Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/problematicchar00veregoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [Oe] or [oe].
BY COPYRIGHT ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHOR.
F. Spielhagen's Complete Works.
_Translated from the German_.
_JUST PUBLISHED_.
I.
PROBLEMATIC CHARACTERS.
A Novel. Translated by Prof. Schele de Vere. 12mo. Cloth. $2.00.
II.
THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT.
A Novel. Translated by Prof. Schele de Vere. Uniform with the above.
12mo. cloth. $2.00.
CRITICAL NOTICES.
"Such a novel as no English author with whom we are acquainted could
have written, and no American author except Hawthorne. What separates
it from the multitude of American and English novels is the perfection
of its plot, and it's author's insight into the souls of his
characters.... If Germany is poorer than England, as regards the number
of its novelists, it in richer when we consider the intellectual value
of their works. If it has not produced a Thackeray, or a Dickens, it
has produced, we venture to think, two writers who are equal to them in
genius, and superior to them in the depth and spirituality of their
art--Auerbach and Spielhagen."--_Putnam's Magazine_.
"The name is suggested by a passage in Goethe, which serves as a
motto to the book. Spielhagen means to illustrate what Goethe speaks
of--natures not in full possession of themselves, who are not equal to
any situation in life, and whom no situation satisfies"--the Hamlet of
our latest civilisation. With these he deals in a poetic, ideal
fashion, yet also with humor, and, what is less to be expected in a
German, with sparkling, flashing wit, and a cynical vein that reminds
one of Heine. He has none of the tiresome detail of Auerbach, while he
lacks somewhat that excellent man's profound devotion to the moral
sentiment. There is more depth of passion and of thought in Spielhagen,
together with a French liveliness by no means common in German
novelists.... At any rate, they are vastly superior to the bulk of
English novels which are annually poured out upon us--as much
above Trollope's as Steinberger Cabinet is better than London
porter.--_Springfield Republican_.
"The reader lives among them (the characters) as he does among his
acquaintances, and may plead each one's case as plausibly to his own
judgment as he can those of the men whose mixed motives and actions he
sees around him. In other words, these characters live, they are men
and women, and the whole mystery of humanity is upon each of them. Has
no superior in German romance for its enthusiastic and lively
descriptions, and for the dignity and the tenderness with which its
leading characters are invested."--_New York Evening Post_.
"He strikes with a blow like a blacksmith, making the sparks fly and
the anvil ring. Terse, pointed, brilliant, rapid, and no dreamer, he
has the best traits of the French manner, while in earnestness and
fulness of matter he is thoroughly German. One sees, moreover, in his
pages, how powerful is the impression which America has of late been
making upon the mind of Europe."--_Boston Commonwealth_.
"The work is one of immense vigor; the characters are extraordinary,
yet not unnatural; the plot is the sequence of an admirably-sustained
web of incident and action. The portraitures of characteristic foibles
and peculiarities remind one much of the masterhand of the great
Thackeray. The author Spielhagen in Germany ranks very much as
Thackeray does with us, and many of his English reviewers place him at
the head and front of German novelists."--_Troy Daily Times_.
"His characters have, perhaps, more passion, and act their parts with
as much dramatic effect as those which have passed under the hand of
Auerbach."--_Cincinnati Chronicle_.
The N. Y. Times, of Oct. 23d, in a long Review of the above two works,
says: "The descriptions of nature and art, the portrayals of character
and emotion, are always striking and truthful. As one reads, there
grows upon him gradually the conviction that this is one of the
greatest of works of fiction.... No one, that is not a pure _egoiste_,
can read _Problematic Characters_ without profound and even solemn
interest. It is altogether a tragic work, the tragedy of the nineteenth
century--greater in its truth and earnestness, and absence of _Hugoese_
affectation, than any tragedy the century has produced. It stands far
above any of the productions of either _Freytag_ or _Auerbach_."
IN PRESS.
III. The Hohenstein Family. Translated by Prof. Schele de Vere. IV.
Hammer and Anvil. V. In Rank And File. VI. Rose, And The Village
Coquette.
