What he honors, worships, and represents, expressed in a general way,
is, therefore, nature. Now as he follows his own nature, it is his
own nature which he represents, and its fundamental trait is to be
elementally harmonious. Such a designation is very broad and vague. In
its indefiniteness it may make Heyse seem, at first, like a follower
of Goethe, and would be equally appropriate for the great master
himself. This harmony, more closely defined, is not a world-embracing
one, however; it is one that is comparatively narrow, it is an
aristocratic harmony. There is much which it excludes, much which it
fails to conciliate, does not, indeed, come into contact with. Not as
a naturalist, but as a worshipper of beauty does Heyse contemplate
the motley doings of life. It is plainly manifest that he fails to
comprehend how an artist can take pleasure in depicting forms that in
real life he would close his doors upon; in fact, he has himself, with
great frankness, declared that he has never been able to draw a figure
devoid of some lovable trait, or a female character, in whom he was
not, to a certain degree, in love.[7] That is the reason why his entire
gallery of human forms, with but few exceptions (such as Lorinser or
Jansen's wife), consists of homogeneous characters. They have not only
lineage, but noble lineage, that is, innate nobility. The quality they
have in common is what Heyse himself calls _nobility_ (_vornehmheit_).
How does he understand this word? Nobility in all his characters is
the inherent incapacity to commit any low or base deed; in the child
of nature this is regulated by the simple goodness and healthfulness
of the soul; in the person of culture, by the conscious sense of
his human worth, mingled with the conviction of the privileges of a
full, vigorous, human life, which bears within itself its norm and its
tribunal, and rather dreads incompleteness than error. Heyse himself
once defined his favorite terminus. In Salamander we read:[8]--
"I never yet of virtue or of failing
Have been ashamed, nor proudly did adorn
Myself with one, nor thought my sins of veiling.
"Beyond all else betwixt the nobly born
And vulgar herd, this marks the separation,--
The cowards whose hypocrisy we scorn.
"Him call I noble, who, with moderation,
Carves his own honor, and but little heeds
His neighbors' slander or their approbation."
And in almost similar words Toinette, once so blinded by aristocratic
display, expresses the following fundamental thought: "There is
but _one_ genuine nobility: to remain true to one's self. Ordinary
mortals are guided by what people say, and beg others for information
regarding how they themselves should be. He who bears within himself
the true rank, lives and dies through his own grace, and is, therefore,
sovereign."[9] Genuine nobility is the stamp borne by the entire race
of beings that has sprung from this poet's brain. They all possess it
from the peasant to the philosopher, and from the fisher-maiden to the
countess. The simple barmaid in "Der Reise nach dem Glück" expresses a
conception of life fully coinciding with what has just been stated;[10]
and any one who will take the pains to turn over the leaves of
Heyse's works will discover that the little word "vornehm" (noble), or
an equivalent, is always one of the first the author brings forward
as soon as he makes any attempt to characterize or to extol. It is
sufficient to examine a single volume of his "novellen" to see how the
word "vornehm" is applied to the external appearance, look and bearing:
in "Mutter und Kind" (Mother and Child); in "Am todten See" (On the
Dead Lake); in "Ein Abenteuer" (An Adventure).[11] Or in order to be
convinced of the thrilling significance of this characteristic, it is
only needful to glance through Heyse's two romances. In his "Kinder
der Welt" all the personages that appeal to the sympathies of the
reader, respectively call each other noble spirits: Franzelius styles
Edwin and Balder "the true aristocrats of humanity"; Edwin in his most
extravagant transports of passion can find no more exalted praise for
Toinette and Lea than that they bear the impress of nobility, and
when Toinette, after her interview with Lea, acknowledges the latter
to be the worthy wife of Edwin, it is the same expression which as a
matter of course presents itself to her; in her letter, she designates
Lea "Edwin's _noble_, wise, and most charming life companion."[12]
And in the romance "Im Paradiese," the first draught of which we
doubtless possess in the versified fragment "Schlechte Gesellschaft"
(Bad Society), the so-called "bad" coterie of artists is represented
throughout as the truly good and noble, in contrast with the so-called
aristocratic society.[13] Not one of the artists is an aristocrat,
in the ordinary acceptation of the word. Their origin, like that
of the heroes in "Kinder der Welt," is extremely insignificant. But
their nobility lies in the blood; they belong to the chosen ones of
the earth, who act wisely and rightly, not from a sense of duty, or
through the wearisome conquering of evil propensities, but because of
their natures. What Toinette somewhere calls "the honest intention
to put humanity to no shame," is represented, too, in the romance
"Im Paradiese" as the natural nobility, in contradistinction to that
_noblesse_ which is based upon artificial principles.
