. They seem as if they were performances of some
celestial genius, descending among men, to make them, by the mildest
instructions, acquainted with themselves. They are no fictions! You
would think, while reading them, you stood before the unclosed awful
Books of Fate, while the whirlwind of most impassioned life was howling
through the leaves, and tossing them fiercely to and fro. The strength
and tenderness, the power and peacefulness, of this man, have so
astonished and transported me, that I long vehemently for the time when
I shall have it in my power to read farther.”

“Bravo!” said Jarno, holding out his hand, and squeezing our friend’s.
“This is as it should be! And the consequences, which I hope for, will
likewise surely follow.”

“I wish,” said Wilhelm, “I could but disclose to you all that is going
on within me even now. All the anticipations I ever had regarding man
and his destiny, which have accompanied me from youth upwards, often
unobserved by myself, I find developed and fulfilled in Shakespeare’s
writings. It seems as if he cleared up every one of our enigmas to
us, though we cannot say, Here or there is the word of solution. His
men appear like natural men, and yet they are not. These, the most
mysterious and complex productions of creation, here act before us as
if they were watches, whose dial plates and cases were of crystal,
which pointed out, according to their use, the course of the hours and
minutes; while, at the same time, you could discern the combination of
wheels and springs that turned them. The few glances I have cast over
Shakespeare’s world incite me, more than anything beside, to quicken
my footsteps forward into the actual world, to mingle in the flood
of destinies that is suspended over it, and at length, if I shall
prosper, to draw a few cups from the great ocean of true nature, and
to distribute them from off the stage among the thirsting people of my
native land.”...

       *       *       *       *       *

Seeing the company so favorably disposed, Wilhelm now hoped he might
further have it in his power to converse with them on the poetic merit
of the plays which might come before them. “It is not enough,” said he
next day, when they were all again assembled, “for the actor merely to
glance over a dramatic work, to judge of it by his first impression,
and thus, without investigation, to declare his satisfaction or
dissatisfaction with it. Such things may be allowed in a spectator,
whose purpose it is rather to be entertained and moved than formally to
criticize. But the actor, on the other hand, should be prepared to give
a reason for his praise or censure; and how shall he do this, if he
have not taught himself to penetrate the sense, the views, the feelings
of his author? A common error is to form a judgment of a drama from a
single part in it, and to look upon this part itself in an isolated
point of view, not in its connection with the whole. I have noticed
this within a few days so clearly in my own conduct that I will give
you the account as an example, if you please to hear me patiently.

“You all know Shakespeare’s incomparable _Hamlet_; our public reading
of it at the castle yielded every one of us the greatest satisfaction.
On that occasion we proposed to act the play; and I, not knowing what
I undertook, engaged to play the prince’s part. This I conceived that
I was studying, while I began to get by heart the strongest passages,
the soliloquies, and those scenes in which force of soul, vehemence and
elevation of feeling have the freest scope, where the agitated heart is
allowed to display itself with touching expressiveness.

“I further conceived that I was penetrating quite into the spirit of
the character, while I endeavored, as it were, to take upon myself
the load of deep melancholy under which my prototype was laboring,
and in this humor to pursue him through the strange labyrinths of
his caprices and his singularities. Thus learning, thus practising, I
doubted not but I should by and bye become one person with my hero.

“But the farther I advanced, the more difficult did it become for me
to form any image of the whole, in its general bearings; till at last
it seemed as if impossible. I next went through the entire piece,
without interruption; but here, too, I found much that I could not
away with. At one time the characters, at another time the manner of
displaying them, seemed inconsistent; and I almost despaired of finding
any general tint, in which I might present my whole part with all its
shadings and variations. In such devious paths I toiled, and wandered
long in vain; till at length a hope arose that I might reach my aim in
quite a new way.

“I set about investigating every trace of Hamlet’s character, as it had
shown itself before his father’s death; I endeavored to distinguish
what in it was independent of this mournful event, independent of the
terrible events that followed; and what most probably the young man
would have been had no such thing occurred.

“Soft, and from a noble stem, this royal flower had sprung up under the
immediate influences of majesty: the idea of moral rectitude with that
of princely elevation, the feeling of the good and dignified with the
consciousness of high birth, had in him been unfolded simultaneously.
He was a prince, by birth a prince; and he wished to reign, only that
good men might be good without obstruction. Pleasing in form, polished
by nature, courteous from the heart, he was meant to be the pattern of
youth and the joy of the world.

“Without any prominent passion, his love for Ophelia was a still
presentiment of sweet wants. His zeal in knightly accomplishments was
not entirely his own: it needed to be quickened and inflamed by praise
bestowed on others for excelling in them. Pure in sentiment, he knew
the honorable-minded, and could prize the rest which an upright spirit
tastes on the bosom of a friend. To a certain degree he had learned
to discern and value the good and the beautiful in arts and sciences;
the mean, the vulgar, was offensive to him; and, if hatred could take
root in his tender soul, it was only so far as to make him properly
despise the false and changeful insects of a court, and play with them
in easy scorn. He was calm in his temper, artless in his conduct,
neither pleased with idleness, nor too violently eager for employment.
The routine of a university he seemed to continue when at court. He
possessed more mirth of humor than of heart: he was a good companion,
pliant, courteous, discreet, and able to forget and forgive an injury,
yet never able to unite himself with those who overstepped the limits
of the right, the good, and the becoming.

“When we read the piece again, you shall judge whether I am yet on the
proper track. I hope at least to bring forward passages that shall
support my opinion in its main points.”

This delineation was received with warm approval; the company imagined
they foresaw that Hamlet’s manner of proceeding might now be very
satisfactorily explained; they applauded this method of penetrating
into the spirit of a writer. Each of them proposed to himself to take
up some piece, and study it on these principles, and so unfold the
author’s meaning....

Loving Shakespeare as our friend did, he failed not to lead round
the conversation to the merits of that dramatist. Expressing, as he
entertained, the liveliest hopes of the new epoch which these exquisite
productions must form in Germany, he erelong introduced his _Hamlet_,
which play had busied him so much of late.

Serlo declared that he would long ago have represented the play had it
at all been possible, and that he himself would willingly engage to act
Polonius. He added, with a smile, “An Ophelia, too, will certainly turn
up, if we had but a Prince.”

Wilhelm did not notice that Aurelia seemed a little hurt at her
brother’s sarcasm. Our friend was in his proper vein, becoming copious
and didactic, expounding how he would have _Hamlet_ played. He
circumstantially delivered to his hearers the opinions we before saw
him busied with; taking all the trouble possible to make his notion of
the matter acceptable, skeptical as Serlo showed himself regarding it.
“Well, then,” said the latter finally, “suppose we grant you all this,
what will you explain by it?”

“Much, everything,” said Wilhelm. “Conceive a prince such as I have
painted him, and that his father suddenly dies. Ambition and the love
of rule are not the passions that inspire him. As a king’s son, he
would have been contented; but now he is first constrained to consider
the difference which separates a sovereign from a subject. The crown
was not hereditary; yet his father’s longer possession of it would have
strengthened the pretensions of an only son, and secured his hopes of
succession. In place of this, he now beholds himself excluded by his
uncle, in spite of specious promises, most probably forever. He is now
poor in goods and favor, and a stranger in the scene which from youth
he had looked upon as his inheritance. His temper here assumes its
first mournful tinge. He feels that now he is not more, that he is less
than a private nobleman; he offers himself as the servant of every one;
he is not courteous and condescending, he is needy and degraded.

“His past condition he remembers as a vanished dream. It is in vain
that his uncle strives to cheer him, to present his situation in
another point of view. The feeling of his nothingness will not leave
him.

“The second stroke that came upon him wounded deeper, bowed still more.
It was the marriage of his mother. The faithful, tender son had yet a
mother, when his father passed away. He hoped in the company of his
surviving noble-minded parent, to reverence the heroic form of the
departed: but his mother, too, he loses; and it is something worse
than death that robs him of her. The trustful image, which a good
child loves to form of its parents, is gone. With the dead there is no
help, on the living no hold. Moreover, she is a woman; and her name is
Frailty, like that of all her sex.

“Now only does he feel completely bowed down, now only orphaned; and
no happiness of life can repay what he has lost. Not reflective or
sorrowful by nature, reflection and sorrow have become for him a heavy
obligation. It is thus that we see him first enter on the scene. I do
not think that I have mixed aught foreign with the play, or overcharged
a single feature of it.”

Serlo looked at his sister, and said: “Did I give thee a false picture
of our friend? He begins well: he has still many things to tell us,
many to persuade us of.” Wilhelm asseverated loudly that he meant not
to persuade, but to convince; he begged for another moment’s patience.

“Figure to yourselves this youth,” cried he, “this son of princes;
conceive him vividly, bring his state before your eyes and then observe
him when he learns that his father’s spirit walks; stand by him in the
terrors of the night, when even the venerable ghost appears before him.
He is seized with boundless horror; he speaks to the mysterious form;
he sees it beckon him; he follows and hears. The fearful accusation of
his uncle rings in his ears, the summons to revenge, and the piercing,
oft-repeated prayer, Remember me!

“And, when the ghost has vanished, who is it that stands before us? A
young hero panting for vengeance? A prince by birth, rejoicing to be
called to punish the usurper of his crown? No! trouble and astonishment
take hold of the solitary young man: he grows bitter against smiling
villains, swears that he will not forget the spirit, and concludes with
the significant ejaculation,--

    “‘The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
    That ever I was born to set it right!’

“In these words, I imagine, will be found the key to Hamlet’s whole
procedure. To me it is clear that Shakespeare meant, in the present
case, to represent the effects of a great action laid upon a soul unfit
for the performance of it. In this view the whole play seems to me to
be composed. There is an oak-tree planted in a costly jar, which should
have borne only pleasant flowers in its bosom: the roots expand, the
jar is shivered.

“A lovely, pure, noble, and most moral nature, without the strength
of nerve which forms a hero, sinks beneath a burden it cannot bear
and must not cast away. All duties are holy for him: the present
is too hard. Impossibilities have been required of him,--not in
themselves impossibilities, but such for him. He winds and turns, and
torments himself; he advances and recoils; is ever put in mind, ever
puts himself in mind, at last does all but lose his purpose from his
thoughts, yet still without recovering his peace of mind.”

Several people entering interrupted the discussion. They were musical
dilettanti, who commonly assembled at Serlo’s once a week, and formed
a little concert. Serlo himself loved music much: he used to maintain
that a player without taste for it never could attain a distinct
conception and feeling of the scenic art. “As a man performs,” he
would observe, “with far more ease and dignity when his gestures
are accompanied and guided by a tune; so the player ought, in idea
as it were, to set to music even his prose parts, that he may not
monotonously slight them over in his individual style, but treat them
in suitable alternation by time and measure.”

Aurelia seemed to give but little heed to what was passing: at last she
conducted Wilhelm to another room; and going to the window, and looking
out at the starry sky, she said to him, “You have more to tell us about
Hamlet: I will not hurry you,--my brother must hear it as well as I;
but let me beg to know your thoughts about Ophelia.”

“Of her there cannot much be said,” he answered; “for a few
master-strokes complete her character. The whole being of Ophelia
floats in sweet and ripe sensation. Kindness for the prince, to whose
hand she may aspire, flows so spontaneously, her tender heart obeys its
impulses so unresistingly, that both father and brother are afraid:
both give her warning harshly and directly. Decorum, like the thin lawn
upon her bosom, cannot hide the soft, still movements of her heart: it,
on the contrary, betrays them. Her fancy is smit; her silent modesty
breathes amiable desire; and if the friendly goddess Opportunity should
shake the tree, its fruit would fall.”

“And then,” said Aurelia, “when she beholds herself forsaken, cast
away, despised; when all is inverted in the soul of her crazed lover,
and the highest changes to the lowest, and, instead of the sweet cup of
love, he offers her the bitter’ cup of woe--”

“Her heart breaks,” cried Wilhelm; “the whole structure of her being is
loosened from its joinings: her father’s death strikes fiercely against
it, and the fair edifice altogether crumbles into fragments.”

Serlo, this moment entering, inquired about his sister, and, looking
in the book which our friend had hold of, cried, “So you are again at
_Hamlet_? Very good! Many doubts have arisen in me, which seem not a
little to impair the canonical aspect of the play as you would have it
viewed. The English themselves have admitted that its chief interest
concludes with the third act; the last two lagging sorrily on, and
scarcely uniting with the rest: and certainly about the end it seems to
stand stock-still.”

“It is very possible,” said Wilhelm, “that some individuals of a
nation, which has so many masterpieces to feel proud of, may be led
by prejudice and narrowness of mind to form false judgments; but this
cannot hinder us from looking with our own eyes, and doing justice
where we see it due. I am very far from censuring the plan of _Hamlet_:
on the other hand, I believe there never was a grander one invented;
nay, it is not invented, it is real.”

“How do you demonstrate that?” inquired Serlo.

“I will not demonstrate anything,” said Wilhelm; “I will merely show
you what my own conceptions of it are.”

Aurelia raised herself from her cushion, leaned upon her hand, and
looked at Wilhelm, who, with the firmest assurance that he was in the
right, went on as follows: “It pleases us, it flatters us, to see a
hero acting on his own strength, loving and hating at the bidding of
his heart, undertaking and completing casting every obstacle aside,
and attaining some great end. Poets and historians would willingly
persuade us that so proud a lot may fall to man. In _Hamlet_ we are
taught another lesson; the hero is without a plan, but the play is
full of plan. Here we have no villain punished on some self-conceived
and rigidly accomplished scheme of vengeance. A horrid deed is done;
it rolls along with all its consequences, dragging with it even the
guiltless: the guilty perpetrator would, as it seems, evade the abyss
made ready for him; yet he plunges in, at the very point by which he
thinks he shall escape and happily complete his course.

“For it is the property of crime to extend its mischief over innocence,
as it is of virtue to extend its blessings over many that deserve
them not; while frequently the author of the one or the other is not
punished or rewarded at all. Here in this play of ours, how strange!
The Pit of darkness sends its spirit and demands revenge: in vain!
All circumstances tend one way, and hurry to revenge: in vain! Neither
earthly nor infernal thing may bring about what is reserved for Fate
alone. The hour of judgment comes; the wicked falls with the good; one
race is mowed away, that another may spring up.”

After a pause, in which they looked at one another, Serlo said, “You
pay no great compliment to Providence, in thus exalting Shakespeare;
and besides, it appears to me, that for the honor of your poet, as
others for the honor of Providence, you ascribe to him an object and a
plan such as he himself has never thought of.”

“Let me also put a question,” said Aurelia. “I have looked at Ophelia’s
part again: I am contented with it, and confident that, under certain
circumstances, I could play it. But tell me, should not the poet have
furnished the insane maiden with another sort of songs? Could not some
fragments out of melancholy ballads be selected for this purpose? Why
put double meanings and lascivious insipidities in the mouth of this
noble-minded girl?”

“Dear friend,” said Wilhelm, “even here I cannot yield you one iota.
In these singularities, in this apparent impropriety, a deep sense is
hid. Do we not understand from the very first what the mind of the
good, soft-hearted girl was busied with? Silently she lived within
herself, yet she scarce concealed her wishes, her longing: and how
often may she have attempted, like an unskilful nurse, to lull her
senses to repose with songs which only kept them more awake? But at
last, when her self-command is altogether gone, when the secrets of her
heart are hovering on her tongue, that tongue betrays her; and in the
innocence of insanity she solaces herself, unmindful of king or queen,
with the echo of her loose and well-beloved songs,--‘Tomorrow is Saint
Valentine’s Day,’ and ‘By Gis and by Saint Charity.’ ...”

       *       *       *       *       *

“I must admit your picture of Ophelia to be just,” continued she; “I
cannot now misunderstand the object of the poet: I must pity; though,
as you paint her, I shall rather pity her than sympathize with her.
But allow me here to offer a remark, which in these few days you have
frequently suggested to me. I observe with admiration the correct,
keen, penetrating glance with which you judge of poetry, especially
dramatic poetry: the deepest abysses of invention are not hidden from
you, the finest touches of representation cannot escape you. Without
ever having viewed the objects in nature, you recognize the truth
of their images: there seems, as it were, a presentiment of all the
universe to lie in you, which by the harmonious touch of poetry is
awakened and unfolded. For in truth,” continued she, “from without,
you receive not much: I have scarcely seen a person that so little
knew, so totally misknew, the people he lived with, as you do. Allow
me to say it: in hearing you expound the mysteries of Shakespeare,
one would think you had just descended from a synod of the gods, and
had listened there while they were taking counsel how to form men; in
seeing you transact with your fellows, I could imagine you to be the
first large-born child of the Creation, standing agape, and gazing with
strange wonderment and edifying good nature at lions and apes and sheep
and elephants, and true-heartedly addressing them as your equals,
simply because they were there, and in motion like yourself.”

“The feeling of my ignorance in this respect,” said Wilhelm, “often
gives me pain; and I should thank you, worthy friend, if you would
help me to get a little better insight into life. From youth, I have
been accustomed to direct the eyes of my spirit inwards rather than
outwards; and hence it is very natural that, to a certain extent, I
should be acquainted with man, while of men I have not the smallest
knowledge....”

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the conditions under which our friend had gone upon the stage
was not acceded to by Serlo without some limitations. Wilhelm had
required that _Hamlet_ should be played entire and unmutilated: the
other had agreed to this strange stipulation, in so far as it was
_possible_. On this point they had many a contest; for as to what was
possible or not possible, and what parts of the piece could be omitted
without mutilating it, the two were of very different opinions.

Wilhelm was still in that happy season when one cannot understand
how, in the woman one loves, in the writer one honors, there should
be anything defective. The feeling they excite in us is so entire,
so accordant with itself, that we cannot help attributing the same
perfect harmony to the objects themselves. Serlo again was willing
to discriminate, perhaps too willing: his acute understanding could
usually discern in any work of art nothing but a more or less
_im_perfect whole. He thought that, as pieces usually stood, there was
little reason to be chary about meddling with them; that of course
Shakespeare, and particularly _Hamlet_, would need to suffer much
curtailment.

But, when Serlo talked of separating the wheat from the chaff, Wilhelm
would not hear of it. “It is not chaff and wheat together,” said
he: “it is a trunk with boughs, twigs, leaves, buds, blossoms, and
fruit. Is not the one there with the others, and by means of them?” To
which Serlo would reply that people did not bring a whole tree upon
the table; that the artist was required to present his guests with
silver apples in platters of silver. They exhausted their invention in
similitudes, and their opinions seemed still farther to diverge.

Our friend was on the borders of despair when on one occasion, after
much debating, Serlo counseled him to take the simple plan,--to make a
brief resolution, to grasp his pen, to peruse the tragedy; dashing out
whatever would not answer, compressing several personages into one: and
if he was not skilled in such proceedings, or had not heart enough for
going through with them, he might leave the task to him, the manager,
who would engage to make short work with it.

“That is not our bargain,” answered Wilhelm. “How can you, with all
your taste, show so much levity?”

“My friend,” cried Serlo, “you yourself will erelong feel it and
show it. I know too well how shocking such a mode of treating works
is: perhaps it never was allowed on any theatre till now. But where,
indeed, was ever one so slighted as ours? Authors force us on this
wretched clipping system, and the public tolerates it. How many pieces
have we, pray, which do not overstep the measure of our numbers, of our
decorations and theatrical machinery, of the proper time, of the fit
alternation of dialogue, and the physical strength of the actor? And
yet we are to play, and play, and constantly give novelties. Ought
we not to profit by our privilege, then, since we accomplish just as
much by mutilated works as by entire ones? It is the public itself
that grants the privilege. Few Germans, perhaps few men of any modern
nation, have a proper sense of an æsthetic whole:--they praise and
blame by passages; they are charmed by passages; and who has greater
reason to rejoice at this than actors, since the stage is ever but a
patched and piece-work matter?”

“Is!” cried Wilhelm; “but _must_ it ever be so? Must everything that
is continue? Convince me not that you are right, for no power on earth
should force me to abide by any contract which I had concluded with the
grossest misconceptions.”

Serlo gave a merry turn to the business, and persuaded him to review
once more the many conversations they had had together about _Hamlet_,
and himself to invent some means of properly reforming the piece.

After a few days, which he had spent alone, our friend returned with
a cheerful look. “I am much mistaken,” cried he, “if I have not now
discovered how the whole is to be managed: nay, I am convinced that
Shakespeare himself would have arranged it so, had not his mind been
too exclusively directed to the ruling interest, and perhaps misled by
the novels which furnished him with his materials.”

“Let us hear,” said Serlo, placing himself with an air of solemnity
upon the sofa: “I will listen calmly, but judge with rigor.”

“I am not afraid of you,” said Wilhelm; “only hear me. In the
composition of this play, after the most accurate investigation and
the most mature reflection, I distinguish two classes of objects. The
first are the grand internal relations of the persons and events, the
powerful effects which arise from the characters and proceedings of the
main figures: these, I hold, are individually excellent; and the order
in which they are presented cannot be improved. No kind of interference
must be suffered to destroy them, or even essentially to change their
form. These are the things which stamp themselves deep into the
soul, which all men long to see, which no one dares to meddle with.
Accordingly, I understand, they have almost wholly been retained in
all our German theatres. But our countrymen have erred, in my opinion,
with regard to the second class of objects, which may be observed
in this tragedy: I allude to the external relations of the persons,
whereby they are brought from place to place, or combined in various
ways, by certain accidental incidents. These they have looked upon as
very unimportant; have spoken of them only in passing, or left them out
altogether. Now, indeed, it must be owned, these threads are slack and
slender; yet they run through the entire piece, and bind together much
that would otherwise fall asunder, and does actually fall asunder, when
you cut them off, and imagine you have done enough and more, if you
have left the ends hanging.

“Among these external relations I include the disturbances in Norway,
the war with young Fortinbras, the embassy to his uncle, the settling
of that feud, the march of young Fortinbras to Poland, and his coming
back at the end; of the same sort are Horatio’s return from Wittenberg,
Hamlet’s wish to go thither, the journey of Laertes to France, his
return, the despatch of Hamlet into England, his capture by pirates,
the death of the two courtiers by the letter which they carried. All
these circumstances and events would be very fit for expanding and
lengthening a novel; but here they injure exceedingly the unity of the
piece, particularly as the hero has no plan, and are, in consequence,
entirely out of place.”

“For once in the right!” cried Serlo.

“Do not interrupt me,” answered Wilhelm; “perhaps you will not always
think me right. These errors are like temporary props of an edifice:
they must not be removed till we have built a firm wall in their stead.
My project, therefore, is not at all to change those first-mentioned
grand situations, or at least as much as possible to spare them, both
collectively and individually; but with respect to these external,
single, dissipated, and dissipating motives, to cast them all at once
away, and substitute a solitary one instead of them.”

“And this?” inquired Serlo, springing up from his recumbent posture.

“It lies in the piece itself,” answered Wilhelm, “only I employ it
rightly. There are disturbances in Norway. You shall hear my plan, and
try it.

