CHAPTER XX.

She was lying on the sofa: she seemed quiet. "Do you think you will be

fit to act to-morrow?" he inquired. "Oh, yes!" cried she with vivacity:

"you know there is nothing to prevent me. If I but knew a way,"

continued she, "to rid myself of those applauses! The people mean it

well, but they will kill me. Last night I thought my very heart would

break! Once, when I used to please myself, I could endure this gladly:

when I had studied long, and well prepared myself, it gave me joy to

hear the sound, 'It has succeeded!' pealing back to me from every

corner. But now I speak not what I like, nor as I like; I am swept

along, I get confused, I scarce know what I do; and the impression I

make is far deeper. The applause grows louder; and I think, Did you but

know what charms you! These dark, vague, vehement tones of passion move

you, force you to admire; and you feel not that they are the cries of

agony, wrung from the miserable being whom you praise.

"I learned my part this morning: just now I have been repeating it and

trying it. I am tired, broken down; and to-morrow I must do the same.

To-morrow evening is the play. Thus do I drag myself to and fro: it is

wearisome to rise, it is wearisome to go to bed. All moves within me in

an everlasting circle. Then come their dreary consolations, and present

themselves before me; and I cast them out, and execrate them. I will not

surrender, not surrender to necessity: why should that be necessary

which crushes me to the dust? Might it not be otherwise? I am paying the

penalty of being born a German: it is the nature of the Germans, that

they bear heavily on every thing, that every thing bears heavily on

them."

"O my friend!" cried Wilhelm, "could you cease to whet the dagger

wherewith you are ever wounding me! Does nothing, then, remain for you?

Are your youth, your form, your health, your talents, nothing? Having

lost one blessing, without blame of yours, must you throw all the others

after it? Is that also necessary?"

She was silent for a few moments, and then burst forth, "I know well, it

is a waste of time, nothing but a waste of time, this love! What might

not, should not, I have done! And now it is all vanished into air. I am

a poor, wretched, lovelorn creature,--lovelorn, that is all! Oh, have

compassion on me! God knows I am poor and wretched!"

She sank in thought: then, after a brief pause, she exclaimed with

violence, "You are accustomed to have all things fly into your arms. No:

you cannot feel, no man is qualified to feel, the worth of a woman that

can reverence herself. By all the holy angels, by all the images of

blessedness, which a pure and kindly heart creates, there is not any

thing more heavenly than the soul of a woman giving herself to the man

she loves!

"We are cold, proud, high, clear-sighted, wise, while we deserve the

name of women; and all these qualities we lay down at your feet, the

instant that we love, that we hope to excite a return of love. Oh, how

have I cast away my whole existence wittingly and willingly! But now

will I despair, purposely despair. There is no drop of blood within me

but shall suffer, no fibre that I will not punish. Smile, I pray you;

laugh at this theatrical display of passion."

Wilhelm was far enough from any tendency to laugh. This horrible,

half-natural, half-factitious condition of his friend afflicted him but

too deeply. He sympathized in the tortures of that racking misery: his

thoughts were wandering in painful perplexities, his blood was in a

feverish tumult.

She had risen, and was walking up and down the room. "I see before me,"

she exclaimed, "all manner of reasons why I should not love him. I know

he is not worthy of it; I turn my mind aside, this way and that; I seize

upon whatever business I can find. At one time I take up a part, though

I have not to play it; at another, I begin to practise old ones, though

I know them through and through; I practise them more diligently, more

minutely,--I toil and toil at them. My friend, my confidant, what a

horrid task is it to tear away one's thoughts from one's self! My reason

suffers, my brain is racked and strained: to save myself from madness, I

again admit the feeling that I love him. Yes, I love him, I love him!"

cried she, with a shower of tears: "I love him, I shall die loving him!"

He took her by the hand, and entreated her in the most earnest manner

not to waste herself in such self-torments. "Oh! it seems hard," said

he, "that not only so much that is impossible should be denied us, but

so much also that is possible! It was not your lot to meet with a

faithful heart that would have formed your perfect happiness. It was

mine to fix the welfare of my life upon a hapless creature, whom, by the

weight of my fidelity, I drew to the bottom like a reed, perhaps even

broke in pieces!"