_LEYPOLDT & HOLT, Publishers_,
451 BROOME ST., NEW YORK.
PROBLEMATIC
CHARACTERS.
_A Novel_
BY
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.
_Author's Edition_.
NEW YORK
LEYPOLDT & HOLT
1870.
Problematic Characters
A Novel
BY
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
FROM THE GERMAN
BY
PROF. SCHELE DE VERE
_Author's Edition_.
"There are problematic characters, who are not equal to any situation
in life, and whom no situation satisfies. This causes an immense
discord within, and their whole life is spent without enjoyment."
GOETHE.
NEW YORK
LEYPOLDT & HOLT
1870
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
LEYPOLDT & HOLT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
The New York Printing Company,
81, 83, _and_ 85 _Centre St._,
New York.
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.
_Extract from the Westminster Review, October, 1868_.
From biographical notices of Spielhagen in German periodicals,[1] we
gather that he was born in Magdeburg, in 1829, and is the son of a
Prussian functionary of considerable rank (Regierungsrath). His youth
was passed in the romantic old town of Stralsund, to which his father
was removed in 1835, and the scenery of that neighborhood, and of the
near lying island Ruegen, appears to have become so deeply impressed on
the opening mind of the boy, that he subsequently painted it with
enthusiasm in several of his romances. His course of "gymnasial"
education in Stralsund having been completed in 1847, he went in that
year to the University of Berlin, intending to study medicine. But his
poetical nature soon caused him to give up all thoughts of the medical
profession, and the following year he removed to Bonn to study
philology. He remained at Bonn till 1850, when he returned to Berlin,
continuing his studies partly at that university and partly at that of
Greifswald. Whilst at these universities he appears to have studied a
variety of subjects, but discursively rather than with reference to any
regular profession--for which both his poetical vein and his thirst for
observations of actual life seem to have disqualified him. After
serving his allotted time in the Prussian army, and occupying the post
of tutor in the family of a Pomeranian nobleman, he went to Leipzig, in
1854, to devote himself to general literature, and he afterwards became
a teacher (_Privat Docent_) of modern literature and aesthetics.
His first romance, "Clara Vere," was published in 1857, and in the
following year a short romance, "Auf der Duene" ("On the Downs"),
appeared, and attracted considerable attention. In the six years
Spielhagen resided at Leipzig he wrote many critical essays for
periodicals, translated a considerable number of French, English, and
American works[2]--particularly of American poets, and published there
two more short romances, one of which, "Roeschen vom Hofe," a charming
idyl, rapidly passed through four editions. In 1860 he went to Hanover,
where he married; and the following year he removed to Berlin, where he
has since resided, displaying great activity in connection with a
leading periodical, and as romance writer. In 1861 his first large
romance, "Problematische Naturen," appeared, and at once established
for the writer a great reputation. It was followed the next year by a
continuation, "Durch Nacht zum Lichte" ("Through Night to Light"). In
1864 another long romance, "Die von Hohenstein," was published, and
lastly, in the autumn of 1866, "In Reih' und Glied" ("In the Ranks"), a
romance in six volumes.[3]
The scenes of all Spielhagen's romances, with the exception of his
first, "Clara Vere," are laid in the Baltic provinces or islands, in
the Prussian capital, or on the Rhine.... The heroes in many of
Spielhagen's romances are not made of common stuff. They are very
unusual natures, gifted with more than the average of intellectual
power, even for our intellectual age. A few have even Titanic
qualities,--towering ambition, insatiable cravings, and overwhelming
passions, which bring them to a miserable end. That the heroes in
romances--which have been styled the modern epics--should stand at
least a foot higher than ordinary men is but what we have a right to
expect. It can interest none but the most unrefined minds, to be
occupied chiefly in works of fiction with commonplace, vulgar natures
and their unpoetical surroundings, or with stilted heroes clothed in
tinsel, and talking in high-flown fashion amidst scenes of extravagant
conception. In Spielhagen's heroes psychological truth is never
violated. The principal personages in his romances live before us and
fix our interest. Their dispositions are not described, but impressed
upon our minds in action. The plots of his romances too, despite the
great number of scenes and characters introduced, are nevertheless
skilful, consistent, and artistic. He makes no extravagant use of
improbable coincidences, nor is the reader kept on the tenter-hooks of
suspense whilst the intricacies of a plot are unravelled. It was
Schiller, we believe, who called the romancist the half-brother of the
poet. To Spielhagen's glowing descriptions of nature, which are never
tediously minute, and are invariably brought into harmony with, or made
to enhance by contrast, the moods and actions of his personages, a true
poetical charm is given. In this respect they may be said to occupy a
happy position between the vague and shadowy pictures formerly met with
in German romances, and the photographic realism or word-painting, so
wearisome to readers of taste in many of our modern English novels.