“After the death of Hamlet’s father, the Norwegians, lately conquered,
grow unruly. The viceroy of that country sends his son, Horatio, an old
school-friend of Hamlet’s, and distinguished above every other for his
bravery and prudence, to Denmark, to press forward the equipment of
the fleet, which, under the new luxurious king, proceeds but slowly.
Horatio has known the former king, having fought in his battles, having
even stood in favor with him,--a circumstance by which the first
ghost-scene will be nothing injured. The new sovereign gives Horatio
audience and sends Laertes into Norway with intelligence that the fleet
will soon arrive; whilst Horatio is commissioned to accelerate the
preparation of it: and the Queen, on the other hand, will not consent
that Hamlet, as he wishes, should go to sea along with him.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Serlo; “we shall now get rid of Wittenberg
and the university, which was always a sorry piece of business. I think
your idea extremely good; for, except these two distant objects, Norway
and the fleet, the spectator will not be required to _fancy_ anything:
the rest he will _see_; the rest takes place before him; whereas his
imagination, on the other plan, was hunted over all the world.”

“You easily perceive,” said Wilhelm, “how I shall contrive to keep the
other parts together. When Hamlet tells Horatio of his uncle’s crime,
Horatio counsels him to go to Norway in his company, to secure the
affections of the army, and return in warlike force. Hamlet also is
becoming dangerous to the King and Queen; they find no readier method
of deliverance than to send him in the fleet, with Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern to be spies upon him; and, as Laertes in the meantime
comes from France, they determine that this youth, exasperated even
to murder, shall go after him. Unfavorable winds detain the fleet:
Hamlet returns; for his wandering through the churchyard, perhaps some
lucky motive may be thought of; his meeting with Laertes in Ophelia’s
grave is a grand moment, which we must not part with. After this, the
King resolves that it is better to get quit of Hamlet on the spot: the
festival of his departure, the pretended reconcilement with Laertes,
are now solemnized; on which occasion knightly sports are held, and
Laertes fights with Hamlet. Without the four corpses, I cannot end the
play: no one must survive. The right of popular election now again
comes in force; and Hamlet, while dying, gives his vote to Horatio.”

“Quick! quick!” said Serlo, “sit down and work the play: your plan has
my entire approbation; only let not your zeal evaporate.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilhelm had already been for some time busied with translating
_Hamlet_; making use, as he labored, of Wieland’s spirited performance,
through which he had first become acquainted with Shakespeare. What
had been omitted in Wieland’s work he replaced, and had secured a
complete version, at the very time when Serlo and he were pretty well
agreed about the way of treating it. He now began, according to his
plan, to cut out and insert, to separate and unite, to alter, and
often to restore; for, satisfied as he was with his own conception, it
still appeared to him as if, in executing it, he were but spoiling the
original.

When all was finished, he read his work to Serlo and the rest.
They declared themselves exceedingly contented with it: Serlo, in
particular, made many flattering observations.

“You have felt very justly,” said he, among other things, “that some
external circumstances must accompany this play, but that they must be
simpler than those which the great poet has employed. What takes place
without the theatre, what the spectator does not see but must imagine,
is like a background, in front of which the acting figures move. Your
large and simple prospect of the fleet and Norway will do much to
improve the play: if this were altogether taken from it, we should have
but a family scene remaining; and the great idea that here a kingly
house, by internal crimes and incongruities, goes down to ruin, would
not be presented with its proper dignity. But if the former background
were left standing, so manifold, so fluctuating and confused, it would
hurt the impression of the figures.”

Wilhelm again took Shakespeare’s part; alleging that he wrote for
islanders, for Englishmen, who generally in the distance were
accustomed to see little else than ships and voyages, the coast of
France and privateers; and thus what perplexed and distracted others
was to them quite natural.

Serlo assented; and both were of opinion that, as the play was now
to be produced upon the German stage, this more serious and simple
background was the best adapted for the German mind.

The parts had been distributed before: Serlo undertook Polonius;
Aurelia, Ophelia; Laertes was already designated by his name; a young,
thick-set, jolly newcomer was to be Horatio; the King and Ghost alone
occasioned some perplexity, for both of these no one but Old Boisterous
remaining. Serlo proposed to make the Pedant, King; but against this
our friend protested in the strongest terms. They could resolve on
nothing.

Wilhelm had also allowed both Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to continue
in his play. “Why not compress them into one?” said Serlo. “This
abbreviation will not cost you much.”

“Heaven keep me from all such curtailments!” answered Wilhelm; “they
destroy at once the sense and the effect. What these two persons are
and do it is impossible to represent by one. In such small matters
we discover Shakespeare’s greatness. These soft approaches, this
smirking and bowing, this assenting, wheedling, flattering, this
whisking agility, this wagging of the tail, this allness and emptiness,
this legal knavery, this ineptitude and insipidity,--how can they
be expressed by a single man? There ought to be at least a dozen of
these people, if they could be had; for it is only in society that
they are anything; they are society itself; and Shakespeare showed no
little wisdom and discernment in bringing in a pair of them. Besides,
I need them as a couple that may be contrasted with the single, noble,
excellent Horatio....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Though in this remolding of _Hamlet_ many characters had been cut off,
a sufficient number of them still remained,--a number which the company
was scarcely adequate to meet.

“If this is the way of it,” said Serlo, “our prompter himself must
issue from his den, and mount the stage, and become a personage like
one of us....”

       *       *       *       *       *

“The very man!” exclaimed our friend, “the very man! What a fortunate
discovery! We have now the proper hand for delivering the passage of
‘The rugged Pyrrhus.’”

“One requires your eagerness,” said Serlo, “before he can employ every
object in the use it was meant for.”

“In truth,” said Wilhelm, “I was very much afraid we should be obliged
to leave this passage out: the omission would have lamed the whole
play.”

“Well! That is what I cannot understand,” observed Aurelia.

“I hope you will erelong be of my opinion,” answered Wilhelm.
“Shakespeare has introduced these traveling players with a double
purpose. The person who recites the death of Priam with such feeling,
in the _first_ place, makes a deep impression on the prince himself; he
sharpens the conscience of the wavering youth: and, accordingly, this
scene becomes a prelude to that other, where, in the _second_ place,
the little play produces such effect upon the King. Hamlet sees himself
reproved and put to shame by the player, who feels so deep a sympathy
in foreign and fictitious woes; and the thought of making an experiment
upon the conscience of his stepfather is in consequence suggested to
him. What a royal monologue is that which ends the second act! How
charming it will be to speak it!”

    “‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
    Is it not monstrous that this player here,
    But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
    Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
    That, from her working, all his visage wann’d;
    Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
    A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
    With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
    For Hecuba!
    What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
    That he should weep for her?’” ...

In particular, one evening, the manager was very merry in speaking of
the part of Polonius, and how he meant to take it up. “I engage,” said
he, “on this occasion, to present a very meritorious person in his best
aspect. The repose and security of this old gentleman, his emptiness
and his significance, his exterior gracefulness and interior meanness,
his frankness and sycophancy, his sincere roguery and deceitful truth,
I will introduce with all due elegance in their fit proportions. This
respectable, gray-haired, enduring, time-serving half-knave, I will
represent in the most courtly style: the occasional roughness and
coarseness of our author’s strokes will further me here. I will speak
like a book when I am prepared beforehand, and like an ass when I utter
the overflowings of my heart. I will be insipid and absurd enough to
chime in with every one, and acute enough never to observe when people
make a mock of me. I have seldom taken up a part with so much zeal and
roguishness.”

“Could I but hope as much from mine!” exclaimed Aurelia. “I have
neither youth nor softness enough to be at home in this character. One
thing alone I am too sure of,--the feeling that turns Ophelia’s brain,
I shall not want.”

“We must not take the matter up so strictly,” said our friend. “For my
share, I am certain that the wish to act the character of Hamlet has
led me exceedingly astray throughout my study of the play. And now, the
more I look into the part, the more clearly do I see that, in my whole
form and physiognomy, there is not one feature such as Shakespeare
meant for Hamlet. When I consider with what nicety the various
circumstances are adapted to each other, I can scarcely hope to produce
even a tolerable effect.”

“You are entering on your new career with becoming conscientiousness,”
said Serlo. “The actor fits himself to his part as he can, and the part
to him as it must. But how has Shakespeare drawn his Hamlet? Is he so
utterly unlike you?”

“In the first place,” answered Wilhelm, “he is fair-haired.”

“That I call far-fetched,” observed Aurelia. “How do you infer that?”

“As a Dane, as a Northman, he is fair-haired and blue-eyed by descent.”

“And you think Shakespeare had this in view?”

“I do not find it specially expressed; but, by comparison of passages,
I think it incontestable. The fencing tires him; the sweat is
running from his brow; and the Queen remarks, ‘_He’s fat, and scant
of breath._’ Can you conceive him to be otherwise than plump and
fair-haired? Brown-complexioned people, in their youth, are seldom
plump. And does not his wavering melancholy, his soft lamenting, his
irresolute activity, accord with such a figure? From a dark-haired
young man, you would look for more decision and impetuosity.”

“You are spoiling my imagination,” cried Aurelia; “away with your fat
Hamlets! Do not set your well-fed prince before us! Give us rather any
_succedancum_ that will move us, will delight us. The intention of the
author is of less importance to us than our own enjoyment, and we need
a charm that is adapted for us.”

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening a dispute arose among our friends about the novel and the
drama, and which of them deserved the preference. Serlo said it was a
fruitless and misunderstood debate: both might be superior in their
kinds, only each must keep within the limits proper to it.

“About their limits and their kinds,” said Wilhelm, “I confess myself
not altogether clear.”

“Who _is_ so?” said the other; “and yet perhaps it were worth while to
come a little closer to the business.”

They conversed together long upon the matter; and, in fine, the
following was nearly the result of their discussion:--

“In the novel as well as in the drama, it is human nature and human
action that we see. The difference between these sorts of fiction lies
not merely in their outward form,--not merely in the circumstance that
the personages of the one are made to speak, while those of the other
have commonly their history narrated. Unfortunately many dramas are but
novels which proceed by dialogue; and it would not be impossible to
write a drama in the shape of letters.

“But, in the novel, it is chiefly _sentiments_ and _events_ that are
exhibited; in the drama, it is _characters_ and _deeds_. The novel
must go slowly forward; and the sentiments of the hero, by some means
or another, must restrain the tendency of the whole to unfold itself
and to conclude. The drama, on the other hand, must hasten; and the
character of the hero must press forward to the end: it does not
restrain, but is restrained. The novel-hero must be suffering,--at
least he must not in a high degree be active; in the dramatic one, we
look for activity and deeds. Grandison, Clarissa, Pamela, the Vicar
of Wakefield, Tom Jones himself, are, if not suffering, at least
retarding, personages; and the incidents are all in some sort modeled
by their sentiments. In the drama the hero models nothing by himself;
all things withstand him; and he clears and casts away the hindrances
from off his path, or else sinks under them.”

Our friends were also of opinion that, in the novel, some degree of
scope may be allowed to Chance, but that it must always be led and
guided by the sentiments of the personages; on the other hand, that
Fate, which, by means of outward, unconnected circumstances, proceeds
to an unforeseen catastrophe, can have place only in the drama; that
Chance may produce pathetic situations, but never tragic ones; Fate, on
the other hand, ought always to be terrible,--and is, in the highest
sense, tragic, when it brings into a ruinous concatenation the guilty
man and the guiltless that was unconcerned with him.

These considerations led them back to the play of _Hamlet_, and
the peculiarities of its composition. The hero in this case, it
was observed, is endowed more properly with sentiments than with a
character: it is events alone that push him on, and accordingly the
play has in some measure the expansion of a novel. But as it is Fate
that draws the plan, as the story issues from a deed of terror, the
work is tragic in the highest sense, and admits of no other than a
tragic end....

       *       *       *       *       *

The necessary preparations for scenery and dresses, and whatever else
was requisite, were now proceeding. In regard to certain scenes and
passages, our friend had whims of his own, which Serlo humored, partly
in consideration of their bargain, partly from conviction, and because
he hoped by these civilities to gain Wilhelm, and to lead him according
to his own purposes the more implicitly in time to come.

Thus, for example, the King and Queen were, at the first audience, to
appear sitting on the throne, with the courtiers at the sides, and
Hamlet standing undistinguished in the crowd. “Hamlet,” said he, “must
keep himself quiet; his sable dress will sufficiently point him out. He
should rather shun remark than seek it. Not till the audience is ended,
and the King speaks with him as with a son, should he advance, and
allow the scene to take its course.”

A formidable obstacle remained, in regard to the two pictures which
Hamlet so passionately refers to in the scene with his mother. “We
ought,” said Wilhelm, “to have both of them visible, at full length, in
the bottom of the chamber, near the main door; and the former king must
be clad in armor, like the Ghost, and hang at the side where it enters.
I could wish that the figure held its right hand in a commanding
attitude, were somewhat turned away, and, as it were, looked over its
shoulder, that so it might perfectly resemble the Ghost at the moment
when he issues from the door. It will produce a great effect when
at this instant Hamlet looks upon the Ghost, and the Queen upon the
picture. The stepfather may be painted in royal ornaments, but not so
striking.”

There were several other points of this sort, about which we shall,
perhaps, elsewhere have opportunity to speak.

“Are you, then, inexorably bent on Hamlet’s dying at the end?” inquired
Serlo.

“How can I keep him alive,” said Wilhelm, “when the whole play is
pressing him to death? We have already talked at large on that matter.”

“But the public wishes him to live.”

“I will show the public any other complaisance; but, as to this, I
cannot. We often wish that some gallant, useful man, who is dying
of a chronic disease, might yet live longer. The family weep, and
conjure the physician; but he cannot stay him: and no more than this
physician can withstand the necessity of nature, can we give law to
an acknowledged necessity of art. It is a false compliance with the
multitude, to raise in them emotions which they _wish_, when these are
not emotions which they _ought_, to feel.”

“Whoever pays the cash,” said Serlo, “may require the ware according to
his liking.”

“Doubtless, in some degree,” replied our friend; “but a great public
should be reverenced, not used as children are when peddlers wish to
hook the money from them. By presenting excellence to the people, you
should gradually excite in them a taste and feeling for the excellent;
and they will pay their money with double satisfaction when reason
itself has nothing to object against this outlay. The public you may
flatter, as you do a well-beloved child, to better, to enlighten it;
not as you do a pampered child of quality, to perpetuate the error you
profit from.”

In this manner various other topics were discussed relating to the
question, What might still be changed in the play, and what must of
necessity remain untouched? We shall not enter farther on those points
at present; but, perhaps, at some future time we may submit this
altered _Hamlet_ itself to such of our readers as feel any interest in
the subject.




SHAKESPEARE AD INFINITUM

(1813-16)


There has already been so much said about Shakespeare that it
would seem as if there was nothing left to say; and yet it is the
characteristic of genius ever to be stimulating other men’s genius.
In the present case I wish to consider Shakespeare from more than one
point of view,--first as a poet in general, then in comparison with the
classic and modern writers, and finally as a writer of poetic drama. I
shall attempt to work out what the imitation of his art has meant to
us, and what it can mean in the future. I shall express my agreement
with what has been written by reiterating it, and express my dissent
briefly and positively, without involving myself in conflict and
contradiction. I proceed to the first topic.


_I. Shakespeare as Poet in General_

The highest achievement possible to a man is the full consciousness of
his own feelings and thoughts, for this gives him the means of knowing
intimately the hearts of others. Now there are men who are born with
a natural talent for this and who cultivate it by experience towards
practical ends. From this talent springs the ability to profit in a
higher sense by the world and its opportunities. Now the poet is born
with the same talent, only he cultivates it not for his immediate
worldly purposes but for a loftier spiritual and universal purpose. If
we call Shakespeare one of the greatest poets, we mean that few have
perceived the world as accurately as he, that few who have expressed
their inner contemplation of it have given the reader deeper insight
into its meaning and consciousness. It becomes for us completely
transparent: we find ourselves at once in the most intimate touch with
virtue and vice, greatness and meanness, nobility and infamy, and all
this through the simplest of means. If we ask what these means are, it
seems as if they were directed towards our visual apprehension. But we
are mistaken; Shakespeare’s works are not for the physical vision. I
shall attempt to explain what I mean.

The eye, the most facile of our organs of receptivity, may well be
called the clearest of the senses; but the inner sense is still
clearer, and to it by means of words belongs the most sensitive and
clear receptivity. This is particularly obvious when what we apprehend
with the eye seems alien and unimpressive considered in and for itself.
But Shakespeare speaks always to our inner sense. Through this, the
picture-world of imagination becomes animated, and a complete effect
results, of which we can give no reckoning. Precisely here lies the
ground for the illusion that everything is taking place before our
eyes. But if we study the works of Shakespeare enough, we find that
they contain much more of spiritual truth than of spectacular action.
He makes happen what can easily be conceived by the imagination, indeed
what can be better imagined than seen. Hamlet’s ghost, Macbeth’s
witches, many fearful incidents, get their value only through the power
of the imagination, and many of the minor scenes get their force from
the same source. In reading, all these things pass easily through our
minds, and seem quite appropriate, whereas in representation on the
stage they would strike us unfavorably and appear not only unpleasant
but even disgusting.

Shakespeare gets his effect by means of the living word, and it is
for this reason that one should hear him read, for then the attention
is not distracted either by a too adequate or a too inadequate
stage-setting. There is no higher or purer pleasure than to sit with
closed eyes and hear a naturally expressive voice recite, not declaim,
a play of Shakespeare’s. According to the delineation of the characters
we can picture to ourselves certain forms, but more particularly are we
able by the succession of words and phrases to learn what is passing
in their souls; the characters seem to have agreed to leave us in the
dark, in doubt, about nothing. To that end conspire heroes and lackeys,
gentlemen and slaves, kings and heralds; indeed even the subordinate
characters are often more expressive in this way than the leading
figures. Everything which in an affair of great importance breathes
only secretly through the air, or lies hidden in the hearts of men, is
here openly expressed. What the soul anxiously conceals and represses
is here brought freely and abundantly to the light. We experience the
truth of life,--how, we do not know!

Shakespeare associates himself with the World-Spirit; like it, he
explores the world; from neither is anything hidden. But whereas it is
the business of the World-Spirit to keep its secrets both before and
after the event, it is the work of the poet to tell them, and take us
into his confidence before the event or in the very action itself. The
depraved man of power, the well-intentioned dullard, the passionate
lover, the quiet scholar, all carry their heart in their hand, often
contrary to verisimilitude. Every one is candid and loquacious. It is
enough that the secret must out, and even the stones would publish it.
The inanimate insists upon speaking; the elements, the phenomena of
sky, earth and sea, thunder and lightning, wild animals, lift their
voice, often apparently symbolically, but all joining in the revelation.

The whole civilized world too brings its treasures to Shakespeare;
Art and Science, Commerce and Industry, all bear him their gifts.
Shakespeare’s poems are a great animated fair; and it is to his own
country that he owes his riches.

For back of him is England, the sea-encircled and mist-covered country,
whose enterprise reaches all the parts of the earth. The poet lives
at a noble and important epoch, and presents all its glory and its
deficiencies with great vivacity; indeed, he would hardly produce such
an effect upon us were it not just his own life-epoch that he was
representing. No one despised the outer costume of men more than he;
but he understood well the inner man, and here all are similar. It is
said that he has delineated the Romans with wonderful skill. I cannot
see it. They are Englishmen to the bone; but they are human, thoroughly
human, and thus the Roman toga presumably fits them. When one takes
this into consideration, one finds his anachronisms entirely admirable;
indeed, it is just his neglect of the outer form that makes his works
so vital.

Enough of these slight words, which cannot begin to sound the praises
of Shakespeare. His friends and worshipers will have to add many a word
to them. But one more remark:--it would be hard to find a poet each of
whose works was more thoroughly pervaded by a definite and effective
idea than his.

Thus _Coriolanus_ is permeated by the idea of anger at the refusal of
the lower classes to recognize the superiority of their betters. In
_Julius Cæsar_ everything hinges on the idea that the upper classes
are not willing to see the highest place in the State occupied, since
they wrongly imagine that they are able to act together. _Antony and
Cleopatra_ expresses with a thousand tongues the idea that pleasure and
action are ever incompatible. And so one will ever find, in searching
his works, new cause for astonishment and admiration.


_II. Shakespeare Compared with the Ancients and the Moderns_

The interests which vitalize Shakespeare’s great genius are interests
which centre in this world. For if prophecy and madness, dreams, omens,
portents, fairies and gnomes, ghosts, imps, and conjurers introduce
a magical element which so beautifully pervades his poems, yet these
figures are in no way the basic elements of his works, but rest on a
broad basis of the truth and fidelity of life, so that everything that
comes from his pen seems to us genuine and sound. It has already been
suggested that he belongs not so much to the poets of the modern era,
which has been called “romantic,” but much more to the “naturalistic”
school, since his work is permeated with the reality of the present,
and scarcely touches the emotions of unsatisfied desire, except at his
highest points.

Disregarding this, however, he is, from a closer point of view, a
decidedly modern poet, separated from the ancients by an enormous gulf,
not perhaps with regard to his outer form, which is here beside our
point, but with regard to his inner and most profound spirit.

Here let me say that it is not my idea to use the following terminology
as exhaustive or exclusive; it is an attempt not so much to add another
new antithesis to those already recognized, as to indicate that it is
already contained in these. These are the antitheses:--

  Ancient             Modern
  Natural             Sentimental
  Pagan               Christian
  Classic             Romantic
  Realistic           Idealistic
  Necessity           Freedom
  Duty (_sollen_)     Will (_wollen_)[8]

The greatest ills to which men are exposed, as well as the most
numerous, arise from a certain inner conflict between duty and will,
as well as between duty and its accomplishment, and desire and its
accomplishment; and it is these conflicts which bring us so often into
trouble in the course of our lives. Little difficulties, springing
from a slight error which, though taking us by surprise, can be solved
easily, give the clue to situations of comedy. The great difficulties,
on the other hand, unresolved and unresolvable, give us tragedy.

Predominating in the old poems is the conflict between duty and
performance, in the new between desire and accomplishment. Let us put
this decided divergency among the other antitheses and see if it does
not prove suggestive. In both epochs, I have said, there predominates
now this side, now that; but since duty and desire are not radically
separated in men’s characters, both will be found together, even if
one prevails and the other is subordinate. Duty is imposed upon men;
“must” is a bitter pill. The Will man imposes upon himself; man’s will
is his kingdom of heaven. A long-continued obligation is burdensome,
the inability to perform it even terrible; but a constant will is
pleasurable, and with a firm will men can console themselves for their
inability to accomplish their desire.

Let us consider a game of cards as a kind of poem; it consists of both
those elements. The form of the game, bound up with chance, plays here
the rôle of necessity, just as the ancients knew it under the form of
Fate; the will, bound up with the skill of the player, works in the
other direction. In this sense I might call whist “classic.” The form
of play limits the operation of chance, and even of the will itself. I
have to play, in company with definite partners and opponents, with
the cards which come into my hand, make the best of a long series of
chance plays, without being able to control or parry them. In Ombre and
similar games, the contrary is the case. Here are many openings left
for skill and daring. I can disavow the cards that fall to my hand,
make them count in different ways, half or completely discard them, get
help by luck, and in the play get the best advantage out of the worst
cards. Thus this kind of game resembles perfectly the modern mode of
thought and literature.

