In _Lucinde_, then, as in a nutshell, are to be found all the
theories which, later in the history of Romanticism, are developed
and illustrated by examples. In such an essay as that on the Instinct
of Change by the Æsthete in Kierkegaard's _Enten-Eller_ ("Either-Or")
idleness is systematised. "Never adopt any calling or profession.
By so doing a man becomes simply one of the mob, a tiny bolt in the
great machinery of the state; he ceases to be master.... But though
we hold aloof from all regular callings, we ought not to be inactive,
but to attach great importance to occupation which is identical with
idleness.... The whole secret lies in the independence, the absence
of restraint. We are apt to believe that there is no art in acting
unrestrained by any law; in reality the most careful calculation is
required, if we are not to go astray, but to obtain enjoyment from
it...."
Idleness, lawlessness, enjoyment! This is the threeleaved clover which
grows all over the Romanticist's field. In such a book as Eichendorff's
_Das Leben eines Taugenichts_ ("Life of a Ne'er-do-Well") idleness is
idealised and exalted in the person of the hero. And purposelessness is
another important item, which must on no account be overlooked. It is
another designation for the genius of Romanticism. "To have a purpose,
to act according to that purpose, artificially to combine purpose with
purpose, and thereby create new purposes, is a bad habit, which has
become so deeply rooted in the foolish nature of godlike man, that he
is obliged, when for once it is his desire to float aimlessly upon the
stream of constantly changing images and emotions, to do even this
of settled purpose.... It is very certain, my friend, that man is by
nature a serious animal." (Julius to Lucinde.)
On the subject of this utterance, even that orthodox Christian,
Kierkegaard, says: "In order not to misjudge Schlegel, we must bear
in mind the perverted ideas which had insinuated themselves into
men's minds in regard to many of the relations of life, and which
had specially and indefatigably striven to make love as tame, well
broken-in, heavy, sluggish, useful, and obedient, as any other
domestic animal--in short, as unerotic as possible.... There is a very
narrow-minded morality, a policy of expediency, a futile teleology,
which many men worship as an idol, an idol that claims every infinite
aspiration as its legitimate offering. Love is considered nothing in
itself; it only acquires importance from the purpose it is made to
serve in the paltry play which holds the stage of family life." It is
perhaps admissible to conclude that what Kierkegaard says about "the
tame, well broken-in, sluggish, and useful domestic animal, love,"
found its most apt application in Germany, which at that time was
undoubtedly the home of the old-fashioned womanliness. The satirical
sallies in Tieck's comedies occasionally point in the same direction.
In his _Däumling_ ("Hop-o'-my-thumb") a husband complains of his wife's
craze for knitting, which gives him no peace; a complaint which,
perhaps, can only be understood in Germany, where to this day ladies
are to be seen knitting even in places of public entertainment--at
the concerts on the Brühlsche Terrasse in Dresden, for example. Herr
Semmelziege says:--
"Des Hauses Sorge nahm zu sehr den Sinn ihr ein,
Die Sauberkeit, das Porzellan, die Wäsche gar:
Wenn ich ihr wohl von meiner ew'gen Liebe sprach,
Nahm sie der Bürste vielbehaartes Brett zur Hand,
Um meinem Rock die Fäden abzukehren still.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Doch hätt' ich gern geduldet Alles, ausser Eins:
Dass, we sie stand, und we sie ging, auswärts, im Haus,
Auch im Concert, wenn Tongewirr die Schöpfung schuf,
* * * * * * * * * * *
Da zaspelnd, haspelnd, heftig rauschend, nimmer still,
Ellnbogen fliegend, schlagend Seiten und Geripp,
Sie immerdar den Strickstrumpf eifrig handgehabt."[1]
The most comical part of this satire is the passage which, whether
intentionally or unintentionally on the author's part, reads like
a parody of the well-known Roman Elegy in which Goethe drums the
hexameter measure, "leise mit fingernder Hand," upon his mistress's
back:--
"Einst als des Thorns heilig Lager uns umfing,
Am Himmel glanzvoll prangte Lunas keuscher Schein,
Der goldnen Aphrodite Gab' erwünschend mir,
Von silberweissen Armen ich umflochten lag.
Schon denkend, welch ein Wunderkind so holder Nacht,
Welch Vaterlandserretter, kraftgepanzert, soll
Dem zarten Leib entspriessen nach der Horen Tanz,
Fühl' ich am Rücken hinter mir gar sanften Schlag:
Da wähn ich, Liebsgekose neckt die Schulter mir,
Und lächle fromm die süsse Braut und sinnig an:
Bald naht mir der Enttäuschung grauser Höllenschmerz
Das Strickzeug tanzt auf meinem Rücken thätig fort;
Ja, stand das Werk just in der Ferse Beugung, wo
Der Kundigste, ob vielem Zählen, selber pfuscht."[2]
When the cult of the useful is carried as far as this, we can
understand advocacy of purposelessness.
But purposelessness and idleness are inseparable. "Only Italians," we
are told, "know how to walk, and only Orientals how to lie; and where
has the mind developed with more refinement and sweetness than in
India? And in every clime it is idleness which distinguishes the noble
from the simple, and which is, therefore, the essence of nobility."
This last assertion is outrageous, but its very audacity is
significant. It shows the attitude of Romanticism towards the masses.