He had told Aurelia of his intercourse with Mariana, and could therefore

now refer to it. She looked him intently in the face, and asked, "Can

you say that you never yet betrayed a woman, that you never tried with

thoughtless gallantry, with false asseverations, with cajoling oaths, to

wheedle favor from her?"

"I can," said Wilhelm, "and indeed without much vanity: my life has

been so simple and sequestered, I have had but few enticements to

attempt such things. And what a warning, my beautiful, my noble, friend,

is this melancholy state in which I see you! Accept of me a vow, which

is suited to my heart; which, under the emotion you have caused me, has

settled into words and shape, and will be hallowed by the hour in which

I utter it. Each transitory inclination I will study to withstand, and

even the most earnest I will keep within my bosom: no woman shall

receive an acknowledgment of love from my lips to whom I cannot

consecrate my life!"

She looked at him with a wild indifference, and drew back some steps as

he offered her his hand. "'Tis of no moment!" cried she: "so many

women's tears, more or fewer; the ocean will not swell by reason of

them. And yet," continued she, "among thousands, one woman saved; that

still is something: among thousands, one honest man discovered; this is

not to be refused. Do you know, then, what you promise?"

"I know it," answered Wilhelm, with a smile, and holding out his hand.

"I accept it, then," said she, and made a movement with her right hand,

as if meaning to take hold of his; but instantly she darted it into her

pocket, pulled out her dagger quick as lightning, and scored with the

edge and point of it across his hand. He hastily drew it back, but the

blood was already running down.

"One must mark you men rather sharply, if one would have you take heed,"

cried she, with a wild mirth, which soon passed into a quick assiduity.

She took her handkerchief, and bound his hand with it to stanch the

fast-flowing blood. "Forgive a half-crazed being," cried she, "and

regret not these few drops of blood. I am appeased. I am again myself.

On my knees will I crave your pardon: leave me the comfort of healing

you."

She ran to her drawer, brought lint, with other apparatus, stanched the

blood, and viewed the wound attentively. It went across the palm, close

under the thumb, dividing the life-line, and running towards the little

finger. She bound it up in silence, with a significant, reflective look.

He asked, once or twice, "Aurelia, how could you hurt your friend?"

"Hush!" replied she, laying her finger on her mouth: "Hush!"

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

Thus Wilhelm, to his pair of former wounds, which were yet scarcely

healed, had now got the accession of a third, which was fresh and not a

little disagreeable. Aurelia would not suffer him to call a surgeon: she

dressed the hand with all manner of strange speeches, saws, and

ceremonies, and so placed him in a very painful situation. Yet not he

alone, but all persons who came near her, suffered by her restlessness

and singularity, and no one more than little Felix. This stirring child

was exceedingly impatient under such oppression, and showed himself

still naughtier the more she censured and instructed him.

He delighted in some practices which commonly are thought bad habits,

and in which she would not by any means indulge him. He would drink, for

example, rather from the bottle than the glass; and his food seemed

visibly to have a better relish when eaten from the bowl than from the

plate. Such ill-breeding was not overlooked: if he left the door

standing open, or slammed it to; if, when bid do any thing, he stood

stock-still, or ran off violently,--he was sure to have a long lecture

inflicted on him for the fault. Yet he showed no symptoms of improvement

from this training: on the other hand, his affection for Aurelia seemed

daily to diminish; there was nothing tender in his tone when he called

her mother; whereas he passionately clung to the old nurse, who let him

have his will in every thing.

But she likewise had of late become so sick, that they had at last been

obliged to take her from the house into a quiet lodging; and Felix would

have been entirely alone if Mignon had not, like a kindly guardian

spirit, come to help him. The two children talked together, and amused

each other in the prettiest style. She taught him little songs; and he,

having an excellent memory, frequently recited them, to the surprise of

those about him. She attempted also to explain her maps to him. With

these she was still very busy, though she did not seem to take the

fittest method. For, in studying countries, she appeared to care little

about any other point than whether they were cold or warm. Of the north

and south poles, of the horrid ice which reigns there, and of the

increasing heat the farther one retires from them, she could give a very

clear account. When any one was travelling, she merely asked whether he

was going northward or southward, and strove to find his route in her

little charts. Especially when Wilhelm spoke of travelling, she was all

attention, and seemed vexed when any thing occurred to change the

subject. Though she could not be prevailed upon to undertake a part, or

even to enter the theatre when any play was acting, yet she willingly

and zealously committed many odes and songs to memory; and by

unexpectedly, and, as it were, on the spur of the moment, reciting some

such poem, generally of the earnest and solemn kind, she would often

cause astonishment in every one.