Ancient tragedy was based on unescapable necessity, which was only
sharpened and accelerated by an opposing will. Here is the seat of all
that is fearful in the oracles, the region in which Œdipus lords it
over all. Less tragic appears necessity in the guise of duty in the
“Antigone”; and in how many forms does it not appear! But all necessity
is despotic, whether it belong to the realm of Reason, like custom
and civil law, or to Nature, like the laws of Becoming, and Growing
and Passing-away, of Life and of Death. Before all these we tremble,
without realizing that it is the good of the _whole_ that is aimed at.
The will, on the contrary, is free, appears free, and is advantageous
to the _individual_. Thus the will is a flatterer, and takes possession
of men as soon as they learn to recognize it. It is the god of the
modern world. Dedicated to it, we are afraid of opposing doctrines, and
here lies the crux of that eternal division which separates our art and
thought from the ancients. Through the motive of Necessity, tragedy
became mighty and strong; through the motive of Will, weak and feeble.
Out of the latter arose the so-called Drama, in which dread Necessity
is overcome and dissolved through the Will. But just because this comes
to the aid of our weakness we feel moved when, after painful tension,
we are at last a little encouraged and consoled.

As I turn now, after these preliminaries, to Shakespeare, I must
express the hope that the reader himself will make the proper
comparisons and applications. It is Shakespeare’s unique distinction
that he has combined in such remarkable fashion the old and the new. In
his plays Will and Necessity struggle to maintain an equilibrium; both
contend powerfully, yet always so that Will remains at a disadvantage.

No one has shown perhaps better than he the connection between
Necessity and Will in the individual character. The person, considered
as a character, is under a certain necessity; he is constrained,
appointed to a certain particular line of action; but as a human being
he has a will, which is unconfined and universal in its demands. Thus
arises an inner conflict, and Shakespeare is superior to all other
writers in the significance with which he endows this. But now an
outer conflict may arise, and the individual through it may become so
aroused that an insufficient will is raised through circumstance to
the level of irremissible necessity. These motives I have referred to
earlier in the case of Hamlet; but the motive is repeated constantly
in Shakespeare,--Hamlet through the agency of the ghost; Macbeth
through the witches, Hecate, and his wife; Brutus through his friends
gets into a dilemma and situation to which they were not equal; even
in Coriolanus the same motive is found. This Will, which reaches
beyond the power of the individual, is decidedly modern. But since in
Shakespeare it does not spring from within, but is developed through
external circumstance, it becomes a sort of Necessity, and approaches
the classical motive. For all the heroes of ancient poetry willed
only what was possible to men, and from this arose that beautiful
balance between Necessity, Will, and Accomplishment. Still their
Necessity is a little too severe for it really to be able to please
us, even though we may wonder at and admire it. A Necessity which
more or less, or even completely, excludes human freedom does not
chime with our views any longer. It is true that Shakespeare in his
own way has approximated this, but in making this Necessity a moral
necessity he has, to our pleasure and astonishment, united the spirit
of the ancient and the modern worlds. If we are to learn anything from
him, here is the point where we must study in his school. Instead of
singing the praises of our Romanticism so exclusively, and sticking
to it so uncritically,--our Romanticism, which need not be chidden or
rejected,--and thus mistaking and obscuring its strong, solid practical
aspect, we should rather attempt to make this great fusion between the
old and the new, even though it does seem inconsistent and paradoxical;
and all the more should we make the attempt, because a great and unique
master, whom we value most highly, and, often without knowing why, give
homage to above all others, has already most effectively accomplished
this miracle. To be sure, he had the advantage of living in a true
time of harvest, and of working in a vigorous Protestant country,
where the madness of bigotry was silent for a time, so that freedom
was given to a true child of nature, such as Shakespeare was, to
develop religiously his own pure inner nature, without reference to any
established religion.

       *       *       *       *       *

The preceding words were written in the summer of 1813; I ask that the
reader will not now find fault with me, but simply recall what was said
above,--that this is merely an individual attempt to show how different
poetic geniuses have tried to reconcile and resolve that tremendous
antithesis which has appeared in their works in so many forms. To
say more would be superfluous, since interest has been centred in
this question for the past few years, and excellent explanations have
been given us. Above all I wish to mention Blümner’s highly valuable
treatise, _On the Idea of Fate in the Tragedies of Æschylus_, and
the excellent criticism of it in the supplement of the _Jenaische
Literaturzeitung_. Therefore, I come without further comment to my
third point, which relates immediately to the German theatre and to
Schiller’s efforts to establish it for the future.


_III. Shakespeare as Playwright_

When lovers of art wish to enjoy any work, they contemplate and delight
in it as a whole, that is, they try to feel and apprehend the unity
which the artist can bring to them. Whoever, on the other hand, wishes
to judge such works theoretically, to assert some judgment about them,
or instruct some one about them, must use his discriminating and
analytic faculty. This we attempted to carry out when we discussed
Shakespeare, first, as poet in general, and then compared him with
the ancient and modern poets. Now we intend to close the matter by
considering him as a playwright, or poet of the theatre.

Shakespeare’s fame and excellence belong to the history of poetry; but
it is an injustice towards all playwrights of earlier and more recent
times to give him his entire merit in the annals of the theatre.

A universally recognized talent may make of its capacities some use
which is problematical. Not everything which the great do is done in
the best fashion. So Shakespeare belongs by necessity in the annals of
poetry; in the annals of the theatre he appears only by accident. Since
we can honor him so unreservedly in the first case, it behooves us in
the second to explain the conditions to which he had to accommodate
himself, but not therefore to extol these conditions as either
admirable or worthy of imitation.

We must distinguish closely-related poetic _genres_, however often
they may be confused and merged together in actual treatment,--epic,
dialogue, drama, play. _Epic_ requires the verbal delivery to the
crowd through the mouth of an individual; _dialogue_, conversation
in a narrow circle, where the crowd may eventually listen; _drama_,
conversation bound up with action, even if enacted only before the
imagination; _play_, all three together, in so far as they appeal to
the sense of vision, and can be embodied under certain conditions of
personal presence and stage-setting.

Shakespeare’s works are in this sense highly dramatic; by his
treatment, his revelation of the inner life, he wins the reader; the
theatrical demands appear to him unimportant, and so he takes it easy,
and we, spiritually speaking, take it easy with him. We pass with
him from place to place; our power of imagination provides all the
episodes which he omits. We even feel grateful to him for arousing our
imagination in so profitable a way. Since he exhibits everything in
dramatic form, he renders easy the working of our imaginations; for
with the “stage that signifies the world,” we are more familiar than
with the world itself, and we can read and hear the most phantastic
things, and still imagine that they might pass before our eyes on the
stage. This accounts for the frequently bungling dramatizations of
favorite novels.

Strictly speaking, nothing is theatrical except what is immediately
symbolical to the eye: an important action, that is, which signifies
a still more important one. That Shakespeare knew how to attain this
summit, that moment witnesses where the son and heir in _Henry IV_
takes the crown from the side of the slumbering king, who lies sick
unto death,--takes the crown and marches proudly away with it. But
these are only moments, scattered jewels, separated by much that is
untheatrical. Shakespeare’s whole method finds in the stage itself
something unwieldy and hostile. His great talent is that of a universal
interpreter, or “epitomizer” (_Epitomator_), and since the poet
in essence appears as universal interpreter of Nature, so we must
recognize Shakespeare’s great genius as lying in this realm; it would
be only falsehood--and in no sense is this to his dishonor--were we to
say that the stage was a worthy field for his genius. These limitations
of the stage, however, have forced upon him certain limitations of
his own. But he does not, like other poets, pick out disconnected
materials for his separate works, but puts an idea at the centre, and
to it relates the world and the universe. As he works over and boils
down ancient and modern history, he can often make use of the material
of old chronicles; indeed, he often adapts them word for word. With
romances he does not deal so conscientiously, as _Hamlet_ shows us.
_Romeo and Juliet_ is truer to the original; still he almost destroys
the tragic content of it by his two comic characters, Mercutio and the
old nurse, played apparently by two favorite actors, the nurse perhaps
originally by a male performer. If one examines the construction of the
piece carefully, however, one notices that these two figures, and what
surrounds them, come in only as farcical interludes, and must be as
unbearable to the minds of the lovers on the stage as they are to us.

But Shakespeare appears most remarkable when he revises and pieces
together already existing plays. In _King John_ and _Lear_ we can make
this comparison, for the older plays are extant. But in these cases,
too, he turns out to be more of a poet than playwright.

In closing, let us proceed to the solution of the riddle. The
primitiveness of the English stage has been brought to our attention
by scholars. There is no trace in it of that striving after realism,
which we have developed with the improvement of machinery and the art
of perspective and costuming, and from which we should find it hard to
turn back to that childlike beginning of the stage,--a scaffolding,
where one saw little, where everything was _signified_, where the
audience was content to assume a royal chamber behind a green curtain;
and the trumpeter, who always blew his trumpet at a certain place, and
all the rest of it. Who would be content to-day to put up with such a
stage? But amid such surroundings, Shakespeare’s plays were highly
interesting stories, only told by several persons, who, in order to
make somewhat more of an impression, had put on masks, and, when it was
necessary, moved back and forth, entered and left the stage; but left
to the spectator nevertheless the task of imagining at his pleasure
Paradise and palaces on the empty stage.

How else then did Schroeder acquire the great distinction of bringing
Shakespeare’s plays to the German stage, except by the fact that he was
the “epitomizer” of the “epitomizer”!

Schroeder confined himself exclusively to effect; everything else he
discarded, even many necessary things, if they seemed to injure the
effect which he wanted to produce on his country and his time. Thus
by the omission, for instance, of the first scenes of _King Lear_, he
annulled the character of the play. And he was right, for in this scene
Lear seems so absurd that we are not able, in what follows, to ascribe
to his daughters the entire guilt. We are sorry for the old man, but
we do not feel real pity for him; and it is pity that Schroeder wishes
to arouse, as well as abhorrence for the daughters, who are indeed
unnatural, but not wholly blameworthy.

In the old play, which Shakespeare revised, this scene produces in the
course of the action the loveliest effect. Lear flees to France; the
daughters and the stepson, from romantic caprice, make a pilgrimage
over the sea, and meet the old man, who does not recognize them. Here
everything is sweet, where Shakespeare’s loftier tragic genius has
embittered us. A comparison of these plays will give the thoughtful
reader ever fresh pleasure.

Many years ago the superstition crept into Germany that Shakespeare
must be given literally word for word, even if actors and audience
were murdered in the process. The attempts, occasioned by an excellent
and exact translation, were nowhere successful, of which fact the
painstaking and repeated endeavors of the stage at Weimar are the best
witness. If we wish to see a Shakespearean play, we must take up again
Schroeder’s version; but the notion that in the staging of Shakespeare
not an iota may be omitted, senseless as it is, one hears constantly
repeated. If the defenders of this opinion maintain the upper hand, in
a few years Shakespeare will be quite driven from the stage, which for
that matter would be no great misfortune; for then the reader, whether
he be solitary or sociable, will be able to get so much the purer
pleasure out of him.

They have, however, with the idea of making an attempt along the lines
of which we have spoken in detail above, revised _Romeo and Juliet_
for the theatre at Weimar. The principles according to which this was
done we shall develop before long, and it will perhaps become apparent
why this version, whose staging is by no means difficult, although it
must be handled artistically and carefully, did not take on the German
stage. Attempts of a similar kind are going on, and perhaps something
is preparing for the future, for frequent endeavors do not always show
immediate effects.


FOOTNOTES:

[8] “Goethe, in a thoughtful essay, _Shakespeare und kein
Ende_, written many years later than his famous criticism of Hamlet in
_Wilhelm Meister_, says that the distinction between the two [ancient
and modern drama] is the difference between _sollen_ and _wollen_,
that is, between _must_ and _would_. He means that in the Greek drama
the catastrophe is foreordained by an inexorable Destiny, while the
element of free will, and consequently choice, is the very axis of
the modern. The definition is conveniently portable, but it has its
limitations. Goethe’s attention was too exclusively fixed on the fate
tragedies of the Greeks, and upon Shakespeare among the moderns. In the
Spanish drama, for example, custom, loyalty, honor, and religion are as
imperative and as inevitable as doom. In the _Antigone_, on the other
hand, the crisis lies in the character of the protagonist.”--James
Russell Lowell, _Shakespeare Once More_.




FIRST EDITION OF _HAMLET_

(1827)

  _The First Edition of the Tragedy of Hamlet_, by William Shakespeare,
      London, 1603. Reprinted by Fleischer, Leipzig, 1825.


In this book Shakespeare’s devoted admirers receive a valuable present.
The first unbiased reading has given me a wonderful impression. It was
the old familiar masterpiece again, its action and movement in no way
altered, but the most powerful and effective principal passages left
untouched, just as they came from the original hand of the genius. The
play was exceedingly easy and delightful to read. One thought one’s
self in a wholly familiar world, and yet felt something peculiar which
could not be expressed, and this induced one to give the play a closer
consideration, and indeed a stricter comparison with the old. Hence
these few random remarks.

First of all, it was noticeable that there was no locality given, nor
was there information about the stage-setting, and just as little
about the division of the acts and scenes. All this was represented
by “Enter” and “Exit.” The imagination was allowed free play. One saw
again in his mind’s eye the old primitive English stage. The action
took its impetuous course of life and passion, and one did not take the
time to think of such things as places.

In the more recent familiar revision we find the division into acts and
scenes, and locality and stage-setting are given. Whether these are by
him or by later stage-managers, we leave undecided here.

The Polonius of the second revision is called Corambis in the first,
and the rôle appears through this little circumstance to take on
another character.

The unimportant supernumerary rôles were first designated merely by
numbers, but here we find them endowed with honor and significance
through being given names. We are thus reminded of Schiller, who in
_Wilhelm Tell_ gave names to his peasant women and some words to speak,
so that they became more acceptable rôles. The poet does the same here
with guards and courtiers.

If in the first edition we find a loosely written syllabication, in the
later one we find it better controlled, though always without pedantry.
Rhythmic passages are divided into five-foot iambics, though half and
quarter verses are not avoided.

So much for the external expression. A comparison of the inner
connections and relations will be of profit to any admirer who gives
the work an individual study. Here are only a few suggestions.

Passages, which in the first version are only lightly sketched by the
hand of genius, we find more deliberately executed, and in a way that
we have to approve and admire as necessary. We come, too, upon pleasing
amplifications, which may not be absolutely necessary, but which are
highly welcome. Here and there we find hardly perceptible yet vivid
aspersions, connective passages, even important transpositions to
make a highly effective speech,--everything done with a master-hand,
with intelligence and feeling, everything thrilling our emotions and
clarifying our insight.

Everywhere in the first version we admire that sureness of touch which,
without lengthy reflection, seems rather as if it had been poured out
spontaneously, a vivifying and illuminating discovery. And whatever
excellences the poet may have given to his later work, whatever
deviations he employed, at least we find nowhere any important omission
or alteration. Only here and there some rather coarse and naïve
expressions are expunged.

In closing we shall mention, however, a noticeable difference which
concerns the costume of the Ghost. His first appearance, as we know, is
in armor; he is armed from head to foot; his face is pale and sad, his
glance wan and yet austere. In this guise he appears on the terrace,
where the castle guard is marching up and down, and where he himself
may often have drawn up his warriors.

In the closet of the Queen, on the other hand, we find mother and son
in the familiar dialogue, and finally these words:--

    “Queen. Hamlet, you break my heart.

    Hamlet. O throw the worser part away and keep the better.”

But then follows: “Enter the Ghost in his night-gowne.”

Who, on first hearing this, does not find it for a moment incongruous?
And yet if we grasp it, if we think it over, we shall find it right
and proper. He should--indeed he must--appear first in armor, when he
is entering the place where he has rallied his warriors, where he has
encouraged them to noble deeds. And now we begin to be less confident
of our conviction that it was suitable to see him enter the private
closet of the queen in armor, too. How much more private, homelike,
terrible, is his entrance here in the form in which he used to
appear--in his house apparel, his night robe, harmless and unarmed--a
guise which in itself stigmatizes in the most piteous way the treachery
which befell him. Let the intelligent reader, as he may, picture this
to himself. Let the stage-manager, convinced of this effect, produce it
in this way, if Shakespeare is to be staged in his integrity.

It is worth noting that the commentator Steevens has already criticized
this scene. When Hamlet says:--

    “My father in his habit as he lived!”

this discerning critic adds this note:--“If the poet means by this
expression that the father is appearing in his own house costume, he
has either forgotten that at the beginning he introduced him in armor,
or else it must be his intention in this latter appearance to alter
his attire. Hamlet’s father, just as a warrior prince might do, does
not always remain in armor, or sleep, as they tell of King Haakon, of
Norway, with his battle-ax in his hand.”

If we had been clever enough, we should have already thought of
Hamlet’s first utterance in this scene, when he sees the Ghost:--“What
would your gracious figure?” For we have not words enough to express
all that the English mean by the word “gracious,”--everything that is
kind and gentle, friendly and benign, tender, and attractive, is fused
in that word. Certainly it is no term for a hero in armor.

These doubts are happily now dispelled by the reprinting of the first
edition. We are convinced anew that Shakespeare, like the Universe, is
always offering us new aspects, and still remains, at the end of it
all, lofty and inaccessible. For all our powers are not competent to do
justice to his words, much less his genius.




_TROILUS AND CRESSIDA_

(1824)


A comparison of the _Iliad_ with _Troilus and Cressida_ leads to
similar conclusions: here, too, there is neither parody nor travesty,
but, as in the case of the eagle and the owl two subjects taken
from nature were put in striking contrast with each other, so here
are contrasted the intellectual fibre of two epochs. The Greek poem
is in the grand style, self-restrained and self-sufficient, using
only the essential, and, in description and simile, disdaining all
ornament,--basing itself on noble myths and tradition. The English
classic, on the other hand, one might consider a happy transposition
and translation of the other great work into the romantic-dramatic
style.

In this connection we should not forget, however, that this piece, like
many another, is based on second-hand narratives, already rendered into
prose, and only half-poetical.

Yet it is also quite original, as much so as if the ancient piece
had never been at all; for it requires just as profound a sincerity,
just as decided a talent, to depict for us similar personalities and
characters with so light a touch and so lucid a meaning, and represent
them for a later age with all the human traits of that age, which thus
sees itself reflected in the guise of the ancient story.




ON OTHER WRITERS




GOETHE AS A YOUNG REVIEWER

(1772)


I

_Lyrical Poems_, by J. C. Blum. Berlin, 1772

We no longer feel certain whether it is wise for young poets to
read the ancients early. Our unimaginative mode of life stifles
genius, unless the singers of freer times kindle it and open to it an
atmosphere at least ideally more free; but these very singers also
breathe into the soul so exotic a spirit that the very best poet,
with the most fortunate genius, can soon merely support himself in
his flight through his imagination, and can no longer give expression
to that glowing inspiration which alone makes true poetry. Why are
the poems of the old skalds, of the Celts and the old Greeks, even
of the Orientals, so strong, so fiery, so great? Nature drives them
to singing as it does the bird in the air. As for us (for we cannot
deceive ourselves) we are driven to the lyre by an artificial and
stimulated feeling, which we owe to our admiration for the ancients,
and to our delight in them; and for this reason our best songs, with
few exceptions, are merely imitative copies.

These remarks have been suggested by the lyrical poems of Herr Blum.
This poet is certainly not without talent, and yet how seldom does he
seem to be able to stand on his own feet when his Horace is not before
his eyes. The latter illumines the way for him, like Hero’s torch;
the moment he must go alone, he sinks. Space does not permit us to
prove our point here, but we ask every reader who knows his Horace
whether the poet does not grow tired and cold whenever Horace and King
David do not lend him thoughts, feelings, expressions, situations,
and in the case of the former even his mythology, all of which, we
must feel, are seldom used except when the imagination creates with
a cold heart. The well-known Horatian dialogue, _Donec gratus eram_,
Kleist has translated much better; but the “Lamentation of David and
Jonathan” we have never seen better versified than here. We wish the
writer an unspoilt maiden, days of complete leisure, and the pure
spirit of poetry without the spirit of mere authorship. The very best
of poets degenerates when in composing he thinks of the public, and is
filled with a yearning for fame, especially newspaper fame, rather than
completely absorbed by his subject.


II

_Cymbelline, a Tragedy, Based on a Shakespearian Theme_ [by J. G.
    Sulzer]. Danzig, 1772.

The author, obliged by a severe illness to avoid all fatiguing
work,--so we are informed in the Preface,--amused himself with the
study of Shakespeare’s works. We could have told him in advance that
this was no reading for a convalescent; whoever wishes to share in
the life that glows through Shakespeare’s plays must himself be sound
in body and mind. At all events, our author, moved by a cool, weak,
critical modesty, regretted that so many “incongruités” should mar the
“many just sentiments” and “some beauties” (as the eminent Dr. Johnson
likewise remarks) that are to be found in this play. So he resolved
to separate the dross from the gold (that is _vox populi critici_ in
regard to Shakespeare since time immemorial), and to attempt nothing
less than this: what Sophocles would approximately have done if he had
tried to make a play out of the same material. So he _travestied_--no,
not travestied, for then something of the appearance of the original
would remain--_parodied_--no, not that either, for then something could
be guessed by the very contrast--what then? what word will express the
poverty that is here, compared with the infinite riches of Shakespeare!

Shakespeare, who felt the spirit of several centuries in his breast,
through whose soul the life of whole centuries was stirring!--and
here--comedians in silk and buckram, and daubed scene-painting! The
scene a wood; in front a thick copse, through which one enters a
grotto; in the background a large pasteboard rock, on which ladies and
gentlemen sit, lie, are stabbed, etc.

That is the way Sophocles would have handled this theme! It is bad
enough to take Shakespeare’s play, whose very essence is the life of
history, and reduce it to the Sophoclean unity which aims merely at
presenting action; but to model it on the “Treatise on Tragedy” in the
first part of the old _Leipziger Bibliothek_![9] We are certain that
every one, not merely readers of Shakespeare, will cast it aside with
contempt.


FOOTNOTES:

[9] By Nicolai.




BYRON’S _MANFRED_

(1820)


To me Byron’s tragedy of _Manfred_ was a wonderful phenomenon, touching
me closely. This singular but highly gifted poet has absorbed my own
_Faust_ into himself, and, like a hypochondriac, drawn from it the
strangest sort of nourishment. Those motives and ideas which suited
his purposes he has made use of, but in his own original way, so that
everything seems different; and for this reason I cannot wonder enough
at his genius. This transformation affects the whole so intimately
that highly interesting lectures could be given on the similarity and
dissimilarity which his work bears to his pattern; but I do not deny
that in the long run the dull glow of a boundless and profound despair
becomes irksome to us. Yet in the dissatisfaction which one feels there
are always interwoven both admiration and respect.