With a skilful hand, too, he paints the tender emotions and longings of
the heart, particularly in his female characters. Though the interest
in his stories is generally well sustained, yet in many of them the
_denouments_ are sad, a foreboding of which, as the consequences of
vices, errors, or weaknesses in the actors, too soon perhaps arises in
the reader's mind.... But the comic elements, satire, wit, and humor,
are not wanting to afford amusement to the reader. Apart from the
national coloring pertaining to his characters, their peculiar
qualities are shown to have little to do with external circumstances.
We see the hereditary influences of temperament and other organic
conditions indicated; and in descriptions of bodily gestures, and
expressions of the countenance, much knowledge of human nature, in its
morbid as well as healthy state, is displayed. But enough of general
observation on this author. We have before us numerous criticisms of
his works in well-accredited German periodicals, which could be cited
in proof that we have not overestimated his powers nor his popularity.
Indeed, in Germany he is generally acknowledged to occupy the foremost
rank amongst modern writers of fiction; an opinion, moreover, confirmed
to some extent by the publication of his romances in a collected form.
In agreement with German critics, we consider "Problematic Natures" to
be the most interesting and poetical of our author's productions.[4]...
Goethe says in his "Dichtung und Wahrheit": "There are problematic
natures who are not equal to any situation in which they are placed,
and for whom no situation is good enough. A fearful conflict results
therefrom, which consumes life without enjoyment." These pregnant words
of the great German poet are placed as motto on the title-page of the
work before us, and Spielhagen has built upon them a tale full of
poetry and psychological interest. In the course of the romance the
author, through one of his personages, more specifically characterizes
problematic natures as "beings for the most part liberally endowed by
nature with good qualities; whose feelings and endeavors in general are
directed to what is good, yet who all, without exception, come to a sad
end, because they understand, either never or too late, that the most
enthusiastic efforts and the loftiest aims not only remain uncrowned by
success, but at length destroy the struggler himself if he overlooks
the conditions of our earthly existence. Such people are not satisfied
with anything--with themselves least of all. Possessed of endless
susceptibilities, they seize everything with avidity, cast it, however,
away as soon as its limited nature becomes clear to them. The world
does not satisfy them, and they do not satisfy the world. The world
lets those who despise it fall, despair, die of hunger, as may be; and
it is right it should be so, for naturally those only can be rewarded
who, sacrificing their egotistical desires, strive to serve the world
earnestly and diligently."
... Detestation of the aristocracy is prominent in all Spielhagen's
romances. The aristocracy in general--though there are several most
favorable exceptions--is shown in them to be rotten and out of date. In
some of his romances, a very pandemonium of "Junker" arrogance,
frivolity, and debauchery--particularly of the military "Junker"--is
painted, perhaps in colors somewhat too dark. In the people, including
the _Buerger_ class, healthy virtues and high intelligence are shown to
dwell almost as prerogatives. Still, as regards the citizen classes, he
has guarded himself against the reproach of one-sidedness, for several
of his low-born characters are innately weak and vicious, and amongst
his political democrats he has sketched popularity-hunting demagogues,
actuated likewise by motives entirely base and selfish. Amongst the
distinguished and good personages our author introduces, young
physicians, and other students of science and nature occupy the
foremost places. They are some of them evidently painted after life;
and in his great appreciation of physical sciences, and the men who
devote to them their energies, he does but give expression to
sentiments now-a-days prevailing in Germany. And in his low estimate of
the nobility, he forms no exception to modern writers of fiction in
Germany. Indeed, Immermann, in his village tales, and even Goethe, in
"Wilhelm Meister" and the "Wanderjahre," display anti-aristocratic
sympathies. To these great writers of fiction the names of Gutzkow,
Auerbach, Freitag, Schloenbach, and many others may be added.