Few poets, therefore, have portrayed such a series of characters
without guile and without vulgarity as Heyse. No one has had more
perfect faith in humanity. The most substantial proof of how urgent is
his need of rendering prominent upon every occasion the genuine metal
in human nature, is afforded by the fact that whenever a change in the
character of any of his _dramatis personæ_ does prepare a surprise
for the reader or the spectator, it is always in the way of exceeding
the expectations and showing the personality to be far better and
more admirable, far more noble-minded, than any one had supposed. In
almost all other poets the disappointment is of an opposite character.
In Heyse's "novellen," as, for instance, in "Barbarossa" or "Die
Pfadfinderin" (The Female Pathfinder), the reconciliation is effected
by permitting the bad character to repent, and since the germ of the
nature of the person in question was originally good, and although
possessing many irritable and evil qualities, he yet had no really
vicious blood in his composition, there comes about a sort of treaty of
peace between him and the reader to the astonishment of the latter. Far
more significantly, however, than in his "novellen" this characteristic
optimism comes out in Heyse's dramas. They unquestionably owe to it
their best and most effective, perhaps their most decidedly dramatic,
scenes. Let me cite a few examples. In "Charlotte Elizabeth" the
Chevalier de Lorraine has availed himself of all manner of unworthy
means in his efforts to undo the heroine and banish from France the
chief male character of the piece, the German ambassador, Count Wied.
Challenged by the count, the chevalier is severely wounded; and when
the count, caught in the meshes of political intrigue, is sent to
the Bastille, the chevalier appears in the fifth act in the audience
chamber of the king. What can he want? To present still more damaging
charges against the count? To continue his dishonorable conduct which
has already been productive of so much misfortune to his opponent, and
of a wound to himself? Will he have revenge? Does he mean to avail
himself to the utmost of the position? No; he comes to make the solemn
declaration that the count has acted like a true nobleman, and that he
himself is to blame for the duel. He even desires to be himself sent to
the Bastille in order that his opponent may not think that he, wholly
losing sight of honor, has reported a false cause of the duel; in other
words: even in this corrupt courtier there lives a sense of honor as
the residue of the ancient French spirit of chivalry, taking the place,
to a certain degree, of conscience, and compelling him, at the decisive
moment, to rise from his couch of pain in order to interpose in behalf
of the enemy whom he has pursued with savage thirst for revenge and
without any regard of consequences.
In the beautiful and national play "Hans Lange," there is a scene
which, when performed on the stage, holds the spectator in breathless
suspense, and whose close always elicits tears from many eyes; it is
the scene where the life of the young squire is at stake. He is lost
if the horsemen surmise that it is he who, disguised as the son of the
Jew, is lying on the bench. Then the head servant Henning is ushered
in by a party of horsemen, who have heard him muttering in the stable
that he knew very well how to solve the difficulty for them. Henning
has been supplanted by the young squire; before the latter came to
Lanzke, Henning was like a child of the house; now he has become less
than a stepchild, and he has always owed a grudge to the man who has
been thus preferred before him. With the most artistic skill, the scene
is now so conducted that Henning, in spite of the entreaties and curses
of those who are initiated into the secret, gives the surrounding group
clearly to understand that he means to be revenged on the young squire,
that he knows where he is, and that no power in the world will restrain
him from betraying his enemy,--until he has heaped coals of fire on the
head of the other; and then, contenting himself with the fright he has
caused, finally speaks out plainly, in order to put the pursuers, who
by this time, of course, blindly trust him, on the wrong scent.
And, finally, of precisely the same nature is the decisive and most
beautiful scene in the patriotic drama "Colberg." A council of war is
being held, and even the burghers are called upon to take part in it,
for the importance of the crisis makes it desirable that every voice
should be heard. All hope for the beleagured city seems to be gone.
The French general has issued a proclamation, summoning Gneisenau to
honorable capitulation. The entire corps of officers resolve forthwith
that there can be no question of a surrender of the citadel, and
Gneisenau thereupon lays before the citizens the proposal to entreat
the enemy to grant them a truce in order that the burghers, their
wives, and children, may leave the city, which is exposed to all
possible horrors. Then the pedantic old pedagogue Zipfel, a genuine,
old-fashioned German philologist, rises to act as spokesman for the
burghers. With many circumlocutions, with Latin form of speech, he
spins out his remarks, amid the impatience of all. He is interrupted;
he is given to understand how very well known it is that he is only
aiming at leaving the dangerous defence of the city to the commandant
and the troops. Finally, he succeeds in making clear the object he had
in view in his long narration about the great Persian war, and Leonidas
with his Spartans; it was to give force to the opinion that it behooved
them one and all to remain and die at their posts. This scene Heyse has
written _con amore_. It embraces, so to say, his entire system. For
nowhere does his good faith in humanity so triumph as in cases where,
in the old fogy, he can reveal the hero, and, in the poor pedant, show
the man of inflexible will, which no other has discovered him to be
than the poet who so well knows that every one of his creations bears
within the depths of its soul an indelible stamp of nobility.