Thus we find in this tragedy quite uniquely the very quintessence of
the feelings and passions of a remarkable genius, but a genius doomed
from birth to suffering and anguish. The details of his life and
the characteristics of his poetry hardly permit of a just and fair
criticism. He has often enough confessed his anguish; he has repeatedly
presented it in his verse, and it is difficult for any one not to feel
real pity for the unbearable pain which he is forever working and
gnawing over in his heart.

There are two women whose shadows follow him unceasingly, and who
play a large rôle in his best-known works; one appears under the name
Astarte, the other, without form or presence, simply as A Voice.

The following story is told of the tragic adventure which was his
experience with the first. As a young, daring and highly attractive
youth he won the love of a Florentine lady; her husband discovered it
and murdered her. But the murderer was found dead that same night in
the street, and there was nothing to throw suspicion upon a single
soul. Lord Byron left Florence, but these apparitions haunted him
throughout his whole life.

This romantic event appears in his poems in countless allusions, as
for example where he, probably brooding over his own tragedy, applies
the sad story of the king of Sparta to his own case. The story is as
follows: Pausanias, the Lacedæmonian general, having won fame in the
important victory at Platæa, later through arrogance, stubbornness, and
cruel treatment, loses the affection of the Greeks, and, on account
of a secret understanding with the enemy, loses also the confidence
of his countrymen. He thus brings blood-guiltiness upon his head,
which pursues him to a miserable end. For while in command of the
fleet of the Greek allies in the Black Sea, he falls violently in love
with a girl of Byzantium. After a long struggle he wins her from her
parents; she is to be brought to him in the night. Filled with shame,
she requests the servants to put out the light; this is done, but
groping about in the room, she knocks over the lamp-stand. Pausanias
awakes suddenly from sleep, suspects murder, seizes his sword and
kills his beloved. The horrible vision of this scene never leaves him
afterwards, its shadow pursues him unceasingly, so that he appeals in
vain to the gods and to necromancers for aid and absolution.

What a sick heart the poet must have who would seek out such a story
from the ancient world, appropriate it to himself, and burden himself
with its tragic image! This will explain the following monologue,
so laden with gloom and the despair of life; we recommend it to all
lovers of declamation for serious practice. Hamlet’s monologue is here
intensified. It will take considerable art especially to pick out the
interpolations and yet keep the connection and the flow and smoothness
of the whole. Besides it will be discovered that a certain vehement,
even eccentric, expression is needed in order to do justice to the
intention of the poet.[10]


FOOTNOTES:

[10] The quotation which follows here, translated by Goethe
into German, is Manfred’s speech at the end of act 2, scene 2,
beginning:

    “We are the fools of Time and Terror! Days
    Steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,
    Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.”





BYRON’S _DON JUAN_[11]

(1821)


In hesitating some time ago to insert a passage from [Manzoni’s]
_Count Carmagnola_, a piece which is perhaps translatable, and in the
present instance making the daring attempt to take up and discuss
the untranslatable _Don Juan_, it may seem as if we are guilty of an
inconsistency. We shall therefore point out the difference between
the two cases. Manzoni is as yet but little known among us, and it
is better that people should learn to know his merits first in their
complete fullness, as they are presented only in the original; after
that, a translation by one of our young poets would be decidedly in
order. With Lord Byron’s talent, on the other hand, we are sufficiently
acquainted, and can neither help nor injure him by translation, for the
originals are in the hands of all cultivated people.

Yet such an attempt, even if it were attempting the impossible, will
always have a certain value. For if a false reflection does not exactly
give back the original picture to us, yet it makes us attentive at
least to the mirror itself and to its more or less perceptible defects.

_Don Juan_ is a work of infinite genius, misanthropical with the
bitterest inhumanity, yet sympathetic with the deepest intensity of
tender feeling. And since we now know the author and esteem him, and
do not wish him to be otherwise than he is, we enjoy thankfully what he
dares with overgreat independence, indeed insolence, to bring before
us. The technical treatment of the verse is quite in accord with the
singular, reckless, unsparing content. The poet spares his language
as little as he does his men, and as we examine it more closely we
discover indeed that English poetry has a cultivated comic language
which we Germans wholly lack.

The comic in German lies preëminently in the idea, less in the
treatment or style. We admire Lichtenberg’s abounding wealth; he has
at his command a whole world of knowledge and relations to mix like a
pack of cards and deal them out roguishly at pleasure. With Blumauer
too, whose compositions in verse certainly possess the comic spirit,
it is especially the sharp contrast between old and new, aristocrats
and common people, the noble and the mean, that delights us. If we
examine further we find that the German, in order to be amusing, steps
back several centuries and has the luck to be peculiarly ingenuous and
engaging only in doggerel rhyme.

In translating _Don Juan_ there are many useful things to be learned
from the Englishman. There is only one joke which we cannot imitate
from him,--one that gets its effect by a singular and dubious accent in
words which look quite differently on paper. The English linguist may
judge how far the poet in this case has wantonly exceeded the proper
limits.

It is only by chance that the verses inserted here happened to be
translated, and they are now published not as a pattern but for their
suggestiveness. All our talented translators ought to try their
skill at least partly upon them; they will have to permit assonances
and imperfect rhymes and who knows what besides. A certain laconic
treatment will also be necessary, in order to give the full quality and
significance of this audacious mischievousness. Only when something has
been accomplished along these lines, can we discuss the subject further.

Possibly we may be reproached for spreading in translation such
writings as these through Germany, thus making an honest, peaceful,
decorous nation acquainted with the most immoral works that the art
of poetry ever produced. But according to our way of thinking, these
attempts at translation should not be intended for the press, but may
serve as excellent practice for talented brains. Our poets may then
discreetly apply and cultivate what they acquire in this way, for the
pleasure and delight of their countrymen. No particular injury to
morality is to be feared from the publication of such poems, since
poets and authors would have to cast aside all restraint to be more
corrupting than the papers of the present day.


FOOTNOTES:

[11] This paper is preceded by a translation into German verse
of the first five stanzas of _Don Juan_.




CALDERON’S _DAUGHTER OF THE AIR_

(1822)

    “De nugis hominum seria veritas
      Uno volvitur assere.”


Certainly if any course of human follies, presented in lofty style, is
to be put upon the stage, then this drama should carry off the prize.

We often allow ourselves to be charmed by the merits of a work of art,
to the extent that the last good thing which has come before us we
consider and discuss as the greatest we have ever seen. Still this does
no harm, for we study such a work then _con amore_ and all the more
closely, and seek to discover its merits, in order that our judgment
may be justified. For this reason I do not hesitate to acknowledge
that in the _Daughter of the Air_ I admire more than ever Calderon’s
great talent, his lofty genius and clear insight. We should not fail
to recognize that the subject is superior to his other plays, in that
the story is based on motives purely human, and there is no more of the
supernatural element than is necessary for the extraordinary and the
exceptional in human affairs to develop and proceed in natural fashion.
Only the beginning and the end are marvelous; everything else proceeds
in a natural course.

What there is to say of this play is true of all the plays by this
poet. He gives us in no way a real view of nature; he is rather
theatrical throughout, even stagey. Of what we call illusion,
especially such as touches the feelings, we find not a trace. The
design is clear to one’s mind, the scenes follow of necessity, in a
kind of ballet-order, pleasing and artistic in its way, and suggest
the technique of our latest comic opera. The inner leading motives are
always the same,--conflict of duty, passion, conditions derived from
the antithesis of the characters and the existing relations.

The main action proceeds in a poetic and dignified manner; the minor
scenes, which have an elegant movement, in the style of the minuet, are
rhetorical, dialectical, sophisticated. All the types of humanity are
exhausted; there is not missing even the fool, whose simple mind makes
havoc of deception whenever a pretense is made of sympathy and kindness.

Now we must admit on reflection that human situations and emotions
cannot be put on the stage in their primitive realism, but must be
worked up, touched up, idealized. And thus we find them in this case,
too; the poet however stands on the threshold of over-refinement, he
gives us a quintessence of humanity.

Shakespeare on the contrary gives us the rich ripe grape from the vine.
According to our taste we can enjoy the single berries, press them out
and taste or sip the juice or the fermented wine--however we treat them
we are refreshed. With Calderon, on the other hand, nothing is left to
the choice or taste of the spectator; we receive from him the spirits
already drawn off and distilled, seasoned with many spices, or flavored
with sweets; we must accept the beverage as it is, as a delicious and
palatable stimulant, or else refuse it.

But the reason for our giving the _Daughter of the Air_ so high a
place has already been suggested; it is favored by its excellent
subject-matter. For we object to seeing a noble and free man, as in
several of Calderon’s plays, indulging in dark error and lending his
reason to indiscretions and folly; here we have a quarrel with the poet
himself, since his material offends us, whereas his manner charms.
This is the case in _The Devotion of the Cross_ and in _Daybreak in
Copacabana_.

In this connection we may say in print what we have often expressed
privately, that we must regard it as one of the greatest advantages of
life that Shakespeare enjoyed, that he was born and brought up as a
Protestant. He appears always as a human being, with a complete faith
and confidence in human values and affairs: error and superstition
he feels to be beneath him, and only toys with them, compelling the
supernatural to serve his purposes. Tragic ghosts, droll goblins he
summons to his ends, in which everything is clarified and cleansed
of superstition, so that the poet never feels the dilemma of being
compelled to deify the absurd, the saddest downfall which mankind,
conscious of possessing reason, can experience.

Returning to the _Daughter of the Air_, this question suggests
itself: If we are now enabled to transport ourselves to so remote
an atmosphere, without knowing the locality or understanding the
language, to enter familiarly into a foreign literature without
previous historical research, and to bring home to ourselves in one
example the quality and flavor of a certain age, the mind and genius
of a people--to whom do we owe thanks for all this? Evidently to the
translator, who all his life and with laborious industry has thus
utilized his talent to our benefit. Our warmest thanks, therefore,
we present to Dr. Gries; he has given us a gift whose value is
overwhelming, a gift in considering which we gladly refrain from all
comparisons, because it delights us by its clearness, wins us by its
charm, and by the complete harmony of all its parts convinces us that
nothing in it could or should have been different.

Such excellence older readers are likely to prize more highly, for
they like to enjoy in comfort a perfectly adequate presentation;
younger men, on the contrary, actively engaged in work, coöperating and
struggling, do not always acknowledge merit which they themselves hope
to emulate.

All honor then to the translator, who concentrated his energies on a
single point, and went ahead in a _single_ direction, so that we could
enjoy in a _thousand_ different ways!




MOLIÈRE’S _MISANTHROPE_

(1828)

  _Histoire de la Vie et des Ouvrages de Molière_, par J. Taschereau.
      Paris, 1828.


This work deserves to be read carefully by all true lovers of
literature, because it gives us new insight into the qualities and
individuality of a great man. It will also be welcome to his devoted
admirers, although they hardly need this in order to treasure him
highly; to the attentive reader he has revealed himself sufficiently in
his works.

Examine the _Misanthrope_ carefully and ask yourself whether a poet has
ever represented his inner spirit more completely or more admirably.
We can well call the content and treatment of this play “tragic.” Such
an impression at least it has always left with us, because that mood
is brought before our mind’s eye which often in itself brings us to
despair, and seems as if it would make the world unbearable.

Here is represented the type of man who despite great cultivation
has yet remained natural, and who with himself, as well as others,
would like only too well to express himself with complete truth and
sincerity. But we see him in conflict with the social world, where one
cannot move without dissimulation and shallowness.

In contrast to such a type Timon is merely a comic character. I wish
that a talented poet would depict such a visionary who was always
deceiving himself as to the world, and then was greatly put out with
it, as if it had deceived him.




OLD GERMAN FOLKSONGS

(1806)

  _Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Old German Songs_, edited by Achim von Arnim
      and Klemens Brentano. Heidelberg, 1806.


We are decidedly of the opinion that for the present criticism should
not concern itself with this collection. The editors have collected
and arranged this volume with such love and diligence, such good taste
and delicacy of feeling, that their countrymen should first of all
show their gratitude for this loving care by their good-will, their
interest, and their sympathetic appreciation. This little book ought to
be found in every home in which lively and healthy people dwell,--at
the window, under the mirror, or wherever else songbooks and cookbooks
are usually found, so that it may be opened in any happy or unhappy
mood, and one may always find something which strikes a similar or a
new chord, even though one must perhaps turn over a few pages.

But the most fitting place for this volume would be upon the piano of
a lover or a master of music, so that full justice might be done the
songs by setting them to old familiar tunes, or suitable tunes might be
adapted to them, or, God willing, new and striking melodies might be
composed through their inspiration.

If these songs were then borne from ear to ear, from mouth to mouth,
clothed in their own melodious harmony, if they gradually returned
regenerated and enhanced in beauty to the people from whom they, so to
speak, have in part sprung, then we might truly say that the little
book had fulfilled its mission, and could now be lost again in its
written or printed form, because it had become part and parcel of the
life and culture of the nation.

But since in our modern times, especially in Germany, nothing seems
to exist or to have any effect unless it is written about again and
again, adjudged and made a bone of contention, a few remarks may
not improperly be introduced here about this collection,--a few
observations which may not enhance our enjoyment of the book, but at
least will not impair or destroy it.

What may at the outset be said unreservedly in praise of the collection
is that it is thoroughly varied and characteristic. It contains more
than two hundred poems of the last three centuries, all of them
differing so much from one another in sense, conception, sound, and
manner that the same criticism cannot apply to any two of them. We
shall therefore assume the agreeable task of characterizing [some of]
them in order as the inspiration of the moment may prompt us:

  _The Wunderhorn._ Fairy-like, childlike, pleasing.

  _The Sultan’s Little Daughter._ Tender Christian feeling, charming.

  _Tell and His Child._ Honest and solid.

  _Grandmother Snake-cook._ Deep, enigmatic, dramatic, admirably
  handled.

  _Isaiah’s Face._ Barbaric grandeur.

  _Fire Incantation._ Appropriate and true to the spirit of the brigand.

  _Poor Schwartenhals._ Roguish, whimsical, jolly.

  _Death and the Maiden._ After the manner of the Dance of Death; like
  a woodcut; admirable.

  _Nocturnal Musicians._ Droll, extravagant, inimitable.

  _The Stubborn Bride._ Humorous, somewhat grotesque.

  _Cloister-shy._ Capriciously confused, yet to the purpose.

  _The Braggart Knight._ Very good in the realistic-romantic manner.

  _The Black-brown Witch._ Rather confused in transmission, but the
  theme of inestimable value.

  _Love Without Caste._ Romantic twilight.

  _The Hospitality of Winter._ Written with a great deal of elegance.

  _The High-born Maiden._ Christian pedantry, but not wholly unpoetical.

  _Love Spins no Silk._ Charmingly confused and therefore rousing the
  imagination.

  _The Faith of an Hussar._ Swiftness and lightness expressed in a
  wonderful way.

  _The Ratcatcher of Hameln._ Tends toward the manner of the
  ballad-monger, but not coarse.

  _Tuck Your Dress, Gretlein._ After the manner of vagabond poets;
  unexpectedly epigrammatic.

  _The Song of the Ring._ Romantic tenderness.

  _The Knight and the Maiden._ Romantic twilight; powerful.

  _Harvest Song._ A Catholic funeral hymn; good enough to be Protestant!

  _A Surfeit of Learning._ A gallant piece; but the pedant cannot get
  rid of his learning.

  _The Fight at Murten._ Realistic, probably modernized.

  _The Haste of Time in God._ Christian, somewhat too historical, but
  quite suited to its subject, and very good.

  _Reveille._ Priceless for any one who has the imagination to
  understand it.

  _Drought._ Thought, feeling, presentation everywhere right.

  _The Drummer Boy._ Lively presentation of a distressing incident. A
  poem which the discriminating will find it difficult to match.

  _Should and Must._ Perfect in plan, although here in a dismembered
  and curiously restored condition.

  _A Friendly Service._ German romanticism, pious and pleasing.

  _Cradle Song._ Rhyming nonsense, perfectly suited to put one to sleep.

  _Miller’s Farewell._ To one who can grasp the situation, a priceless
  thing; but the first stanza requires an emendation.

  _Abbot Neidhard and His Monks._ A prank of Till Eulenspiegel of the
  very best sort, and very well told.

  _The Horrible Marriage._ An extraordinary case; in the
  ballad-monger’s manner, but admirably handled.

  _The Excellent Comrade._ Nonsense; but happy the man who can sing it
  agreeably!

  _Unrequited Love._ Very good, but tending toward a rather Philistine
  prose.

  _The Little Tree._ Full of longing and playfulness, yet full of
  fervor.

  _Mésalliance._ Excellent enigmatic fable, but a clearer treatment
  might have been more pleasing to the reader.

With these impromptu characterizations--for how could they be other
than impromptu?--we do not intend to anticipate the judgment of any
readers of the book, and least of all those readers who by their own
lyric enjoyment and the appreciation of a sympathetic heart can get
more from the poems themselves than any brief characterizations like
ours can ever give them. We should like, however, in conclusion to say
something about the value of the collection as a whole.

We have been accustomed for years to give the name of “folksongs” to
this species of poetry, not because it is really composed by the people
or for the people, but because it embraces in itself something so
vigorous and wholesome that the healthy stock of the nation understands
it, remembers it, appropriates it, and at times propagates it. Poetry
of this kind is as true poetry as can possibly exist. It has an
incredible charm even for us who stand on a higher plane of culture,
just as the sight of young people and the memory of one’s own youth
have for old age. Art in them is in conflict with nature; and it is
because of their gradual development, their mutual influence, and their
striving for form that these songs seem to seek a further perfection
when they have already reached their goal. True poetic genius, wherever
it appears, is perfect in itself: no matter what imperfections of
language, of external technique, or anything else, stand in its way, it
possesses the higher inner form which ultimately has everything at its
command, and often in an obscure and imperfect medium produces a more
striking effect than it can later produce in a more perfect medium. The
vivid poetic perception of a limited state or condition gives to what
is purely individual a universal significance, finite to be sure, but
after all limitless and unrestricted, so that within a small compass we
fancy we see the whole world. The promptings of a profound intuition
urge the poet to a significant brevity; and what would seem in prose
unpardonably topsy-turvy is to the true poetic sense a necessity
and a virtue; even a solecism, if it appeals seriously to our whole
imagination, stimulates it to a surprisingly high degree of enjoyment.

In characterizing the individual poems we avoided the kind of formal
classification which may more readily be made in the future when
several authentic and typical examples of every kind have been
collected. But we cannot conceal our own preference for those songs
in which lyric, dramatic, and epic treatment is interwoven in such a
way that a problem, at first shrouded in mystery, is finally solved
skilfully, or even, if you will, epigrammatically. The well-known
ballad, “Why dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid, Edward, Edward?” is,
especially in the original, the most perfect example of this species of
poetry.

We hope that the editors will be encouraged to publish in the near
future another volume of poems from the rich store collected by them
as well as from those already printed. We trust that when they do
this they will guard themselves carefully against the sing-song of
the Minnesingers, the blatant coarseness and the platitudes of the
Mastersingers, as well as against everything monkish and pedantic. If
they should collect a second volume of these German songs, they might
also be asked to select songs of the same kind from foreign nations
and to give them in the original and in translations that are either
already extant or may be made by them for this special purpose. The
most of these, to be sure, will be from the English, fewer from the
French, some of a different type from the Spanish, and almost none from
the Italian.

If from the outset we have doubted the competence of criticism, even
in its highest sense, to judge this work, we have all the more reason
to ignore that kind of research which attempts to separate the songs
that are genuine from those that have been more or less restored. The
editors, so far as it is possible in these later times, have caught
the spirit of their task, and we ought to be grateful to them even for
those poems which have been oddly restored or made up of heterogeneous
parts or are absolutely spurious. Who does not know what a song has to
undergo when it has been for some time in the mouth of the people, and
not merely uneducated people either? Why should he who finally writes
it down and inserts it in a collection with other poems not have a
certain personal right to it? We do not possess any poetic or sacred
book of earlier times which has not depended for its final form on the
skill or whim of him who first wrote it down or some later copyist.

If we accept the printed collection lying before us from this point of
view, and with a grateful and kindly spirit, we may charge the editors
all the more earnestly to keep their poetic archives pure, lofty, and
in good order. It serves no purpose to print everything; but they
will place the whole nation in their debt if they contribute toward
that thorough, faithful, and intelligent history of our poetry and our
poetic culture which from now on must be the ultimate goal of scholars.




FOLKSONGS AGAIN COMMENDED

(1823)


My old love for original folksongs has not lessened, but has rather
been increased by receiving valuable communications from many quarters.

In particular, I have received from the East, some separately, and some
in collections, such songs of many different peoples; they extend from
Olympus to the Baltic Sea, and from that line towards the northeast.

My hesitation in publishing any of them is due partly to the fact that
many varied interests have drawn me here and there and so prevented me,
but also more particularly to the following circumstance.

All true national poems have a small circle of ideas, to which they are
always limited, and in which they revolve. For that reason they become
monotonous in mass, because they express one and the same limited
situation.

Examine the six modern Greek songs inserted above; every one will
admire the powerful contrast between the virile freedom of spirit in
the wilderness and a government, orderly indeed, but still barbaric and
of insufficient power. A dozen or more would be sufficient to exhibit
this refractory character in them, and show us repetitions such as we
find in our own folksongs, where we often come upon more or less happy
variations of the same theme, as well as mixed and heterogeneous
fragments.

It is remarkable, nevertheless, how much the individual peoples
mentioned above differ among themselves in their songs; this
characteristic we shall not discuss abstractly, but will rather develop
by means of examples from time to time in the ensuing numbers.

Since contributions for this purpose will be highly welcome from all
quarters, we request the friend who showed us at Wiesbaden in the
summer of 1815 some Greek songs in the original and in a very happy
translation, promising to send us soon a copy which never however
appeared, to get in touch with us again and cooperate with us in this
praiseworthy undertaking.




LAURENCE STERNE

(1827)


In the swift progress of literary, as of human, culture it happens
commonly that we forget the person to whom we owe the first stimulus,
the original influence. What is, and what flourishes here and now, we
believe had to be so and had to happen so. But in this we are wrong,
for we lose sight of those who guided us to the right path. From this
point of view I call attention to a man who first gave the stimulus to
the great epoch in the second half of the last century, an epoch of
clearer human knowledge, nobler toleration, gentler humanity.

Of this man, to whom I owe so much, I am often reminded, especially
when the talk is of truth and error, which fluctuate here and there
among mankind. A third word may be added of gentler meaning, that is,
“singularity” (_Eigenheit_), for there are certain human phenomena
which can be best expressed by this term. Viewed externally they are
erroneous, but from within full of truth, and rightly considered, of
the highest psychological importance. They are those qualities which
constitute the individual; the universal is thereby specified, and
in the most peculiar of them there always shines some intelligence,
reason, and good-will which charms us and fetters us. From this
standpoint, “Yorick” Sterne, revealing in the tenderest way the human
in men, has called these “singularities,” in so far as they express
themselves in action, “ruling passions.” For certainly they are what
drive men in a certain direction, push them along on a consistent
track, and without requiring reflection, conviction, purpose or
strength of will, keep them continually in life and motion. It is
immediately apparent how closely related habit is to them; for it
promotes that convenience in which our idiosyncrasies love to saunter
undisturbed.