One chief cause of the antipathy of the citizen classes in Germany to
the nobility we have already mentioned in speaking of "Problematical
Natures." Another cause may be found in the circumstance that the
nobility, since 1848, has in general used whatever political influence
it possesses in a reactionary, ultraconservative spirit. As a
consequence, however, of the strict line of demarcation, based on
pedigree, between nobles and the citizen classes in Germany, the vulgar
conceit and mean struggles for social position, so well known in this
country, and so fertile a theme with our satirical novelists, are but
seldom experienced in that country. The characters in Spielhagen's
romances most resembling our snobs are worldly-minded, sycophantic
clergymen and the low-born _nouveaux riches_....
Although in some respects this popular German romance-writer displays
subjective biases; yet, on the whole, he is objective, and most
decidedly reflects opinions now prevalent in his country. In fact, one
of his critics avers, that "a psychological historian of the future may
turn to his works for valuable data on many aspects of social life in
the present times." As a delineator of individual characters--many of
them types of different classes of society; as a painter of various
situations, scenic and social, he appears to us unequalled by any other
modern German writer of fiction.
Problematic Characters.
Part First.
CHAPTER I.
It was a warm evening in July in the year 184-, when an ordinary wagon,
drawn by two heavily-built bay horses, made its way slowly through the
heavy roads of a pine forest.
"Is this forest never to have an end?" exclaimed the young man who was
sitting alone on the back seat of the carriage, and raised himself
impatiently.
The taciturn driver answered only by cracking his whip. The slow bays
made a desperate effort to trot, but soon abandoned the purpose, which
was as little suitable to their tempers as to the deep sand. The young
man leaned back again with a sigh, and commenced once more to listen to
the monotonous music of the vehicle, as it tried to keep in the deep
rots, and let the dark trunks of the pine-trees glide by, one by one,
noticing how here and there a ray of moonlight fell upon them; for the
moon was just rising above the wood. He began again to fancy what would
be his reception at the chateau, and his new situation, upon which he
was about to enter; but these dim visions of an unknown future became
vaguer and vaguer, his weary eyes closed, and the first sound of which
he was again conscious was the dull tramp of the horses on a wooden
bridge which led to a lofty stone portal. "At last!" exclaimed the
young man, rising and looking around him full of curiosity, as the
wagon drove rapidly through a dark avenue of gigantic trees, followed a
rounded-off curve on a large open courtyard covered with gravel, and
then stopped before the doors of the chateau, on whose windows the rays
of the moon glittered brightly.
The silent driver cracked his whip to make his arrival known. The only
answer was the loud sound of a clock, quite near by, which slowly
struck eleven o'clock. When the last stroke had been heard, the door
opened and a servant stepped out, and behind him the figure of an old
gentleman became visible, whose wrinkled face was lighted up by the
glare of a candle, which he tried to protect with his hand against the
strong draught.
The young man jumped briskly from the wagon to meet the old gentleman,
who offered him his hand, and said to him in a voice full of kindness,
but betraying his old age by its tremor, and marked by a foreign
accent:
"Be heartily welcome, doctor!" The young man pressed his hand cordially
and replied: "I come rather late, baron, but----"
"No matter, no matter at all," interrupted the old gentleman. "My good
wife is still up. John, carry the doctor's traps to his room! Please
come in here!"
Oswald had arranged his dress quickly in the hall, which had a
beautiful tessellated floor, and now followed the baron into a lofty
large room.