To have the means to do nothing is, in its estimation, the true patent
of nobility. Its heroes are those who cultivate the unremunerative
arts, and are supported by others--kings and knights like those in
Fouqué's and Ingemann's books, artists and poets like those in Tieck's
and Novalis's. It separates itself from humanity, will do nothing for
it, but only for the favoured few. The hero and heroine in _Lucinde_
are the gifted artist and the woman of genius; it is not the ordinary
union, but the "nature-marriage" or the "art-marriage" (_Naturehe,
Kunstehe_) for which our interest is claimed. Observe how Julius at
once asks Lucinde whether her child, if a girl, shall be trained as a
portrait or as a landscape painter. Only as a member of the fraternity
of artists do her parents take any interest in her. Only authors and
artists have part and lot in the poetry of life.
It is not difficult to understand how it was that _Lucinde_ was barren
of any social results. But though the book had no practical outcome,
though it was too feeble to effect any kind of reform, there was,
nevertheless, something practical underlying it.
Let us cast a glance at the principal characters. They stand out in
strong relief upon a background of the profoundest scorn for all the
prose of real life and all the conventions of society. The book is in
no wise ashamed of its erotic theories; in its conscious purity it
feels itself elevated above the judgment of the vulgar: "It is not only
the kingly eagle which dares to scorn the screaming of the ravens; the
swan, too, is proud, and pays as little heed. Its only care is that its
white wings shall not lose their brightness; its only desire, to cling,
unruffled, to Leda's breast, and breathe forth all that is mortal in it
in song."
The image is pretty and daring, but is it true? The story of Leda and
the swan has been treated in so many ways.
Julius is a pessimistic (_zerrissener_) young man, an artist, of
course. We are told in the _Lehrjahre der Männlichkeit_, the chapter
containing what Flaubert has called _l'éducation sentimentale_, that
it was strikingly characteristic of him that he could play faro with
apparently passionate eagerness, and yet in reality be absent-minded
and careless; he would dare everything in the heat of the moment, and
as soon as he had lost would turn indifferently away. Such a trait
may not excite our admiration, but it at all events produces a pretty
distinct impression of a pleasure-loving, _blasé_ young man, who,
feeling no powerful impulse towards action, seeks for excitement while
leading a life of careless, coldly despairing idleness. The history of
his development is indicated, as is often the case with quite young
men, simply by a succession of female names.
Of the women in question we have only very slight sketches, like the
pencil-drawings in an album. One of these introductory portraits is
rather more elaborated than the rest, that of a _dame aux camélias_
sunk in Oriental indolence, who, like the original _dame aux camélias_,
is raised above her position by a true passion, and dies when she
is neither understood nor believed. She dies by her own hand, makes
a brilliant exit from life, and seems to us, as she is described
sitting in her boudoir with her hands in her lap, surrounded by great
mirrors and inhaling perfumes, like a living image of the æsthetic
stupor of self-contemplation and self-absorption, which was the final
development of Romanticism. After passing through numbers of erotic
experiences, all equally and exceedingly repulsive, Julius finally
makes the acquaintance of his feminine counterpart, Lucinde, whose
impression is never effaced. "In her he met a youthful artist" (Of
course!), "who, like himself, passionately worshipped beauty and loved
nature and solitude. In her landscapes one felt a fresh breath of real
air. She painted not to gain a living or to perfect herself in an art"
(On no account any purpose or utility!) "but simply for pleasure"
(Dilettantism and irony!). "Her productions were slight water-colour
sketches. She had lacked the patience and industry required to learn
oil-painting." (No industry!) ... "Lucinde had a decided leaning
towards the romantic" (Of course she had; she is romance incarnate!).
"She was one of those who do not live in the ordinary world, but in
one created by themselves.... With courageous determination she had
broken with all conventions, cast off all bonds, and lived in perfect
freedom and independence." From the time when Julius meets her, his art
too becomes more fervid and inspired. He paints the nude "in a flood
of vitalising light;" his figures "were like animated plants in human
shapes."
With Julius and Lucinde life flows on smoothly and melodiously, "like
a beautiful song," in perpetually aroused and satisfied longing. The
action passes, as it were, in a studio where the easel stands close
to the alcove. Lucinde becomes a mother, and their union is now the
"marriage of nature" (_die Naturehe_). "What united us before was
love and passion. Now nature has united us more closely." The birth
of the child gives the parents "civic rights in the state of nature"
(probably Rousseau's), the only civic rights they seem to have valued.
The Romanticists were as indifferent to social and political rights as
Kierkegaard's hero, who was of opinion that we ought to be glad that
there are some who care to rule, thereby freeing the rest of us from
the task.
[1]
"Her mind was occupied with household cares--
The washing, and the china, and the cook:
Did I begin to speak of endless love,
She took the bristled clothes-brush in her hand,
And calmly turned me round and brushed my coat.
All this I bore quite placidly, but not
That, sitting, standing, everywhere we went,
Yes, even at concerts, when sweet strains beguiled,
Entwining, clicking, rustling, never still,
Her elbows flying, thumping on her side,
Her knitting-needles vigorously she plied."
"The sacred hymeneal couch had received us; Luna's chaste beams
illumined our chamber. Encircled by white arms I lay, praying for
Aphrodite's favour, dreaming of the marvellous child that needs must
be the offspring of a night like this, the mighty hero who in fulness
of time shall see the light. Soft taps upon my shoulder rouse me from
my dream; 'tis my sweet bride caressing me; I thank her silently,
with tender, meaning smile. One moment later, and my heart is torn by
hellish pangs of disillusionment; it is her knitting that is dancing
on my back; worse still--she is at the turning of the heel, that point
when the most skilful, despite their counting, often blunder."