THE ENGLISH REVIEWERS

(1821)


English critics, as we have come to know them from their various
Reviews, deserve a great deal of respect. Their acquaintance not only
with their own literature, but also with that of other countries, is
most gratifying; the seriousness and the thoroughness with which they
go to work arouse our admiration, and we are glad to confess that much
may be learned from them. Moreover, we find ourselves very favorably
impressed by the attitude these men take toward their calling as
critics and the respect which they have for the intelligence of the
public,--a public, to be sure, which is very attentive to all things
written and spoken, but is probably hard to satisfy, and ever disposed
to contradict and argue.

No matter how thorough and comprehensive the presentation of a case by
an attorney before a body of judges or by a speaker before a provincial
diet may be, some opponent will very soon come to the fore with
forcible arguments; the attentive and critical hearers will themselves
be divided, and many an important matter is often decided by a very
small majority.

Such a spirit of opposition, even though passive, we occasionally
assume toward critics, both at home and abroad, whose knowledge of
facts we by no means deny and whose premises we often grant, but whose
conclusions nevertheless we do not share.

Still we must be especially forbearing to the English when they appear
harsh and unjust toward foreign productions; for those who count
Shakespeare among their forebears may well allow themselves to be
carried away by their pride of ancestry.




GERMAN LITERATURE IN GOETHE’S YOUTH

(1811-14)


So much has been written about the condition of German literature at
that time,[12] and to such good purpose, that every one who takes any
interest in it can obtain full information; the opinions with regard to
it, too, are fairly unanimous; so that anything I say about it here,
in my fragmentary and desultory fashion, is not so much an analysis
of its characteristics as of its relation to me. I will therefore
first speak of those branches which especially react upon the public,
those two hereditary foes of all easy-going life, and of all cheerful,
self-sufficient, living poetry:--I mean, satire and criticism.

In quiet times every one desires to live after his own fashion; the
citizen wishes to carry on his trade or his business, and then enjoy
himself; so, too, the author likes to produce something, see his work
published, and, in the consciousness of having done something good and
useful, looks, if not for remuneration, at any rate for praise. From
this state of tranquillity the citizen is roused by the satirist, the
author by the critic, and so it comes that peaceful society is rudely
disturbed.

The literary epoch in which I was born developed out of the preceding
one by opposition. Germany, so long inundated by foreign people,
pervaded by other nations, employing foreign languages in learned
and diplomatic transactions, could not possibly cultivate her own.
Together with so many new ideas, innumerable strange words were
obtruded necessarily and unnecessarily upon her, and even for objects
already known people were induced to make use of foreign expressions
and turns of language. The Germans, brutalized by nearly two centuries
of misery and confusion, took lessons from the French in manners and
from the Latins in the art of expression. This art ought to have
been cultivated in German, since the use of French and Latin idioms,
and their partial translation into German, made both their social
and business style ridiculous. Besides this, they recklessly adopted
figures of speech belonging to the southern languages, and employed
them most extravagantly. In the same way the stately ceremoniousness of
prince-like Roman citizens had been transferred to the educated circles
in German provincial towns. As a result, they nowhere felt themselves
at home, least of all in their own houses.

But in this epoch works of genius had already appeared, and the German
independence of mind and enjoyment of life began to assert themselves.
This cheerful spirit, combined with an honest sincerity, led to the
demand for purity and naturalness in writing, without the intermixture
of foreign words, and in accordance with the dictates of plain common
sense. By these praiseworthy endeavors, however, the flood-gates were
thrown open to a prolix national insipidity, nay, the dam was broken
down, and an inundation was bound to follow. However, a stiff pedantry
continued for some time to hold sway in the four learned professions,
and eventually, at a much later date, fled for refuge first to one and
then to another.

Men of parts, children of nature looking freely about them, had
therefore two objects on which they could exercise their faculties,
against which they could direct their energies, and, as the matter was
of no great importance, vent their mischievousness; these were, on the
one hand, a language disfigured by foreign words, forms, and turns of
speech; and on the other, the worthlessness of such writings as had
been careful to avoid those faults; but it never occurred to any one
that each evil was being combated by fostering the other.

Liscow, a daring young man, first ventured to attack by name a shallow,
silly writer, whose foolish behavior soon gave him an opportunity for
yet more drastic treatment. He then sought other subjects, invariably
directing his satire against particular objects and persons, whom he
despised and sought to render despicable; indeed, he pursued them
with passionate hatred. But his career was short; for he died early,
and was remembered only as a restless, irregular youth. The talent
and character shown in what he did, in spite of the smallness of his
production, may well have seemed valuable to his countrymen: for the
Germans have always shown a peculiar piety towards the promise of
genius prematurely cut off. Suffice it to say that in our early youth
Liscow was praised and commended to us as an excellent satirist, who
might justly claim preference even before the universally beloved
Rabener. But we did not gain much from him; for the only thing we
discovered from his works was that he considered the absurd absurd, and
this seemed to us a matter of course.

Rabener, well educated, grown up under good school discipline, of a
cheerful and by no means passionate or malicious disposition, turned
to general satire. His censure of so-called vices and follies is
the outcome of clear-sighted and unimpassioned common sense, and of
a definite moral conception as to what the world ought to be. His
denunciation of faults and failings is harmless and cheerful; and in
order to excuse even the slight daring of his writings, he assumes that
the attempt to improve fools by ridicule is not in vain.

Rabener’s personal character was such as we do not often meet. A
thorough and strict man of business, he did his duty, and so gained
the good opinion of his fellow-townsmen and the confidence of his
superiors; at the same time, by way of relaxation, he indulged in
a genial contempt for all that immediately surrounded him. Learned
pedants, vain youngsters, every sort of narrowness and conceit, he
made fun of rather than satirized, and even his satire expressed no
scorn. Just in the same way he jested about his own condition, his
unhappiness, his life, and his death.

There is little of the æsthetic in the manner in which this writer
treats his subjects. In external form he is indeed varied enough, but
throughout he makes too much use of direct irony, that is, in praising
the blameworthy and blaming the praiseworthy, whereas this rhetorical
device should be adopted extremely sparingly; for, in the long run,
it becomes annoying to the clear-sighted, perplexes the foolish,
but appeals, it is true, to the great majority, who without special
intellectual effort imagine themselves cleverer than other people.
But all that he presents to us, whatever its form, bears witness to
his rectitude, cheerfulness, and equanimity, so that we are always
favorably impressed. The unbounded admiration of his own times was a
consequence of these moral excellencies.

It was natural that people should try to discover originals for his
general descriptions and should succeed; and consequently he was
attacked on this score by certain individuals: his over-long apologies
denying that his satire was personal, prove the annoyance to which he
was subjected. Some of his letters do honor to him both as a man and
an author. The confidential epistle in which he describes the siege
of Dresden and the loss of his house, his effects, his writings, and
his wigs, without having his equanimity in the least shaken or his
cheerfulness clouded, is most estimable, although his contemporaries
and fellow-citizens could not forgive him his happy temperament. The
letter in which he speaks of the decay of his strength and of his
approaching death is in the highest degree worthy of respect, and
Rabener deserves to be honored as a saint by all happy sensible people,
who cheerfully accept their earthly lot.

I tear myself away from him reluctantly, and merely add this remark:
his satire refers throughout to the middle classes; he lets us see here
and there that he is also acquainted with the upper classes, but does
not hold it advisable to discuss them. It may be said that he had no
successor; it would be impossible to point to any one at all equal, or
even similar to him.

Let us turn to criticism; and first of all to the theoretic attempts.
It is not going too far to say that idealism had at that time fled from
the world to religion; it was hardly discoverable even in ethics; of
a supreme principle in art no one had a notion. They put Gottsched’s
_Critical Art of Poetry_ into our hands; it was useful and instructive
enough, for it gave us historical information about the various kinds
of poetry, as well as about rhythm and its different movements;
poetic genius was taken for granted! But besides this the poet was to
have education, and even learning, he should possess taste, and other
things of the same nature. Finally, we were referred to Horace’s _Art
of Poetry_; we gazed at single golden maxims of this invaluable work
with veneration, but did not know in the least what to do with it as a
whole, or how to use it.

The Swiss came to the front as Gottsched’s antagonists; hence they
must intend to do something different, to accomplish something better:
accordingly we heard that they were, in fact, superior. Breitinger’s
_Critical Art of Poetry_ was now studied. Here we entered a wider
field, or, properly speaking, only a greater labyrinth, which was the
more wearisome, as an able man in whom we had confidence drove us about
in it. Let a brief review justify these words.

As yet no one had been able to discover the essential principle of
poetry; it was too spiritual and too evanescent. Painting, an art
which one could keep within sight, and follow step by step with the
external senses, seemed more adapted to such an end; the English and
French had already theorized about the arts of painting and sculpture,
and it was thought possible to explain the nature of poetry by drawing
a comparison from these arts. Painting presented images to the eyes,
poetry to the imagination; poetical images, therefore, were the
first thing to be taken into consideration. Similes came first, then
descriptions and whatever it was possible to represent to the external
senses came under discussion.

Images, then! But whence should these images be taken except from
nature? The painter obviously imitated nature; why not the poet also?
But nature, just as she is, cannot be imitated: she contains so much
that is insignificant and unsuitable, that a selection must be made;
but what determines the choice? what is important must be selected; but
what is important?

The answer to this question the Swiss probably took a long time
to consider: for they arrived at an idea which is indeed strange,
but pretty, even amusing; for they said what is new is always most
important: and after they had considered this for a while, they
discovered that the marvelous is always newer than anything else.

Apparently they now had the essentials of poetry before them, but it
had further to be taken into consideration that the marvelous may
be barren and without human interest. This human interest which is
indispensable must be moral, and would then obviously tend to the
improvement of man; hence that poem would fulfil its ultimate aim which
in addition to its merits possessed utility. It was the fulfilment of
all these demands which constituted the test they wished to apply to
the various kinds of poetry, and that species which imitated nature,
and furthermore was marvelous, and at the same time moral in purpose
and effect, they placed first and highest. And after much deliberation
this great preëminence was finally ascribed, with the utmost
conviction, to Æsop’s fables!

Strange as such a deduction may now appear, it had the most decided
influence on the best minds. That Gellert and subsequently Lichtwer
devoted themselves to this department of literature, that even Lessing
attempted to do work in it, that so many others applied their talents
to it, speaks for the faith they put in this species of poetry. Theory
and practice always act upon each other; one can see from men’s works
what opinions they hold; and, from their opinions, it is possible to
predict what they will do.

Yet we must not dismiss our Swiss theory without doing it justice.
Bodmer, with all the pains he took, remained in theory and practice a
child all his life. Breitinger was an able, learned, sagacious man,
who, after making a careful survey, recognized all the requirements
to be fulfilled by a poem; in fact, it can be shown that he was dimly
conscious of the deficiencies of his method. Noteworthy, for instance,
is his query, whether a certain descriptive poem by König, on the
_Review Camp of Augustus the Second_, is properly speaking a poem;
and the answer to it displays good sense. But it may serve for his
complete justification that, after starting on a wrong track and nearly
completing his circle, he yet discovers the main issue, and at the end
of his book, as a kind of supplement, feels it incumbent on him to urge
the representation of manners, character, passions, in short the inner
man--which surely constitutes the chief theme of poetry.

It may well be imagined into what perplexity young minds were thrown by
such maxims torn from their contexts, half-understood laws, and random
dogmas. We clung to examples, and there, too, were no better off: the
foreign as well as the classical ones were too remote from us; behind
the best native ones always lurked a distinct individuality, the good
points of which we could not arrogate to ourselves, and into the faults
of which we could not but be afraid of falling. For any one conscious
of productive power it was a desperate condition.

When one considers carefully what was wanting in German poetry, it
was a significant theme, especially of national import; there was
never any lack of gifted writers. It is only necessary to mention
Günther, who may be called a poet in the full sense of the word. A
decided genius, endowed with sensuousness, imagination, memory, the
gifts of conception and representation, productive in the highest
degree, possessing rhythmic fluency, ingenious, witty, and at the same
time well-informed;--he possessed, in short, all the requisites for
creating by his poetry a second life out of the actual commonplace life
around him. We admire the great facility with which, in his occasional
poems, he ennobles all situations by appealing to the emotions, and
embellishes them with suitable sentiments, images, and historical and
fabulous traditions. The roughness and wildness in them belong to his
time, his mode of life, and especially to his character, or, if you
will, his want of character. He did not know how to curb himself, and
so his life, like his poetry, proved ineffectual.

By his vacillating conduct, Günther had trifled away the good fortune
of being appointed at the Court of Augustus the Second, where, with
their love of magnificence, they desired to find a laureate who would
impart warmth and grace to their festivities, and immortalize a
transitory pomp. Von König was more self-controlled and more fortunate;
he filled this post with dignity and success.

In all sovereign states the material for poetry begins with the highest
social ranks, and the _Review Camp at Mühlberg_ was, perhaps, the
first worthy subject of provincial, if not of national importance which
presented itself to a poet. Two kings saluting one another in the
presence of a great host, their whole court and military state around
them, well-appointed troops, a sham-fight, _fêtes_ of all kinds,--here
was plenty to captivate the senses, and matter enough and to spare for
descriptive poetry.

This subject, indeed, suffered from an inner defect, in that it was
only pomp and show, from which no real action could result. None except
the very highest were involved, and even if this had not been the case,
the poet could not render any one conspicuous lest he should offend
the others. He had to consult the _Court and State Calendar_, and the
delineation of the persons was therefore not particularly exciting;
nay, even his contemporaries reproached him with having described the
horses better than the men. But should not the fact that he showed
his art as soon as a fitting subject presented itself redound to his
credit? The main difficulty, too, seems soon to have become apparent to
him--for the poem never advanced beyond the first canto.

As a result of discussions, examples, and my own reflection, I came
to see that the first step towards escape from the wishy-washy,
long-winded, empty epoch could be taken only by definiteness,
precision, and brevity. In the style which had hitherto prevailed,
it was impossible to distinguish the commonplace from what was
better, since a uniform insipidity prevailed on all hands. Authors
had already tried to escape from this widespread disease, with more
or less success. Haller and Ramler were inclined to compression by
nature; Lessing and Wieland were led to it by reflection. The former
became by degrees quite epigrammatic in his poems, terse in _Minna_,
laconic in _Emilia Galotti_,--it was not till later that he returned
to that serene _naïveté_ which becomes him so well in _Nathan_.
Wieland, who had been occasionally prolix in _Agathon_, _Don Sylvio_,
and the _Comic Tales_, became wonderfully condensed and precise, as
well as exceedingly graceful, in _Musarion_ and _Idris_. Klopstock,
in the first cantos of the _Messiah_, is not without diffuseness; in
his _Odes_ and other minor poems he appears concise, as also in his
tragedies. By his emulation of the ancients, especially Tacitus, he
was constantly forced into narrower limits, so that at last he became
obscure and unpleasing. Gerstenberg, a rare but eccentric genius, also
concentrated his powers; one feels his merit, but on the whole he gives
little pleasure. Gleim, by nature diffuse and easy-going, was scarcely
once concise in his war-songs. Ramler was properly more of a critic
than a poet. He began to collect what the Germans had accomplished in
lyric poetry. He discovered that scarcely one poem entirely satisfied
him; he was obliged to omit, rearrange, and alter, so that the things
might assume some sort of form. By this means he made himself almost as
many enemies as there are poets and amateurs, since every one, properly
speaking, recognizes himself only in his defects; and the public takes
greater interest in a faulty individuality than in what is produced or
amended in accordance with a universal law of taste. Rhythm was still
in its cradle, and no one knew of a method to shorten its childhood.
Poetical prose was gaining ground. Gessner and Klopstock found many
imitators; others, again, still put in a plea for metre, and translated
this prose into intelligible rhythms. But even these emended versions
gave nobody satisfaction; for they were obliged to omit and add, and
the prose original always passed for the better of the two. But in all
these attempts, the greater the conciseness aimed at, the more possible
is it to criticize them, since whatever is significant when presented
in a condensed form, in the end admits of definite comparison. Another
result was the simultaneous appearance of a number of truly poetical
forms; for while attempting to reproduce solely whatever was essential
in any one subject, it was necessary to do justice to every subject
chosen for treatment, and hence, though none did it consciously, the
modes of representation were multiplied; though some were grotesque
enough, and many an experiment proved unsuccessful.

Without question, Wieland possessed the finest natural gifts of all.
He had developed early in those ideal regions in which youth loves
to linger; but when so-called experience, contact with the world and
women, spoilt his delight in those realms, he turned to the actual, and
derived pleasure for himself and others from the conflict between the
two worlds, where, in light encounters, half in earnest, half in jest,
his talent found fullest scope. How many of his brilliant productions
appeared during my student days! _Musarion_ had the greatest effect
upon me, and I can yet remember the place and the very spot where I
looked at the first proof-sheet, which Oeser showed me. It was here
that I seemed to see antiquity living anew before me. Everything that
is plastic in Wieland’s genius showed itself here in the highest
perfection; and since the Timon-like hero Phanias, after being
condemned to unhappy abstinence, is finally reconciled to his mistress
and to the world, we may be content to live through the misanthropic
epoch with him. For the rest, we were not sorry to recognize in these
works a cheerful aversion to exalted sentiments, which are apt to be
wrongly applied to life, and then frequently fall under the suspicion
of fanaticism. We pardoned the author for pursuing with ridicule what
we held to be true and venerable, the more readily, as he thereby
showed that he was unable to disregard it.

What a miserable reception was accorded such efforts by the criticism
of the time may be seen from the first volumes of the _Universal German
Library_. Honorable mention is made there of the _Comic Tales_, but
there is no trace of any insight into the character of the literary
species. The reviewer, like every one at that time, had formed
his taste on examples. He never takes into consideration that in
criticizing such parodistical works, it is necessary first of all to
have the noble, beautiful original before one’s eyes, in order to see
whether the parodist has really discovered in it a weak and comical
side, whether he has borrowed anything from it, or whether, under the
pretense of imitation, he has given us an excellent invention of his
own. Of all this there is not a word, but isolated passages in the
poems are praised or blamed. The reviewer, as he himself confesses, has
marked so much that pleased him, that he cannot quote it all in print.
When they go so far as to greet the exceedingly meritorious translation
of Shakespeare with the exclamation: “By rights, a man like Shakespeare
should not have been translated at all!” it will be understood, without
further remark, how immeasurably the _Universal German Library_ was
behindhand in matters of taste, and that young people, animated by true
feelings, had to look about them for other guiding stars.

The subject-matter which in this manner more or less determined the
form was sought by the Germans in the most varied quarters. They had
handled few national subjects, or none at all. Schlegel’s _Hermann_
only pointed the way. The idyllic tendency had immense vogue. The
want of distinctive character in Gessner, with all his gracefulness
and childlike sincerity, made every one think himself capable of the
like. In the same manner, those poems which were intended to portray
a foreign nationality were founded merely on a common humanity, as,
for instance, the _Jewish Pastoral Poems_, all those on patriarchal
subjects, and any others based on the Old Testament. Bodmer’s
_Noachide_ was a perfect type of the watery deluge that swelled high
around the German Parnassus, and abated but slowly. Anacreontic
dallyings likewise made it possible for numberless mediocre writers
to meander aimlessly in a vague prolixity. The precision of Horace
compelled the Germans, though but slowly, to conform to him. Neither
did the burlesques, modeled, for the most part, on Pope’s _Rape of the
Lock_, succeed in inaugurating better times.

Yet I must here mention a delusion, which was taken as seriously
as it appears ridiculous on closer inspection. The Germans had now
an adequate historical knowledge of all the kinds of poetry in
which the various nations had excelled. This assignment of poetry
to its respective pigeon-holes--a process in reality fatal to its
true spirit--had been accomplished with approximate completeness by
Gottsched in his _Critical Art of Poetry_, and at the same time he
had shown that in all the divisions were to be found excellent works
by German poets. And so it went on. Every year the collection became
more considerable, but every year one work ousted some other from the
place in which it had hitherto shone. We now possessed, if not Homers,
yet Virgils and Miltons; if not a Pindar, yet a Horace; of Theocrituses
there was no lack; and thus they soothed themselves by comparisons from
abroad, whilst the mass of poetical works constantly increased, so that
at last it was possible to make comparisons at home.

With the cultivation of the German language and style in every
department, the power of criticism also increased; but while the
reviews then published of works upon religious and ethical as well
as medical subjects were admirable, the critiques of poems, and of
whatever else relates to _belles lettres_, will be found, if not
pitiful, at least very feeble. This holds good of the _Literary
Epistles_ and the _Universal German Library_, as well as of the
_Library of Belles Lettres_, and might easily be verified by notable
instances.

However great the confusion of these varied efforts, the only thing to
be done by any one who contemplated producing anything original, and
was not content to take the words and phrases out of the mouths of his
predecessors, was to search unremittingly for some subject-matter for
treatment. Here, too, we were greatly misled. People were constantly
repeating a saying of Kleist’s, who had replied playfully, with humor
and truth, to those who took him to task on account of his frequently
lonely walks: “that he was not idle at such times--he was hunting for
images.” This simile was very suitable for a nobleman and soldier, for
in it he contrasted himself with men of his own rank, who never missed
an opportunity of going out, with their guns on their shoulders, to
shoot hares and partridges. Accordingly we find in Kleist’s poems many
such individual images, happily seized, although not always happily
elaborated, which remind us pleasantly of nature. But now we, too, were
admonished quite seriously to go out hunting for images, and in the
end to some slight purpose, although Apel’s Garden, the Cake Gardens,
the Rosental, Gohlis, Raschwitz and Konnewitz, were the oddest ground
in which to beat up poetical game. And yet I was often induced from
this motive to contrive that my walk should be solitary. But few either
beautiful or sublime objects met the eye of the beholder, and in the
truly splendid Rosental the gnats in summer made all gentle thoughts
impossible, so by dint of unwearied, persevering endeavor, I became
extremely attentive to the small life of nature (I should like to use
this word after the analogy of “still life”). Since the charming little
incidents to be observed within this circle are but unimportant in
themselves, I accustomed myself to see in them a significance, tending
now towards the symbolical and now towards the allegorical, according
as intuition, feeling, or reflection predominated.

Whilst I was playing the part of shepherd on the Pleisse, and was
childishly absorbed in such tender subjects, always choosing such only
as I could easily recapture and lock in my heart, greater and more
important themes had long before been provided for German poets.

It was Frederick the Great and the events of the Seven Years’ War
which first gave to German literature a real and noble vitality. All
national poetry cannot fail to be insipid, or inevitably becomes so,
if it is not based on the man who stands first among men, upon the
experiences which come to the nations and their leaders, when both
stand together as one man. Kings should be represented in the midst of
warfare and danger, for there they are made to appear the highest, just
because the fate of the lowest depends upon them and is shared by them.
In this way they become far more interesting than the gods themselves,
who, when they have decided the destinies of men, do not share them.
In this sense every nation that wishes to count for anything ought to
possess an epic, though not necessarily in the form of an epic poem.