As he entered, two ladies arose from the sofa behind a table, where
they seemed to have been busy reading.
"My wife," said the baron, presenting Oswald to the older of the two, a
tall, graceful lady of about forty years, who had advanced a few steps
to meet the new-comer and now replied to his bow with some formality.
Then he bowed to the younger lady, a delicate, small figure, with a
sharp, thoroughly French face, framed in long curls; not thinking that
he ought to neglect this act of politeness, merely because he had not
been introduced to her also.
"You are late, Doctor Stein," said the baroness, with a deep sonorous
voice, which was not exactly in harmony with the cold light of her dark
gray eyes.
"As early, madam," replied the young man, cheerfully, "as the contrary
wind, which delayed the ferry-boat in the morning for several hours,
and the baron's driver, whose patience I had ample time to admire on
the way, would permit me."
"Patience is a noble virtue," said the baroness, when she had resumed
her seat on the sofa, while the others took chairs around the table; "a
virtue which you no doubt value very highly, as you need it so much in
your vocation. I am afraid the two boys will give you but too frequent
opportunities to practise this virtue to its fullest extent."
"I promise myself everything that is good from my future pupils, and am
quite sure, in advance, that the trials which they will make of my
patience will be no fiery trials."
"I hope so," said the baroness, resuming her work, which she had laid
aside when the young man entered. "But you will find the boys just now
rather neglected, as your arrival has been retarded for several days,
and your predecessor could not, or would not, do us the favor to delay
his departure for a few days."
"I should not think fairly of the character of the boys," replied
Oswald, "and still less so of the ability of Mr. Bauer, whom I have
heard much praised, if I were really to fear that his influence had not
survived a week."
"Well, Mr. Bauer had his virtues, but also his foibles," said the
baroness, counting the stitches in her work.
"That is the fate of men," replied Oswald.
"Perhaps the doctor would like some refreshment, dear Anna Maria," said
the old gentleman, suddenly. Oswald could not make out whether he was
prompted by an impulse of hospitality, or by a desire to change the
conversation, which was assuming a somewhat lively character.
"No, I thank you," said Oswald, dryly.
"You have not been long engaged in teaching," continued the baroness,
taking no notice of the interruption, "if I understood Professor Berger
correctly, who gave us your address."
"No."
"You will oblige me particularly if you will give me, at a favorable
moment, your views about education. I am convinced in advance that we
shall agree in all essential points. But, of course, we must be
prepared to differ in some minor matters. I shall always tell you
frankly what I may wish or think, and I beg you will be as frank with
me. As to the knowledge acquired by the boys, you will be the best
judge of that yourself. Nor do I wish to anticipate your opinion of
their character; only one thing I should like to mention to you: you
will find our son Malte a somewhat spoiled child; while Bruno--you know
that Bruno von Loewen is a distant relative of my husband's, whom we
have adopted after the death of his father--is a boy who has had no
education at all, and is, therefore, perfectly wild."
"My dear Anna Maria," said the old gentleman.
"I know what you are going to say, my dear Grenwitz," interrupted the
baroness. "Bruno is, once for all, your favorite, and our views
concerning him will always be at variance. You may be perfectly right
when you say that I am unable to judge him fairly; but that is less my
own fault than his, as the boy's morose and reserved manner makes all
approach on our part--I mean on my part--almost impossible."
"But, my dear Anna Maria----"
"Well, never mind, dear Grenwitz; we will not weary Dr. Stein on the
very first evening he spends under our roof by the spectacle of discord
between husband and wife. Besides, Doctor Stein must be tired.
Mademoiselle, please ring the bell." The last words, spoken in French,
were addressed to the young lady who had been sitting immovable at the
table, without ever looking at the new-comer, and holding the book,
from which she seemed to have been reading aloud, still in her hand.
Now she rose and went to the door, near which the bell-rope was
hanging. Oswald anticipated her, saying: "Permit me, mademoiselle." The
girl looked at him out of her large brown eyes with a half-wondering,
half-frightened glance, which betrayed clearly enough how little she
was accustomed to be treated with such courtesy. Then, casting down her
eyes quickly, she went back to her seat at the table. A servant
entered, and received orders to show Oswald to his room.