The war-songs first sung by Gleim deserve their high place in German
poetry, because they were the outcome of and contemporary with the
events they celebrate; and furthermore, because the felicitous form,
suggestive of a combatant’s utterance in the thick of the fray,
impresses us with its absolute effectiveness.

Ramler sings in different but dignified strains the exploits of his
king. All his poems are thoughtful, and fill our minds with great and
elevating subjects, and on that account alone possess an indestructible
value.

For the significance of the subject treated of is the Alpha and
Omega of art. Of course, no one will deny that genius, or cultivated
artistic talent, can by its method of treatment make anything out of
anything, and render the most refractory subject amenable. But on close
inspection the result is rather an artistic feat than a work of art,
which latter should be based on a fitting subject, so that in the end
the skill, the care, the diligence of the artist’s treatment only
brings out the dignity of the subject in greater attractiveness and
splendor.

Prussians, and with them Protestant Germany, therefore gained a
treasure-trove for their literature, which was lacking to the other
party, who have not been able to repair the deficiency by subsequent
efforts. In the high idea which they cherished of their King, the
Prussian writers first found inspiration, and fostered it all the more
zealously because he in whose name they did everything would have
nothing whatever to say to them. French civilization had been widely
introduced into Prussia at an earlier date by the French colony, and
again later by the King’s preference for French culture and French
financial methods. The effect of this French influence was to rouse the
Germans to antagonism and resistance--a result decidedly beneficial in
its operation. Equally fortunate for the development of literature was
Frederick’s antipathy to German. They did everything to attract the
King’s attention, not indeed to be honored, but only to be noticed by
him; yet they did it in German fashion, from inner conviction; they
did what they held to be right, and desired and wished that the King
should recognize and prize this as right. That did not and could not
happen; for how can it be expected that a king, who wishes to live and
enjoy himself intellectually, should waste his years waiting to see
what he thinks barbarous developed and rendered enjoyable too late? In
matters of trade and manufacture, it is true, he pressed upon himself,
but especially upon his people, very mediocre substitutes instead of
excellent foreign wares; but in this department of life everything is
perfected more rapidly, and it does not take a man’s life-time to bring
such things to maturity.

But I must here, first of all, make honorable mention of one work, the
most genuine product of the Seven Years’ War, altogether North German
in its national sentiment; it is the first dramatic work founded upon
important events of specific contemporary value, and therefore produced
an incalculable effect--_Minna von Barnhelm_. Lessing, who, unlike
Klopstock and Gleim, was fond of laying aside his personal dignity,
because he was confident that he could resume it at any moment,
delighted in a dissipated, worldly life and the society of taverns, as
he always needed some strong external excitement to counterbalance his
exuberant intellectual activity; and for this reason also he had joined
the suite of General Tauentzien. It is easy to see how this drama was
generated betwixt war and peace, hatred and affection. It was this
production which successfully opened to the literary and middle-class
world, in which poetic art had hitherto moved, a view into a higher,
more significant world.

The hostile relations in which Prussians and Saxons had stood towards
each other during this war, could not be removed by its termination.
The Saxon now felt for the first time the whole bitterness of the
wounds which the upstart Prussian had inflicted upon him. Political
peace could not immediately reëstablish a peace between their hearts.
But the establishment of this peace was represented symbolically in
Lessing’s drama. The grace and amiability of the Saxon ladies conquer
the worth, the dignity, and the stubbornness of the Prussians, and, in
the principal as well as in the subordinate characters, a happy union
of bizarre and contradictory elements is artistically represented.

If I have caused my readers some bewilderment by these cursory and
desultory remarks on German literature, I have succeeded in giving
them a conception of the chaotic condition of my poor brain at a time
when, in the conflict of two epochs so important for the national
literature, so much that was new crowded in upon me before I could come
to terms with the old, so much that was old still maintained its hold
upon me, though I already believed I might with good reason renounce it
altogether.


FOOTNOTES:

[12] About 1765-68.




EXTRACTS FROM GOETHE’S CONVERSATIONS WITH ECKERMANN




EXTRACTS FROM THE CONVERSATIONS WITH ECKERMANN

(1822-32)


_The Universality of Poetry_

Within the last few days I have read many and various things;
especially a Chinese novel, which occupies me still, and seems to me
very remarkable. The Chinese think, act, and feel almost exactly like
ourselves; and we soon find that we are perfectly like them, excepting
that all they do is more clear, more pure and decorous than with us.

With them all is orderly, simple, without great passion or poetic
flight; and there is a strong resemblance to my _Hermann and Dorothea_,
as well as to the English novels of Richardson. They differ from us,
however, inasmuch as with them external nature is always associated
with human figures. You always hear the goldfish splashing in the
pond, the birds are always singing on the bough, the day is always
serene and sunny, the night is always clear. There is much talk about
the moon, but it does not alter the landscape, its light is conceived
to be as bright as day itself; and the interior of the houses is as
neat and elegant as their pictures. For instance, “I heard the lovely
girls laughing, and when I got a sight of them, they were sitting on
cane chairs.” There you have, at once, the prettiest situation; for
cane chairs are necessarily associated with the greatest lightness
and elegance. Then there is an infinite number of legends which are
constantly introduced into the narrative, and are applied almost
like proverbs; as, for instance, one of a girl, who was so light and
graceful on her feet that she could balance herself on a flower without
breaking it; and then another, of a young man so virtuous and brave
that in his thirtieth year he had the honor to talk with the Emperor;
then there is another of two lovers who showed such great purity
during a long acquaintance that when they were on one occasion obliged
to pass the night in the same chamber, they occupied the time with
conversation, and did not approach one another.

And in the same way, there are innumerable other legends, all turning
upon what is moral and proper. It is by this severe moderation in
everything that the Chinese Empire has sustained itself for thousands
of years, and will endure hereafter.

I am more and more convinced that poetry is the universal possession
of mankind, revealing itself everywhere, and at all times, in hundreds
and hundreds of men. One makes it a little better than another, and
swims on the surface a little longer than another--that is all. Herr
von Matthisson must not think he is the man, nor must I think that I
am the man; but each must say to himself that the gift of poetry is by
no means so very rare, and that nobody need think very much of himself
because he has written a good poem.

But, really, we Germans are very likely to fall too easily into this
pedantic conceit, when we do not look beyond the narrow circle which
surrounds us. I therefore like to look about me in foreign nations, and
advise every one to do the same. National literature is now rather an
unmeaning term; the epoch of World Literature is at hand, and every
one must strive to hasten its approach. But, while we thus value what
is foreign, we must not bind ourselves to anything in particular, and
regard it as a model. We must not give this value to the Chinese, or
the Servian, or Calderon, or the Nibelungen; but if we really want a
pattern, we must always return to the ancient Greeks, in whose works
the beauty of mankind is constantly represented. All the rest we must
look at only historically, appropriating to ourselves what is good, so
far as it goes.


_Poetry and Patriotism_[13]

To write military songs, and sit in a room! That would have suited me!
To have written them in the bivouac, when the horses at the enemy’s
outposts are heard neighing at night, would have been well enough;
however, that was not my life and not my business, but that of Theodor
Körner. His war-songs suit him perfectly. But to me, who am not of a
warlike nature, and who have no warlike sense, war-songs would have
been a mask which would have fitted my face very badly.

I have never affected anything in my poetry. I have never uttered
anything which I have not experienced, and which has not urged me to
production. I have only composed love-songs when I have loved. How
could I write songs of hatred without hating! And, between ourselves,
I did not hate the French, although I thanked God that we were free
from them. How could I, to whom culture and barbarism are alone of
importance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated of the
earth, and to which I owe so great a part of my own culture?

Altogether, national hatred is something peculiar. You will always
find it strongest and most violent where there is the lowest degree of
culture. But there is a degree where it vanishes altogether, and where
one stands to a certain extent _above_ nations, and feels the weal
or woe of a neighboring people, as if it had happened to one’s own.
This degree of culture was conformable to my nature, and I had become
strengthened in it long before I had reached my sixtieth year.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is better for us moderns to say with Napoleon, “Politics are
Destiny.” But let us beware of saying, with our latest literati, that
politics are poetry, or a suitable subject for the poet. The English
poet Thomson wrote a very good poem on the Seasons, but a very bad one
on Liberty, and that not from want of poetry in the poet, but from want
of poetry in the subject.

If a poet would work politically, he must give himself up to a party;
and so soon as he does that he is lost as a poet; he must bid farewell
to his free spirit, his unbiased view, and draw over his ears the cap
of bigotry and blind hatred.

The poet, as a man and citizen, will love his native land; but the
native land of his _poetic_ powers and poetic action is the good,
noble, and beautiful, which is confined to no particular province or
country, and which he seizes upon and forms wherever he finds it.
Therein is he like the eagle, who hovers with free gaze over whole
countries, and to whom it is of no consequence whether the hare on
which he pounces is running in Prussia or in Saxony.

And, then, what is meant by love of one’s country? what is meant by
patriotic deeds? If the poet has employed a life in battling with
pernicious prejudices, in setting aside narrow views, in enlightening
the minds, purifying the tastes, ennobling the feelings and thoughts of
his countrymen, what better could he have done? how could he have acted
more patriotically?


_Poetry and History_

Manzoni wants nothing except to know what a good poet he is, and what
rights belong to him as such. He has too much respect for history,
and on this account always adds explanations to his pieces, in which
he shows how faithful he has been to detail. Now, though his facts
may be historical, his characters are not so, any more than my Thoas
and Iphigenia. No poet has ever known the historical characters which
he has painted; if he had, he could scarcely have made use of them.
The poet must know what effects he wishes to produce, and regulate
the nature of his characters accordingly. If I had tried to make
Egmont as history represents him, the father of a dozen children, his
light-minded proceedings would have appeared very absurd. I needed an
Egmont more in harmony with his own actions and my poetic views; and
this is, as Clara says, _my_ Egmont.

What would be the use of poets, if they only repeated the record of
the historian? The poet must go further, and give us, if possible,
something higher and better. All the characters of Sophocles bear
something of that great poet’s lofty soul; and it is the same with the
characters of Shakespeare. This is as it ought to be. Nay, Shakespeare
goes farther, and makes his Romans Englishmen; and there, too, he is
right; for otherwise his nation would not have understood him.

Here again the Greeks were so great that they regarded fidelity to
historic facts less than the treatment of them by the poet. We have
a fine example in Philoctetes, which subject has been treated by all
three of the great tragic poets, and lastly and best by Sophocles. This
poet’s excellent play has, fortunately, come down to us entire, while
of the Philoctetes of Æschylus and Euripides only fragments have been
found, although sufficient to show how they have managed the subject.
If time permitted, I would restore these pieces, as I did the Phäeton
of Euripides; it would be to me no unpleasant or useless task.

In this subject the problem was very simple, namely, to bring
Philoctetes, with his bow, from the island of Lemnos. But the manner
of doing this was the business of the poet, and here each could show
the power of his invention, and one could excel another. Ulysses must
fetch him; but shall he be recognized by Philoctetes or not? and if
not, how shall he be disguised? Shall Ulysses go alone, or shall he
have companions, and who shall they be? In Æschylus the companion is
unknown; in Euripides, it is Diomed; in Sophocles, the son of Achilles.
Then, in what situation is Philoctetes to be found? Shall the island be
inhabited or not? and, if inhabited, shall any sympathetic soul have
taken compassion on him or not? And so with a hundred other things,
which are all at the discretion of the poet, and in the selection and
omission of which one may show his superiority in wisdom to another.
This is the important point, and the poets of to-day should do like the
ancients. They should not be always asking whether a subject has been
used before, and look to south and north for unheard-of adventures,
which are often barbarous enough, and merely make an impression as
incidents. But to make something of a simple subject by a masterly
treatment requires intellect and great talent, and these we do not find.


_Originality_

The Germans cannot cease to be Philistines. They are now squabbling
about some distichs, which are printed both in Schiller’s works and
mine, and fancy it is important to ascertain which really belong to
Schiller and which to me; as if anything could be gained by such
investigation--as if the existence of such things were not enough.
Friends like Schiller and myself, intimate for years, with the same
interests, in habits of daily intercourse, and under reciprocal
obligations, live so completely in one another that it is hardly
possible to decide to which of the two the particular thoughts belong.

We have made many distichs together; sometimes I gave the thought, and
Schiller made the verse; sometimes the contrary was the case; sometimes
he made one line, and I the other. What matters the mine and thine?
One must be a thorough Philistine, indeed, to attach the slightest
importance to the solution of such questions.

We are indeed born with faculties; but we owe our development to a
thousand influences of the great world, from which we appropriate to
ourselves what we can, and what is suitable to us. I owe much to the
Greeks and French; I am infinitely indebted to Shakespeare, Sterne,
and Goldsmith; but in saying this I do not exhaust the sources of my
culture; that would be an endless as well as an unnecessary task.
We might as well question a strong man about the oxen, sheep, and
swine which he has eaten, and which have given him strength. What is
important is to have a soul which loves truth, and receives it wherever
it finds it.

Besides, the world is now so old, so many eminent men have lived
and thought for thousands of years, that there is little new to be
discovered or expressed. Even my theory of colors is not entirely new.
Plato, Leonardo da Vinci, and many other excellent men, have before
me found and expressed the same thing in a detached form: my merit is
that I have found it also, that I have said it again, and that I have
striven to bring the truth once more into a confused world.

The truth must be repeated over and over again, because error is
repeatedly preached among us, not only by individuals, but by the
masses. In periodicals and cyclopedias, in schools and universities,
everywhere, in fact, error prevails, and is quite easy in the feeling
that it has a decided majority on its side.

       *       *       *       *       *

People are always talking about originality; but what do they mean? As
soon as we are born, the world begins to work upon us, and this goes
on to the end. And, after all, what can we call our own except energy,
strength, and will? If I could give an account of all that I owe to
great predecessors and contemporaries, there would be but a small
balance in my favor.

However, the time of life in which we are subjected to a new and
important personal influence is, by no means, a matter of indifference.
That Lessing, Winckelmann, and Kant were older than I, and that the
first two acted upon my youth, the latter on my advanced age,--this
circumstance was for me very important. Again, that Schiller was so
much younger than I, and engaged in his freshest strivings just as I
began to be weary of the world--just, too, as the brothers von Humboldt
and Schlegel were beginning their career under my eye--was of the
greatest importance. I derived from it unspeakable advantages.

What seduces young people is this. We live in a time in which so much
culture is diffused that it has communicated itself, as it were, to
the atmosphere which a young man breathes. Poetical and philosophic
thoughts live and move within him, he has sucked them in with his very
breath, but he thinks they are his own property, and utters them as
such. But after he has restored to the time what he has received from
it, he remains poor. He is like a fountain which plays for a while with
the water with which it is supplied, but which ceases to flow as soon
as the liquid treasure is exhausted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The critic of _Le Temps_ has not been so wise. He presumes to point
out to the poet the way he should go. This is a great fault; for one
cannot thus make him better. After all, there is nothing more foolish
than to say to a poet: “You should have done this in this way--and that
in that.” I speak from long experience. One can never make anything
of a poet but what nature has intended him to be. If you force him to
be another, you will destroy him. Now, the gentlemen of the _Globe_,
as I said before, act very wisely. They print a long list of all the
commonplaces which M. Arnault has picked up from every hole and corner;
and by doing this they very cleverly point out the rock which the
author has to avoid in future. It is almost impossible, in the present
day, to find a situation which is thoroughly new. It is merely the
manner of looking at it, and the art of treating and representing it,
which can be new, and one must be the more cautious of every imitation.


_Personality in Art_

You have before you the works of very fair talents, who have learned
something, and have acquired no little taste and art. Still, something
is wanting in all these pictures--the _Manly_. Take notice of this
word, and underscore it. The pictures lack a certain urgent power,
which in former ages was generally expressed, but in which the present
age is deficient, and that with respect not only to painting, but to
all the other arts. We have a more weakly race, of which we cannot say
whether it is so by its origin, or by a more weakly training and diet.

Personality is everything in art and poetry; nevertheless, there are
many weak personages among the modern critics who do not admit this,
but look upon a great personality in a work of poetry or art merely as
a kind of trifling appendage.

However, to feel and respect a great personality one must be something
oneself. All those who denied the sublime to Euripides were either
poor wretches incapable of comprehending such sublimity, or shameless
charlatans, who, by their presumption, wished to make more of
themselves, and really did make more of themselves than they were.


_The Subject-Matter of Poetry_

The world is so great and rich, and life so full of variety, that you
can never want occasions for poems. But they must all be occasional
poems; that is to say, reality must give both impulse and material for
their production. A particular case becomes universal and poetic by
the very circumstance that it is treated by a poet. All my poems are
occasional poems, suggested by real life, and having therein a firm
foundation. I attach no value to poems snatched out of the air.

Let no one say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this the
poet proves his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common
subject an interesting side. Reality must give the motive, the points
to be expressed, the kernel, as I may say; but to work out of it a
beautiful, animated whole, belongs to the poet. You know Fürnstein,
called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem possible
on the cultivation of hops. I have now proposed to him to make songs
for the different crafts of working-men, particularly a weaver’s
song, and I am sure he will do it well, for he has lived among such
people from his youth; he understands the subjects thoroughly, and
is therefore master of his material. That is exactly the advantage
of small works; you need only choose those subjects of which you are
master. With a great poem, this cannot be: no part can be evaded;
all which belongs to the animation of the whole, and is interwoven
into the plan, must be represented with precision. In youth, however,
the knowledge of things is only one-sided. A great work requires
many-sidedness, and on that rock the young author splits.

       *       *       *       *       *

I especially warn you against great inventions of your own; for then
you would try to give a view of things, and for that purpose youth is
seldom ripe. Further, character and views detach themselves as sides
from the poet’s mind, and deprive him of the fullness requisite for
future productions. And, finally, how much time is lost in invention,
internal arrangement, and combination, for which nobody thanks us, even
supposing our work is happily accomplished.

With a _given_ material, on the other hand, all goes easier and better.
Facts and characters being provided, the poet has only the task of
animating the whole. He preserves his own fullness, for he needs to
part with but little of himself, and there is much less loss of time
and energy, since he has only the trouble of execution. Indeed, I would
advise the choice of subjects which have been worked before. How many
Iphigenias have been written! yet they are all different, for each
writer considers and arranges the subject differently; namely, after
his own fashion.

       *       *       *       *       *

The majority of our young poets have no fault but this, that their
subjectivity is not important, and that they cannot find matter in
the objective. At best, they only find a material which is similar to
themselves, which corresponds to their own subjectivity; but as for
taking the material on its own account; merely because it is poetical,
even when it is repugnant to their subjectivity, such a thing is never
thought of.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our German æstheticians are always talking about poetical and
unpoetical objects; and, in one respect, they are not quite wrong; yet,
at bottom, no real object is unpoetical, if the poet knows how to use
it properly.


_The Influence of Environment_

If a talent is to be speedily and happily developed, the great point is
that a great deal of intellect and sound culture should be current in a
nation.

We admire the tragedies of the ancient Greeks; but, to take a correct
view of the case, we ought rather to admire the period and the nation
in which their production was possible than the individual authors; for
though these pieces differ a little from each other, and one of these
poets appears somewhat greater and more finished than the other, still,
taking all things together, only one decided character runs through the
whole.

This is the character of grandeur, fitness, soundness, human
perfection, elevated wisdom, sublime thought, clear, concrete vision,
and whatever other qualities one might enumerate. But when we find
all these qualities, not only in the dramatic works that have come
down to us, but also in lyrical and epic works, in the philosophers,
the orators, and the historians, and in an equally high degree in the
works of plastic art that have come down to us, we must feel convinced
that such qualities did not merely belong to individuals, but were the
current property of the nation and the whole period.

Now, take up Burns. How is he great, except through the circumstance
that the old songs of his predecessors lived in the mouth of the
people,--that they were, so to speak, sung at his cradle; that, as a
boy, he grew up amongst them, and the high excellence of these models
so pervaded him that he had therein a living basis on which he could
proceed further? Again, why is he great, but from this, that his own
songs at once found susceptible ears amongst his compatriots; that,
sung by reapers and sheaf-binders, they at once greeted him in the
field; and that his boon-companions sang them to welcome him at the
alehouse? Something was certainly to be done in this way.

On the other hand, what a pitiful figure is made by us Germans! Of our
old songs--no less important than those of Scotland--how many lived
among the people in the days of my youth? Herder and his successors
first began to collect them and rescue them from oblivion; then they
were at least printed in the libraries. Then, more lately, what songs
have not Bürger and Voss composed! Who can say that they are more
insignificant or less popular than those of the excellent Burns? but
which of them so lives among us that it greets us from the mouth of
the people?--they are written and printed, and they remain in the
libraries, quite in accordance with the general fate of German poets.
Of my own songs, how many live? Perhaps one or another of them may be
sung by a pretty girl at the piano; but among the people, properly so
called, they have no sound. With what sensations must I remember the
time when passages from Tasso were sung to me by Italian fishermen!

We Germans are of yesterday. We have indeed been properly cultivated
for a century; but a few centuries more must still elapse before so
much mind and elevated culture will become universal amongst our people
that they will appreciate beauty like the Greeks, that they will be
inspired by a beautiful song, and that it will be said of them “it is
long since they were barbarians.”


_Culture and Morals_

The audacity and grandeur of Byron must certainly tend towards Culture.
We should take care not to be always looking for it in only what is
decidedly pure and moral. Everything that is great promotes cultivation
as soon as we are aware of it.


_Classic and Romantic_

A new expression occurs to me which does not ill define the state of
the case. I call the classic _healthy_, the romantic _sickly_. In this
sense, the _Nibelungenlied_ is as classic as the _Iliad_, for both are
vigorous and healthy. Most modern productions are romantic, not because
they are new, but because they are weak, morbid, and sickly; and the
antique is classic, not because it is old, but because it is strong,
fresh, joyous, and healthy. If we distinguish “classic” and “romantic”
by these qualities, it will be easy to see our way clearly.

       *       *       *       *       *

This is a pathological work; a superfluity of sap is bestowed on some
parts which do not require it, and drawn out of those which stand in
need of it. The subject was good, but the scenes which I expected were
not there; while others, which I did not expect, were elaborated with
assiduity and love. This is what I call pathological, or “romantic,”
if you would rather speak according to our new theory.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French now begin to think justly of these matters. Both classic and
romantic, say they, are equally good. The only point is to use these
forms with judgment, and to be capable of excellence. You can be absurd
in both, and then one is as worthless as the other. This, I think, is
rational enough, and may content us for a while.

       *       *       *       *       *

The idea of the distinction between classical and romantic poetry,
which is now spread over the whole world, and occasions so many
quarrels and divisions, came originally from Schiller and myself. I
laid down the maxim of objective treatment in poetry, and would allow
no other; but Schiller, who worked quite in the subjective way, deemed
his own fashion the right one, and to defend himself against me, wrote
the treatise upon _Naïve and Sentimental Poetry_. He proved to me that
I myself, against my will, was romantic, and that my _Iphigenia_,
through the predominance of sentiment, was by no means so classical and
so much in the antique spirit as some people supposed.

The Schlegels took up this idea, and carried it further, so that it
has now been diffused over the whole world; and every one talks about
classicism and romanticism--of which nobody thought fifty years ago.


_Taste_

This is the way to cultivate what we call taste. Taste is only to be
educated by contemplation, not of the tolerably good, but of the
truly excellent. I therefore show you only the best works; and when
you are grounded in these, you will have a standard for the rest,
which you will know how to value, without overrating them. And I show
you the best in each class, that you may perceive that no class is to
be despised, but that each gives delight when a man of genius attains
its highest point. For instance, this piece, by a French artist, is
_galant_, to a degree which you see nowhere else, and is therefore a
model in its way.


_Style_

On the whole, philosophical speculation is injurious to the Germans,
as it tends to make their style abstract, difficult, and obscure. The
stronger their attachment to certain philosophical schools, the worse
they write. Those Germans who, as men of business and actual life,
confine themselves to the practical, write the best. Schiller’s style
is most noble and impressive whenever he leaves off philosophizing, as
I observe every day in his highly interesting letters, with which I am
now busy.

There are also among the German women talented beings who write a
really excellent style, and, indeed, in that respect surpass many of
our celebrated male writers.

The English almost always write well, being born orators and practical
men, with a tendency to the real.

The French, in their style, remain true to their general character.
They are of a social nature, and therefore never forget the public whom
they address; they strive to be clear; that they may convince their
reader--agreeable, that they may please him.

Altogether, the style of a writer is a faithful representative of his
mind; therefore, if any man wishes to write a clear style, let him
first be clear in his thoughts: and if any would write in a noble
style, let him first possess a noble soul.


_Intellect and Imagination_

I wonder what the German critics will say [of this poetic
inconsistency]. Will they have freedom and boldness enough to get over
this? Intellect will stand in the way of the French; they will not
consider that the imagination has its own laws, to which the intellect
cannot, and should not, penetrate.

If imagination did not originate things which must ever be problems to
the intellect, there would be but little for the imagination to do. It
is this which separates poetry from prose; and it is in the latter that
the intellect always is, and always should be, at home.


_Definition of Poetry_

What need of much definition? Lively feeling of situations, and power
to express them, make the poet.


_Definition of Beauty_

I cannot help laughing at the æstheticians, who torment themselves in
endeavoring, by some abstract words, to reduce to a conception that
inexpressible thing to which we give the name of beauty. Beauty is a
primeval phenomenon, which itself never makes its appearance, but the
reflection of which is visible in a thousand different utterances of
the creative mind, and is as various as nature herself.


_Architecture and Music_

I have found a paper of mine among some others, in which I call
architecture “petrified music.”[14] Really there is something in this;
the tone of mind produced by architecture approaches the effect of
music.


_Primitive Poetry_

From these old German gloomy times we can obtain as little as from the
Servian songs, and similar barbaric popular poetry. We can read it and
be interested about it for a while, but merely to cast it aside, and
let it lie behind us. Generally speaking, a man is quite sufficiently
saddened by his own passions and destiny, and need not make himself
more so by the darkness of a barbaric past. He needs enlightening and
cheering influences, and should therefore turn to those eras in art and
literature, during which remarkable men obtained perfect culture, so
that they were satisfied with themselves, and able to impart to others
the blessings of their culture.


_Weltliteratur_

We [Germans] are weakest in the æsthetic department, and may wait
long before we meet such a man as Carlyle. It is pleasant to see that
intercourse is now so close between the French, English, and Germans,
that we shall be able to correct one another. This is the greatest use
of a World Literature, which will show itself more and more.

Carlyle has written a life of Schiller, and judged him as it would be
difficult for a German to judge him. On the other hand, we are clear
about Shakespeare and Byron, and can, perhaps, appreciate their merits
better than the English themselves.


_French Critics_

I am now really curious to know what the gentlemen of the _Globe_
will say of this novel. They are clever enough to perceive its
excellencies; and the whole tendency of the work is so much grist to
the mill of these liberals, although Manzoni has shown himself very
moderate. Nevertheless, the French seldom receive a work with such pure
kindliness as we; they cannot readily adapt themselves to the author’s
point of view, but, even in the best, always find something which is
not to their mind, and which the author should have done otherwise.

       *       *       *       *       *

What men these writers in the _Globe_ are! One has scarcely a notion
how much greater and more remarkable they become every day, and how
much, as it were, they are imbued with one spirit. Such a paper would
be utterly impossible in Germany. We are mere individuals; harmony
and concert are not to be thought of; each has the opinions of his
province, his city, and his own idiosyncrasy; and it will be a long
while before we have attained an universal culture.


_The Construction of a Good Play_

When a piece makes a deep impression on us in reading, we think that it
will do the same on the stage, and that such a result can be obtained
with little trouble. But this is by no means the case. A piece that is
not originally, by the intent and skill of the poet, written for the
boards, will not succeed; but whatever is done to it will always remain
something unmanageable. What trouble have I taken with my _Goetz von
Berlichingen_! Yet it will not quite do as an acting play; it is too
long; and I have been forced to divide it into two parts, of which the
last is indeed theatrically effective, while the first is to be looked
upon as a mere introduction. If the first part were given only once
as an introduction, and then the second repeatedly, it might succeed.
It is the same with _Wallenstein_; the _Piccolomini_ does not bear
repetition, but _Wallenstein’s Death_ is always seen with delight.

The construction of a play must be symbolical; that is to say, each
incident must be significant in itself, and lead to another still more
important. The _Tartuffe_ of Molière is, in this respect, a great
example. Only think what an introduction is the first scene! From
the very beginning everything is highly significant, and leads us to
expect something still more important which is to come. The beginning
of Lessing’s _Minna von Barnhelm_ is also admirable; but that of
_Tartuffe_ is absolutely unique: it is the greatest and best thing that
exists of the kind.

In Calderon you find the same perfect adaptation to the theatre. His
pieces are throughout fit for the boards; there is not a touch in them
which is not directed towards the required effect. Calderon is a genius
who had also the finest understanding.

Shakespeare wrote his plays direct from his own nature. Then, too, his
age and the existing arrangements of the stage made no demands upon
him; people were forced to put up with whatever he gave them. But if
Shakespeare had written for the court of Madrid, or for the theatre
of Louis XIV, he would probably have adapted himself to a severer
theatrical form. This, however, is by no means to be regretted, for
what Shakespeare has lost as a theatrical poet he has gained as a poet
in general. Shakespeare is a great psychologist, and we learn from his
pieces what really moves the hearts of men.


_Dramatic Unities_

He [Byron] understood the purpose of this law no better than the rest
of the world. Comprehensibility [_das Fassliche_] is the purpose, and
the three unities are only so far good as they conduce to this end.
If the observance of them hinders the comprehension of a work, it is
foolish to treat them as laws, and to try to observe them. Even the
Greeks, from whom the rule was taken, did not always follow it. In
the _Phaethon_ of Euripides, and in other pieces, there is a change
of place, and it is obvious that good representation of their subject
was with them more important than blind obedience to law, which, in
itself, is of no great consequence. The pieces of Shakespeare deviate,
as far as possible, from the unities of time and place; but they
are comprehensible--nothing more so--and on this account the Greeks
would have found no fault in them. The French poets have endeavored
to follow most rigidly the laws of the three unities, but they sin
against comprehensibility, inasmuch as they solve a dramatic law, not
dramatically, but by narration.


_The Theatre_

Any one who is sufficiently young, and who is not quite spoiled, could
not easily find any place that would suit him so well as a theatre.
No one asks you any questions: you need not open your mouth unless
you choose; on the contrary, you sit quite at your ease like a king,
and let everything pass before you, and recreate your mind and senses
to your heart’s content. There is poetry, there is painting, there
are singing and music, there is acting, and what not besides. When
all these arts, and the charm of youth and beauty heightened to an
important degree, work in concert on the same evening, it is a bouquet
to which no other can compare. But even when part is bad and part is
good, it is still better than looking out of the window, or playing a
game of whist in a close party amid the smoke of cigars.


_Acting_

It is a great error to think that an indifferent piece may be played
by indifferent actors. A second or third rate play can be incredibly
improved by the employment of first-rate talents, and be made something
really good. But if a second or third rate play be performed by second
or third rate actors, no one can wonder if it is utterly ineffective.

Second-rate actors are excellent in great plays. They have the same
effect that the figures in half shade have in a picture; they serve
admirably to show off more powerfully those which have the full light.


_Dramatic Situations_

Gozzi maintained that there are only thirty-six tragical situations.
Schiller took the greatest pains to find more, but he did not find even
so many as Gozzi.


_Management of the Theatre_

The Grand Duke disclosed to me his opinion that a theatre need not
be of architectural magnificence, which could not be contradicted.
He further said that it was after all but a house for the purpose
of getting money. This view appears at first sight rather material;
but rightly considered, it is not without a higher purport. For if
a theatre is not only to pay its expenses, but is, besides, to make
and save money, everything about it must be excellent. It must have
the best management at its head; the actors must be of the best; and
good pieces must continually be performed, that the attractive power
required to draw a full house every evening may never cease. But that
is saying a great deal in a few words--almost what is impossible.

Even Shakespeare and Molière had no other view. Both of them wished,
above all things, to make money out of their theatres. In order
to attain this, their principal aim, they necessarily strove that
everything should be as good as possible, and that, besides good old
plays, there should be some worthy novelty to please and attract.

Nothing is more dangerous to the well-being of a theatre than when
the director is so placed that a greater or less receipt at the
treasury does not affect him personally, and he can live on in careless
security, knowing that, however the receipts at the treasury may fail
in the course of the year, at the end of that time he will be able to
indemnify himself from another source. It is a property of human nature
soon to relax when not impelled by personal advantage or disadvantage.


_Menander_

I know no one, after Sophocles, whom I love so well. He is thoroughly
pure, noble, great, and cheerful, and his grace is inimitable. It is
certainly to be lamented that we possess so little of him, but that
little is invaluable, and highly instructive to gifted men.


_Calderon_

The great point is that he from whom we would learn should be congenial
to our nature. Now, Calderon, for instance, great as he is, and much
as I admire him, has exerted no influence over me for good or for ill.
But he would have been dangerous to Schiller--he would have led him
astray; and hence it is fortunate that Calderon was not generally known
in Germany till after Schiller’s death. Calderon is infinitely great
in the technical and theatrical; Schiller, on the contrary, far more
sound, earnest, and great in his intention, and it would have been a
pity if he had lost any of these virtues, without, after all, attaining
the greatness of Calderon in other respects.


_Molière_

Molière is so great that one is astonished anew every time one reads
him. He is a man by himself--his pieces border on tragedy; they are
apprehensive; and no one has the courage to imitate them. His _Miser_,
where the vice destroys all the natural piety between father and son,
is especially great, and in a high sense tragic. But when, in a German
paraphrase, the son is changed into a relation, the whole is weakened,
and loses its significance. They feared to show the vice in its true
nature, as he did; but what is tragic there, or indeed anywhere, except
what is intolerable?

I read some pieces of Molière’s every year, just as, from time to time,
I contemplate the engravings after the great Italian masters. For we
little men are not able to retain the greatness of such things within
ourselves; we must therefore return to them from time to time, and
renew our impressions.

       *       *       *       *       *

If we, for our modern purposes, wish to learn how to conduct ourselves
upon the theatre, Molière is the man to whom we should apply.

Do you know his _Malade Imaginaire_? There is a scene in it which,
as often as I read the piece, appears to me the symbol of a perfect
knowledge of the boards. I mean the scene where the “malade imaginaire”
asks his little daughter Louison if there has not been a young man in
the chamber of her eldest sister.

Now, any other who did not understand his craft so well would have let
the little Louison plainly tell the fact at once, and there would have
been the end of the matter.

But what various motives for delay are introduced by Molière into this
examination, for the sake of life and effect. He first makes the little
Louison act as if she did not understand her father; then she denies
that she knows anything; then, threatened with the rod, she falls down
as if dead; then, when her father bursts out in despair, she springs up
from her feigned swoon with roguish hilarity, and at last, little by
little, she confesses all.

My explanation can only give you a very meagre notion of the animation
of the scene; but read this scene yourself till you become thoroughly
impressed with its theatrical worth, and you will confess that there is
more practical instruction contained in it than in all the theories in
the world.

I have known and loved Molière from my youth, and have learned from
him during my whole life. I never fail to read some of his plays every
year, that I may keep up a constant intercourse with what is excellent.
It is not merely the perfectly artistic treatment which delights me;
but particularly the amiable nature, the highly-formed mind, of the
poet. There is in him a grace and a feeling for the decorous, and a
tone of good society, which his innate beautiful nature could only
attain by daily intercourse with the most eminent men of his age. Of
Menander, I only know the few fragments; but these give me so high an
idea of him that I look upon this great Greek as the only man who could
be compared to Molière.


_Shakespeare_

We cannot talk about Shakespeare; everything is inadequate. I have
touched upon the subject in my _Wilhelm Meister_, but that is not
saying much. He is not a theatrical poet; he never thought of the
stage; it was far too narrow for his great mind: nay, the whole visible
world was too narrow.

He is even too rich and too powerful. A productive nature ought not to
read more than one of his dramas in a year if it would not be wrecked
entirely. I did well to get rid of him by writing _Goetz_ and _Egmont_,
and Byron did well by not having too much respect and admiration for
him, but going his own way. How many excellent Germans have been ruined
by him and Calderon!

Shakespeare gives us golden apples in silver dishes. We get, indeed,
the silver dishes by studying his works; but, unfortunately, we have
only potatoes to put into them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Macbeth_ is Shakespeare’s best acting play, the one in which he shows
most understanding with respect to the stage. But would you see his
mind unfettered, read _Troilus and Cressida_, where he treats the
materials of the _Iliad_ in his own fashion.


_A. W. Schlegel’s Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_

It is not to be denied that Schlegel knows a great deal, and one is
almost terrified at his extraordinary attainments and his extensive
reading. But this is not enough. Learning in itself does not constitute
judgment. His criticism is completely one-sided, because in all
theatrical pieces he merely regards the skeleton of the plot and
arrangement, and only points out small points of resemblance to great
predecessors, without troubling himself in the least as to what the
author brings forward of graceful life and the culture of a high soul.
But of what use are all the arts of genius, if we do not find in a
theatrical piece an amiable or great personality of the author? This
alone influences the cultivation of the people.

I look upon the manner in which Schlegel has treated the French drama
as a sort of recipe for the formation of a bad critic, who is wanting
in every organ for the veneration of excellence, and who passes over
an able personality and a great character as if they were chaff and
stubble.


_The French Romanticists_

Extremes are never to be avoided in any revolution. In a political
one nothing is generally desired in the beginning but the abolition
of abuses; but before people are aware, they are deep in bloodshed
and horror. Thus the French, in their present literary revolution,
desired nothing at first but a freer form; however, they will not stop
there, but will reject the traditional contents together with the
form. They begin to declare the representation of noble sentiments and
deeds as tedious, and attempt to treat of all sorts of abominations.
Instead of the beautiful subjects from Grecian mythology, there are
devils, witches, and vampires, and the lofty heroes of antiquity must
give place to jugglers and galley slaves. This is piquant! This is
effective! But after the public has once tasted this highly seasoned
food, and has become accustomed to it, it will always long for more,
and that stronger. A young man of talent, who would produce an effect
and be acknowledged, and who is great enough to go his own way, must
accommodate himself to the taste of the day--nay, must seek to outdo
his predecessors in the horrible and frightful. But in this chase after
outward means of effect, all profound study, and all gradual and
thorough development of the talent and the man from within, is entirely
neglected. And this is the greatest injury which can befall a talent,
although literature in general will gain by this tendency of the moment.

The extremes and excrescences which I have described will gradually
disappear; but this great advantage will finally remain--besides
a freer form, richer and more diversified subjects will have been
attained, and no object of the broadest world and the most manifold
life will be any longer excluded as unpoetical. I compare the present
literary epoch to a state of violent fever, which is not in itself good
and desirable, but of which improved health is the happy consequence.
That abomination which now often constitutes the whole subject of a
poetical work will in future only appear as a useful expedient; aye,
the pure and the noble, which is now abandoned for the moment, will
soon be resought with additional ardor.

Mérimée has treated these things very differently from his
fellow-authors. These poems, it is true, are not deficient in various
horrible motifs, such as churchyards, nocturnal crossroads, ghosts and
vampires; but the repulsive themes do not touch the intrinsic merit
of the poet. On the contrary, he treats them from a certain objective
distance, and, as it were, with irony. He goes to work with them like
an artist, to whom it is an amusement to try anything of the sort. He
has, as I have said before, quite renounced himself, nay, he has even
renounced the Frenchman, and that to such a degree that at first these
poems of Guzla were deemed real Illyrian popular poems, and thus little
was wanting for the success of the imposition he had intended.

Mérimée, to be sure, is a splendid fellow! Indeed, more power and
genius are generally required for the objective treatment of a
subject than is supposed. So Lord Byron, also, notwithstanding his
predominant personality, has sometimes had the power of renouncing
himself altogether, as may be seen in some of his dramatic pieces,
particularly in his _Marino Faliero_. In this piece one quite forgets
that Lord Byron, or even an Englishman, wrote it. We live entirely in
Venice, and entirely in the time in which the action takes place. The
personages speak quite from themselves, and from their own condition,
without having any of the subjective feelings, thoughts, and opinions
of the poet. That is as it should be. Of our young French romantic
writers of the exaggerating sort, one cannot say as much. What I
have read of them--poems, novels, dramatic works--have all borne the
personal coloring of the author, and none of them ever make me forget
that a Parisian--that a Frenchman--wrote them. Even in the treatment of
foreign subjects one still remains in France and Paris, quite absorbed
in all the wishes, necessities, conflicts, and fermentations of the
present day.


_Victor Hugo_

He has a fine talent, but quite entangled in the unhappy romantic
tendency of his time, by which he is seduced to represent, together
with what is beautiful, also that which is most insupportable and
hideous. I have lately been reading his _Notre Dame de Paris_, and
required no little patience to support the horror with which this
reading has inspired me. It is the most abominable book that ever
was written! Besides, one is not even indemnified for the torture
one has to endure by the pleasure one might receive from a truthful
representation of human nature or human character. His book is, on
the contrary, utterly destitute of nature and truth! The so-called
characters whom he brings forward are not human beings with living
flesh and blood, but miserable wooden puppets, which he deals with as
he pleases, and which he causes to make all sorts of contortions and
grimaces just as he needs them for his desired effects. But what an age
it must be which not only renders such a book possible and calls it
into existence, but even finds it endurable and delightful.


_The “Idea” of Goethe’s Tasso and Faust_

Idea! as if I knew anything about it. I had the life of Tasso, I had
my own life; and whilst I brought together two odd figures with their
peculiarities, the image of Tasso arose in my mind, to which I opposed,
as a prosaic contrast, that of Antonio, for whom also I did not lack
models. The further particulars of court life and love affairs were at
Weimar as they were in Ferrara; and I can truly say of my production,
_it is bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh_.

The Germans are, certainly, strange people. By their deep thoughts and
ideas, which they seek in everything and fix upon everything, they make
life much more burdensome than is necessary. Only have the courage to
give yourself up to your impressions, allow yourself to be delighted,
moved, elevated, nay, instructed and inspired for something great; but
do not imagine all is vanity, if it is not abstract thought and idea.

Then they come and ask what idea I meant to embody in my _Faust_. As if
I knew myself and could inform them. _From heaven, through the world,
to hell_, would indeed be something; but this is no idea, only a course
of action. And further, that the devil loses the wager, and that a man,
continually struggling from difficult errors towards something better,
should be redeemed, is an effective, and to many, a good enlightening
thought; but it is no idea which lies at the foundation of the whole
and of every individual scene. It would have been a fine thing,
indeed, if I had strung so rich, varied, and highly diversified a life
as I have brought to view in _Faust_ upon the slender string of one
pervading idea.

It was, on the whole, not in my line, as a poet, to strive to embody
anything _abstract_. I received in my mind _impressions_, and those
of a sensuous, animated, charming, varied, hundredfold kind, just as
a lively imagination presented them; and I had, as a poet, nothing
more to do than artistically to round off and elaborate such views and
impressions, and by means of a lively representation so to bring them
forward that others might receive the same impression in hearing or
reading my representation of them.

If I however wished, as a poet, to represent any idea, I did it in
short poems, where a decided unity could prevail, as, for instance, in
the _Metamorphosis of Animals_, that of _Plants_, the poem _Legacy_,
and many others. The only production of greater extent, in which I am
conscious of having labored to set forth a pervading idea, is probably
my _Elective Affinities_. This novel has thus become comprehensible
to the intellect; but I will not say that it is therefore better. I
am rather of the opinion that the more incommensurable, and the more
incomprehensible to the intellect, a poetic production is, so much the
better it is.


_Schiller_

Yes, everything else about him was proud and majestic, only the eyes
were soft. And his talent was like his outward form. He seized boldly
on a great subject, and turned it this way and that, and handled it
this way and that. But he saw his object, as it were, only from the
outside; a quiet development from within was not his province. His
talent was desultory. Thus he was never decided--could never have done.
He often changed a part just before a rehearsal.

And, as he went so boldly to work, he did not take sufficient pains
about _motives_. I recollect what trouble I had with him when he wanted
to make Gessler, in _Tell_, abruptly break an apple from the tree, and
have it shot from the boy’s head. This was quite against my nature,
and I urged him to give at least some motive to this barbarity, by
making the boy boast to Gessler of his father’s dexterity, and say that
he could shoot an apple from a tree at a hundred paces. Schiller, at
first, would have nothing of the sort: but at last he yielded to my
arguments and intentions, and did as I advised him. I, on the other
hand, by too great attention to _motives_, kept my pieces from the
theatre. My _Eugenie_ is nothing but a chain of _motives_, and this
cannot succeed on the stage.

Schiller’s genius was really made for the theatre. With every piece he
progressed, and became more finished; but, strange to say, a certain
love for the horrible adhered to him from the time of the _Robbers_,
which never quite left him even in his prime. I still recollect
perfectly well that in the prison scene in my _Egmont_, where the
sentence is read to him, Schiller would have made Alva appear in the
background, masked and muffled in a cloak, enjoying the effect which
the sentence would produce on Egmont. Thus Alva was to show himself
insatiable in revenge and malice. I, however, protested, and prevented
the apparition. He was a singular, great man.

Every week he became different and more finished; each time that I saw
him he seemed to me to have advanced in learning and judgment. His
letters are the fairest memorials of him which I possess, and they are
also among the most excellent of his writings.


_Edinburgh Review_

It is a pleasure to me to see the elevation and excellence to which
the English critics now rise. There is not a trace of their former
pedantry, but its place is occupied by great qualities. In the last
article--the one on German literature--you will find the following
remark:--“There are some poets who have a tendency always to occupy
themselves with things which another likes to drive from his mind.”
What say you to this? There we know at once where we are, and how we
have to classify a great number of our most modern literati.