"I hope you will find everything as you wish it," said the baroness, as
Oswald took his leave with a silent bow; "if anything has been
forgotten, or does not suit your taste, I beg you will let us know at
once; I am exceedingly anxious for our own sake that you should be
comfortable in our house."
Oswald bowed once more and followed the servant to his room.
They went across a hall, on the walls of which Oswald noticed, by the
flickering light of the candle, full-size portraits of gentlemen and
ladies in old-fashioned costumes; then up a stone staircase, through
long galleries and a suite of rooms into a larger apartment.
"This is your room, doctor," said the man, lighting the two candles
which stood on a large round table in the centre of the room. "That
door opens into your bedroom."
"And where do the boys sleep?" asked Oswald.
"If you go through your bedroom, you get into the young gentlemen's
room. Have you any orders, sir?"
"No, I thank you."
"I wish you a good-night, sir."
"Good-night."
Oswald was alone. He had remained standing, one hand resting upon the
table, and listened mechanically as the footsteps of the servant became
gradually fainter and fainter down the long passage. Then he took one
of the candles, passed through his chamber to the door which the
servant had told him would admit him to the boys' room, opened it
cautiously and went in, carefully screening the light with his hand.
The beds of the two boys stood close by each other. Before one bed lay
a carpet, before the other none. Above the bed without a carpet hung a
small silver watch; above the bed with a carpet, a still smaller gold
watch. In the bed below the gold watch lay a boy of perhaps fourteen
years, with light, straight hair, and a delicate, finely-cut face,
which, at that moment, looked rather silly, thanks to the half-open
mouth. In the bed with the silver watch lay a boy who might have been a
year older than the other, but who looked at least three years his
senior, and formed in every way the most singular contrast with him.
While the arms of the younger lay languidly on the coverlet, those of
the other were firmly crossed on his chest. The compressed lips and the
slightly frowning eyebrows, drawn together perhaps by a troublesome
dream, gave to the irregular but not unattractive face an expression of
dark defiance and pride, which would not have been amiss in the heir to
a throne.
"Poor boy," said Oswald to himself, looking with deepest interest at
the enigmatical face of the child; "you have had already tears in the
spring of your life, if you ever really had a spring."
He was deeply moved, scarcely knowing why. But he bent over the
sleeping child and kissed his forehead. The boy turned in his sleep,
his arms relaxed, and opening his large, deep blue eyes, he looked at
Oswald through the mist of his dream. All of a sudden a ray of sunlight
seemed to flash across his face; the dark expression vanished, and a
warm, inexpressibly sweet smile played over the animated features.
"I love you," said the boy.
"And I love you, too," replied Oswald.
Then Bruno turned over, and Oswald saw from his deep, regular breathing
that he had fallen fast asleep once more.
"Has he really seen you or were you only a dream to him?" the young man
asked himself, as he went back to his room after the little scene which
had moved him deeply. He put the candle on the table, went to the
window, opened it and looked out.
The sky was covered with clouds and fogs, through which the full moon
shone like a ball of red fire, far down near the horizon. In the east
sheet lightning flashed to and fro. The air was hot and oppressive. In
the garden below the windows the flowering fruit-trees shone with a
white sheen, while the oaks and beeches, which rose like giants along
the wall around the garden, up to the heavens, lay buried in deep, dark
shadow. Nightingales sang in long, full notes; a fountain played
merrily, but in subdued tones, as if dreaming.
Oswald felt strangely excited. His past arose before his mind's eye in
dim images, scene after scene, as the veil of clouds drove over the
face of the moon; visions of the future flashed across them, as the
lightning toward the east. Suddenly the trees rustled, and the loud
bell, which he had heard at his arrival, struck twelve in slow,
measured beats.
He started. "Did you not mean to give up dreaming?" he asked himself,
smiling. "Well then, you had better go to bed if you cannot stay awake
without dreaming."