_Byron_

Lord Byron is to be regarded as a man, as an Englishman, and as a great
genius. His good qualities belong chiefly to the man, his bad to the
Englishman and the peer, his talent is incommensurable.

All Englishmen, as such, are without reflection, properly so called;
distractions and party spirit will not permit them to perfect
themselves in quiet. But they are great as practical men.

Thus Lord Byron could never attain reflection concerning himself, and
on this account his maxims in general are not successful, as is shown
by his creed, “much money and no authority,” for much money always
paralyzes authority.

But where he creates he always succeeds; and we may truly say that with
him inspiration supplies the place of reflection. Something within him
ever drove him to poetry, and then everything that came from the man,
especially from his heart, was excellent. He produced his best things,
as women do pretty children, without thinking about it or knowing how
it was done.

He is a great talent, a born talent, and I never saw the true poetical
power greater in any man than in him. In the apprehension of external
objects, and a clear penetration into past situations, he is quite as
great as Shakespeare. But as a pure individuality, Shakespeare is his
superior. This was felt by Byron, and on this account he does not say
much of Shakespeare, although he knows whole passages by heart. He
would willingly have denied him altogether; for Shakespeare’s serenity
is in his way, and he feels that he is no match for it. Pope he does
not deny, for he had no cause to fear him. On the contrary, he mentions
him, and shows him respect when he can, for he knows well enough that
Pope is a mere foil to himself.

His high rank as an English peer was very injurious to Byron; for every
talent is oppressed by the outer world,--how much more, then, when
there is such high birth and so great a fortune. A certain middle rank
is much more favorable to talent, on which account we find all great
artists and poets in the middle classes. Byron’s predilection for the
unbounded could not have been nearly so dangerous with more humble
birth and smaller means. But as it was, he was able to put every fancy
into practice, and this involved him in innumerable scrapes. Besides,
how could one of such high rank be inspired with awe and respect by any
rank whatever? He expressed whatever he felt, and this brought him into
ceaseless conflict with the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Moreover, his perpetual negation and fault-finding is injurious even
to his excellent works. For not only does the discontent of the poet
infect the reader, but the end of all opposition is negation; and
negation is nothing. If I call _bad_ bad, what do I gain? But if I call
_good_ bad, I do a great deal of mischief. He who will work aright must
never rail, must not trouble himself at all about what is ill done,
but only strive to do well himself. For the great point is not to pull
down, but to build up, and in this humanity finds pure joy.

       *       *       *       *       *

I could not make use of any man as the representative of the modern
poetical era except him, who undoubtedly is to be regarded as the
greatest genius of our century. Byron is neither antique nor romantic,
but like the present day itself. This was the sort of man I required.
Then he suited me on account of his unsatisfied nature and his warlike
tendency, which led to his death at Missolonghi.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a
child.


_Scott_

Walter Scott’s _Fair Maid of Perth_ is excellent, is it not? There is
finish! there is a hand! What a firm foundation for the whole, and in
particular not a touch which does not lead to the goal! Then, what
details of dialogue and description, both of which are excellent. His
scenes and situations are like pictures by Teniers; in the arrangement
they show the summit of art, the individual figures have a speaking
truth, and the execution is extended with artistic love to the minutest
details, so that not a stroke is lost.

You find everywhere in Walter Scott a remarkable security and
thoroughness in his delineation, which proceeds from his comprehensive
knowledge of the real world, obtained by life-long studies and
observations, and a daily discussion of the most important relations.
Then come his great talent and his comprehensive nature. You remember
the English critic who compares the poets to the voices of singers, of
which some can command only a few fine tones, while others have the
whole compass, from the highest to the lowest, completely in their
power. Walter Scott is one of this last sort. In the _Fair Maid of
Perth_ you will not find a single weak passage to make you feel as if
his knowledge and talent were insufficient. He is equal to his subject
in every direction in which it takes him; the king, the royal brother,
the prince, the head of the clergy, the nobles, the magistracy, the
citizens and mechanics, the Highlanders, are all drawn with the same
sure hand, and hit off with equal truth.

The passage where the prince, sitting on horseback, makes the pretty
minstrel girl step upon his foot, that he may raise her up for a kiss,
is in the boldest English style. But you ladies are wrong always to
take sides. Usually, you read a book to find nutrition for the heart,
to find a hero whom you could love. This is not the way to read; the
great point is not whether this or that character pleases, but whether
the whole book pleases.

But, when you have finished the _Fair Maid of Perth_, you must at once
read _Waverley_, which is written from quite a different point of view,
but which may, without hesitation, be set beside the best works that
have ever been written in this world. We see that it is the same man
who wrote the _Fair Maid of Perth_, but that he has yet to gain the
favor of the public, and therefore collects his forces so that he may
not give a touch that is short of excellence. The _Fair Maid of Perth_,
on the other hand, is from a freer pen; the author is now sure of his
public, and he proceeds more at liberty. After reading _Waverley_, you
will understand why Walter Scott still designates himself the author of
that work; for there he showed what he could do, and he has never since
written anything to surpass, or even equal, that first published novel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walter Scott is a great genius; he has not his equal; and we need not
wonder at the extraordinary effect he produces on the whole reading
world. He gives me much to think of; and I discover in him a wholly
new art, with laws of its own.

       *       *       *       *       *

We read far too many poor things, thus losing time, and gaining
nothing. We should only read what we admire, as I did in my youth, and
as I now experience with Sir Walter Scott. I have just begun _Rob Roy_,
and will read his best novels in succession. All is great--material,
import, characters, execution; and then what infinite diligence in
the preparatory studies! what truth of detail in the execution! We
see, too, what English history is; and what a thing it is when such an
inheritance falls to the lot of a clever poet. Our German history, in
five volumes, is, on the other hand, sheer poverty.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a peculiarity of Walter Scott’s that his great talent in
representing details often leads him into faults. Thus, in _Ivanhoe_,
there is a scene where they are seated at a table in a castle-hall at
night, and a stranger enters. Now, he is quite right in describing the
stranger’s appearance and dress, but it is a fault that he goes to the
length of describing his feet, shoes, and stockings. When we sit down
in the evening, and some one comes in, we see only the upper part of
his body. If I describe the feet, daylight enters at once, and the
scene loses its nocturnal character.


FOOTNOTES:

[13] Goethe had been reproached “for not taking up arms in the
German War of Liberation, or at least coöperating as a poet.”

[14] “Architecture is music in space, as it were a frozen
music.”--Schelling’s _Philosophie der Kunst_.




APPENDIX

  I. On the Selection and Translation of the Essays in this Volume.

  II. On the Chronology of Goethe’s Critical Studies.




APPENDIX


I. _On the Selection and Translation of the Essays in this Volume_

This book was first suggested to me in 1909, and was virtually
completed seven or eight years ago; but the manuscript was mislaid
among some old papers, and when it was recovered the European War was
at its height. Never again, it then seemed, could I regard my work
with the same disinterested temper in which it was begun, for what was
recovered was no longer a manuscript but a ghost, no longer a book but
a strange spirit returned from an all too irrecoverable past. When
I re-read these words from the lips of one who had spent his life
“with spirits god-like mild,” and related them to our new and altered
world, I understood once more how man forever fashions history to his
own meaning, and how it has no life except such as is given to it by
his creative mind. Every word I now read assumed a new and heightened
significance, a more intimate relation with life; and every word was a
call to sympathy and understanding,--the word of a man who had withheld
all hate from enemy France, had praised England and its literature,
had analyzed the defects of his own countrymen, and had made constant
denial of the compatibility of poetry and partisanship. How could
I approach work of this kind in the spirit of the fiery national
partisan, not to mention that of the mere dryasdust scholar, when every
word Goethe uttered shed light and meaning on the warm life about me,
and every accent of his voice taught a high forebearance? So when on
sick-leave from my regiment at the very end of 1917, to while away
the tediousness of convalescence, I played once more with the work
begun in the old days when I was still able to live in “the wise man’s
only country, Life”; and before I sailed for France, leaving behind me
the manuscript as it here stands, I determined that if it were ever
published, I should add nothing in the form of preface, introduction,
or critical apparatus, but allow Goethe to speak for himself to such
hearts as could hear and understand him. Some readers may find a key to
that understanding if they begin with the famous passage on “Poetry and
Patriotism” on page 251.

No adequate estimate of Goethe’s critical work has yet been achieved;
and the sensible but unilluminating chapter on this subject in the
late Calvin Thomas’s _Goethe_ is not much more disappointing than the
more extended studies in German of Oskar Walzel and Wilhelm Bode. For
a complete estimate of Goethe as a critic we should have to ransack
all his essays and reviews, his novels and poems, his autobiography
and his journals, his letters and conversations, for in all of them he
has scattered judgments on books and thoughts on the theory of art. It
would almost seem as if his reputation as a critic rests more securely
on these casual utterances than on his formal essays and studies. There
more than elsewhere Sainte-Beuve and Matthew Arnold recognized “the
supreme critic”; there above all we find that mellow wisdom which we
have come to associate with Goethe’s name.

In this little volume, however, we have most of Goethe’s successive
moods represented by some characteristic utterance,--the young
reviewer, the lover of Shakespeare and Gothic art, rebelling against
schools and rules but most of all against dullness and formality; the
contributor to Wieland’s _German Mercury_, the collaborator of Schiller
in the _Horen_ and in an exchange of letters of incomparable interest,
after the life of Weimar and the journey to Italy had mellowed
his talents; the student of art and æsthetics in the _Propyläen_,
championing the antique spirit and voicing a protest against the
excesses of romanticism; the more thoughtful but still sympathetic
student of Shakespeare, enthusiastic in _Wilhelm Meister_, more
temperate in _Shakespeare ad Infinitum_; the mature reviewer, welcoming
the publication of old German and foreign folksongs, and hailing in
turn Byron, Manzoni, Carlyle, Niebuhr, and all the young French and
German writers of his day; and finally, the literary dictator in his
old age, as shown in the careless and incessant wisdom of his recorded
conversation. We have here, it is true, a very small part of his
extraordinary output, but quite enough to form a just judgment of his
place among the great critics. In a career so extended and a mind so
active and all-embracing we must expect to find inconsistencies and
errors of judgment. Some of the ideas in this volume have only an
historical interest; a perverse mind might indeed garner from it an
anthology of critical errors. It was not these which won for him from
so many the title of “supreme critic,” but rather the sanity, insight,
and impartiality of his mind and his extraordinary gift for foreseeing
the direction of critical thought.

All of the selections in Part I, except the essay on “German
Architecture,” have been taken from Goethe’s _Essays on Art_,
translated by S. G. Ward (Boston, 1845). Wilhelm Meister’s critique
of _Hamlet_ has been excerpted from Carlyle’s rendering of _Wilhelm
Meister’s Lehrjahre_. The version of John Oxenford has been used for
the selections from the _Conversations with Eckermann_, and Oxenford’s
version, as revised by Miss M. S. Smith, for the selection from
Goethe’s _Autobiography_. The remaining essays were translated by the
late Randolph S. Bourne, by Professor F. W. J. Heuser, and by myself.
I am indebted to Mr. Bourne for translating the following essays: “On
German Architecture,” “Shakespeare ad Infinitum,” “The First Edition of
_Hamlet_,” “_Troilus and Cressida_,” “The Methods of French Criticism,”
“Supplement to Aristotle’s _Poetics_,” “Tieck’s Dramaturgic Fragments,”
“On the German Theatre,” “Didactic Poetry,” “Superstition and Poetry,”
“The Theory of a World Literature,” “Byron’s _Manfred_,” “Byron’s _Don
Juan_,” “Calderon’s _Daughter of the Air_,” “Molière’s _Misanthrope_,”
“Folksongs again Commended,” and “Laurence Sterne.” Professor Heuser
has translated the following: “The Production of a National Classic,”
“Epic and Dramatic Poetry,” and “English Reviewers.” I have made
material changes and corrections in almost all the translations, but on
the whole each translator should be held responsible for the accuracy
and style of his own work. For the selection and arrangement of the
material, and for the titles given to some of the excerpts, I am alone
responsible.

Some of Goethe’s judgments on books, and his maxims on life and art,
have already appeared in volumes of selections in English translation;
but no other work in any language, so far as I am aware, attempts to
include in a single volume the whole range of Goethe’s critical and
æsthetic studies. Some of the selections have never before appeared in
English.

                                           J. E. S.

  TROUTBECK, May, 1919.

Since the above was written, I have become greatly indebted to Lord
Haldane for contributing the Foreword, and especially to Professor
Friedrich Bruns for reading the proofsheets and revising some of the
translations. Miss L. Bonino has prepared the Index.

                                           J. E. S.

  NEW YORK, September, 1921.


II. _On the Chronology of Goethe’s Critical Studies_

The following chronology of Goethe’s critical activity is intended
chiefly to indicate the original sources of the selections in the
present volume.

  1772-73. Reviews in the _Frankfurter gelehrten Anzeigen_:

    Goethe as a Young Reviewer (reviews of Blum’s _Lyrische Gedichte_,
      and Sulzer’s _Cymbelline, ein Trauerspiel, nach einem von
      Shakespeare erfundnen Stoffe_, both translated in full).

  1773. _Von deutscher Baukunst_:

    On German Architecture (complete translation).

  1788 sq. Articles in Wieland’s _Teutscher Merkur_:

    Simple Imitation of Nature, Manner, Style (_Über Italien: Einfache
      Nachahmung der Natur, Manier, Stil_, complete translation).

  1794-1805. Correspondence of Goethe and Schiller:

    Epic and Dramatic Poetry (complete translation); also footnote on
      page 104.

  1795-96. _Wilhelm Meister’s Lehrjahre_:

    Wilhelm Meister’s Critique of _Hamlet_.

  1795-97. Articles in _Die Horen_:

    The Production of a National Classic (_Literarischer
      Sansculottismus_, complete translation except for four introductory
      paragraphs).

  1798-1800. Articles in _Die Propyläen_:

    Introduction to the Propylæa.

    On Laocoon (complete translation).

    On Truth and Probability in Works of Art (complete translation).

    The Collector and his Friends.

    Notes on Dillettantism. (By Goethe and Schiller).

  1804 sq. Reviews in the _Jenaische Allgemeine Literaturzeitung_:

    Old German Folksongs (review of _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, translated
      in full except that only a few of Goethe’s characterizations of
      individual poems are included).

  1811-14. _Dichtung und Wahrheit_ (Autobiography):

    German Literature in Goethe’s Youth (selected passages from part
      ii, book 7); also footnote on page 14 (from part ii, book 10).

  1815 sq. Articles in the _Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände_:

    Shakespeare ad Infinitum, parts i-ii, written 1813 (_Shakespeare
      und kein Ende_, complete translation).

    On the German Theatre (complete translation).

  1816-32. Articles in _Über Kunst und Alterthum_:

    Ancient and Modern.

    The Theory of a World Literature, part i (review of Duval’s _Le
      Tasse_), part ii (_Bezüge nach Aussen_, complete translation),
      part iii (_Edinburgh Reviews_), part v (review of Carlyle’s _Leben
      Schillers_).

    Supplement to Aristotle’s _Poetics_ (complete translation).

    On Didactic Poetry (complete translation).

    Superstition and Poetry (_Justus Möser_).

    The Methods of French Critics (_Urteilsworte französischer
      Kritiker_, complete translation).

    On Criticism, § 1 (review of Manzoni’s _Carmagnola_), § 3 (review
      of Rochlitz’s _Für Freunde der Tonkunst_).

    The First Edition of _Hamlet_ (complete translation).

    Byron’s _Manfred_ (complete translation).

    Byron’s _Don Juan_ (complete translation).

    Calderon’s _Daughter of the Air_ (complete translation).

    Molière’s _Misanthrope_ (review of Taschereau’s _Histoire de la Vie
      et des Ouvrages de Molière_, complete translation).

    Shakespeare ad Infinitum, part iii, written 1816, published 1826
      (complete translation).

    Folksongs again Commended (complete translation).

    Laurence Sterne (complete translation).

    The English Reviewers (review of Manzoni’s _Carmagnola_).

  1822-32. _Gespräche mit Goethe in den letzten Jahren seines Lebens_,
    by J. P. Eckermann (published 1836-48):

    Extracts from Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann.

  Posthumous Works (_Nachgelassene Werke_, 1833):

    Tieck’s Dramaturgic Fragments (complete translation).

    _Troilus and Cressida_ (_Über die Parodie bei den Alten_).




INDEX




INDEX


  Anacreon, 239.

  Aristotle, 104 _sq._

  Arnault, Antoine Vincent, 258.

  Arnim, Achim von, 213 _sq._


  Blümner, Heinrich, 184.

  Blum, J. C., 199 _sq._

  Blumauer, Alois, 206.

  Bodmer, Johann Jakob, 233, 239.

  Breitinger, Johann Jakob, 231, 233.

  Brentano, Clemens, 213 _sq._

  Bürger, Gottfried August, 74, 262.

  Burns, Robert, 262.

  Byron, 202 _sq._, 263, 268, 270, 276, 279, 283 _sq._


  Calderon, 208 _sq._, 251, 269, 273, 276.

  Carlyle, Thomas, 267 _sq._, 293.

  Characteristic art, 11, 37.

  Chinese literature, 249.

  Chodowiecki, Daniel Nicolaus, 67.

  Claudius, Matthias, 74.

  Cousin, Victor, 97.

  Criticism, theory of, 134, 140, 224, 230, 276, 283.


  Diderot, Denys, 138.

  Drama, and Theatre, 50, 75, 79, 100, 104, 109, 126, 158, 170, 179, 184,
                      190, 268 _sq._

  Dürer, Albrecht, 13.


  Erwin von Steinbach, 3, 7, 10, 12.


  Fabroni, Angelo, 40.

  Folksongs, 213, 220, 267.

  Frederick the Great, 241.

  Fürnstein, Anton, 259.


  Gellert, Christian Fürchtegott, 232.

  Gessner, Salomon, 74, 239.

  Gleim, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig, 236, 242, 244.

  Goldsmith, Oliver, 256.

  Gottsched, Johann Christoph, 230 _sq._, 239 _sq._

  Gozzi, Count Carlo, 272.

  Gries, Johann Dietrich, 210.

  Grimm, Friedrich Melchior, Baron von, 138 _sq._

  Guizot, François Pierre Guillaume, 97.

  Günther, Johann Christian, 234.


  Haller, Albrecht von, 235.

  Hamann, Johann Georg, 14.

  Handel, Georg Friedrich, 107.

  Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 14, 262.

  Hirt, Alois, 36.

  Homer, 10, 240.

  Horace, 136, 199 _sq._, 231, 239 _sq._

  Hugo, Victor, 279 _sq._

  Humboldt, Karl Wilhelm, Baron von, 257.

  Huysum, Jan van, 62.


  Iffland, August Wilhelm, 113.


  Johnson, Samuel, 201.


  Kant, Immanuel, 257.

  Kleist, Ewald Christian von, 240 _sq._

  Kleist, Heinrich von, 126.

  Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 74, 112, 236, 244.

  König, Johann Ulrich von, 233 _sq._

  Körner, Theodor, 251.


  Laocoon, 22, 24 _sq._, 33 _sq._, 39, 42.

  Laugier, Marc Antoine, 14.

  Leonardo da Vinci, 68, 256.

  Lessing, 38, 112, 232, 236, 244, 257, 269.

  Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph, 206.

  Lichtwer, M. G., 232.

  Liscow, Christian Ludwig, 228.

  Lowell, James Russell, 179.


  Mannerists, 36, 64, 67.

  Manzoni, Alessandro, 205, 253, 268.

  Matthisson, Friedrich von, 250.

  Menander, 275.

  Mérimeé, Prosper, 278 _sq._

  Michelangelo, 68.

  Milton, 240.

  Molière, 212, 269, 272 _sq._


  Napoleon, 252.

  Nicolai, Christoph Friedrich, 201.

  Niebuhr, B. G., 293.

  Novel, the, 170.


  Oeser, Adam Friedrich, 237.

  Originality, 255.


  Perugino, 68.

  Pindar, 240.

  Plato, 256.

  Pope, Alexander, 239, 284.


  Rabener, Gottlieb Wilhelm, 228 _sq._

  Ramler, Karl Wilhelm, 235 _sq._, 242.

  Raphael, 68.

  Richardson, Samuel, 249.

  Romanticism, 179, 263, 277.

  Rubens, 69.

  Ruysch, Rachel, 62.


  Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von, 267.

  Schiller, 38, 100, 104, 109 _sq._, 115 _sq._, 119 _sq._, 129, 184, 191,
            255, 257, 264 _sq._, 268, 272 _sq._, 282 _sq._, 292.

  Schlegel, August Wilhelm von, 257, 269, 276 _sq._

  Schlegel, Friedrich von, 257, 269.

  Schlegel, Johann Elias, 239.

  Schroeder, Friedrich Ludwig, 124, 188 _sq._

  Schubarth, Karl Ernst, 65.

  Scott, Sir Walter, 286 _sq._

  Seylerin (i.e., Sophie Friedrike Seyler), 118.

  Shakespeare, 65 _sq._, 124, 127, 136, 145 _sq._, 171 _sq._, 181 _sq._,
               200 _sq._, 204, 209 _sq._, 225, 238, 254, 256, 268 _sq._,
               272, 275, 284.


  Steevens, George, 193.

  Sterne, Laurence, 222, 256.

  Style, 61, 265.

  Sulzer, J. G., 200 _sq._


  Taschereau, J., 212.

  Theatre, see Drama.

  Thomson, James, 252.

  Tieck, Ludwig, 126 _sq._


  Uvaroff, Count, 137.


  Villemain, Abel François, 97.

  Virgil, 34 _sq._, 240.

  Voss, Johann Heinrich, 262.


  Wieland, Christoph Martin, 74, 86, 164, 236 _sq._, 292.

  Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 38, 257.

  World Literature, 89 _sq._, 267.


       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note

Italics in chapter headings and spelling of title of works were
standardized. Hyphenation was standardized where appropriate.

Page number references in the index are as published in the original
publication and have not been checked for accuracy in this eBook.

Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following
changes:

  Page vii: “Tieck’s _Dramaturgic_”         “Ludwig Tieck’s _Dramaturgic_”
  Page viii: “Subject-matter of Poetry”     “Subject-Matter of Poetry”
  Page 36: “with my possessessions”         “with my possessions”
  Page 89: “its aesthetic and ethical”      “its æsthetic and ethical”
  Page 166: “These s  approaches”           “These soft approaches”
  Page 200: “Cymbelline, a Trageay”         “Cymbelline, a Tragedy”
  Page 207: “art of poety ever”             “art of poetry ever”
  Page 244: “and the stubborness”           “and the stubbornness”
  Page 255: “made many distiches”           “made many distichs”
  Page 291: “of the compatability”          “of the compatibility”
  Page 292: “elsewhere Sainte-Beauve”       “elsewhere Sainte-Beuve”
  Page 297: “(complete translalation”       “(complete translation”




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