Serlo, accustomed to regard with favor every trace of opening talent,

encouraged her in such performances; but what pleased him most in Mignon

was her sprightly, various, and often even mirthful, singing. By means

of a similar gift, the harper likewise had acquired his favor.

Without himself possessing genius for music, or playing on any

instrument, Serlo could rightly prize the value of the art: he failed

not, as often as he could, to enjoy this pleasure, which cannot be

compared with any other. He held a concert once a week; and now, with

Mignon, the harper, and Laertes, who was not unskilful on the violin, he

had formed a very curious domestic band.

He was wont to say, "Men are so inclined to content themselves with what

is commonest; the spirit and the senses so easily grow dead to the

impressions of the beautiful and perfect,--that every one should study,

by all methods, to nourish in his mind the faculty of feeling these

things. For no man can bear to be entirely deprived of such enjoyments:

it is only because they are not used to taste of what is excellent that

the generality of people take delight in silly and insipid things,

provided they be new. For this reason," he would add, "one ought, every

day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine

picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words."

With such a turn of thought in Serlo, which in some degree was natural

to him, the persons who frequented his society could scarcely be in

want of pleasant conversation.

It was in the midst of these instructive entertainments, that Wilhelm

one day received a letter sealed in black. Werner's hand betokened

mournful news; and our friend was not a little shocked when, opening the

sheet, he found it to contain the tidings of his father's death,

conveyed in a very few words. After a short and sudden illness, he had

parted from the world, leaving his domestic affairs in the best possible

order.

This unlooked-for intelligence struck Wilhelm to the heart. He deeply

felt how careless and negligent we often are of friends and relations

while they inhabit with us this terrestrial sojourn; and how we first

repent of our insensibility when the fair union, at least for this side

of time, is finally cut asunder. His grief for the early death of this

honest parent was mitigated only by the feeling that he had loved but

little in the world, and the conviction that he had enjoyed but little.

Wilhelm's thoughts soon turned to his own predicament, and he felt

himself extremely discomposed. A person can scarcely be put into a more

dangerous position, than when external circumstances have produced some

striking change in his condition, without his manner of feeling and of

thinking having undergone any preparation for it. There is, then, an

epoch without epoch; and the contradiction which arises is the greater

the less the person feels that he is not trained for this new manner of

existence.

Wilhelm saw himself in freedom, at a moment when he could not yet be at

one with himself. His thoughts were noble, his motives pure, his

purposes were not to be despised. All this he could, with some degree of

confidence, acknowledge to himself: but he had of late been frequently

enough compelled to notice, that experience was sadly wanting to him;

and hence, on the experience of others, and on the results which they

deduced from it, he put a value far beyond its real one, and thus led

himself still deeper into error. What he wanted, he conceived he might

most readily acquire if he undertook to collect and retain whatever

memorable thought he should meet with in reading or in conversation. He

accordingly recorded his own or other men's opinions, nay, wrote whole

dialogues, when they chanced to interest him. But unhappily by this

means he held fast the false no less firmly than the true; he dwelt far

too long on one idea, particularly when it was of an aphoristic shape;

and thus he left his natural mode of thought and action, and frequently

took foreign lights for his loadstars. Aurelia's bitterness, and

Laertes's cold contempt for men, warped his judgment oftener than they

should have done: but no one, in his present case, would have been so

dangerous as Jarno, a man whose clear intellect could form a just and

rigorous decision about present things, but who erred, withal, in

enunciating these particular decisions with a kind of universal

application; whereas, in truth, the judgments of the understanding are

properly of force but once, and that in the strictest cases, and become

inaccurate in some degree when applied to any other.

Thus Wilhelm, striving to become consistent with himself, was deviating

farther and farther from wholesome consistency; and this confusion made

it easier for his passions to employ their whole artillery against him,

and thus still farther to perplex his views of duty.

Serlo did not fail to take advantage of the late tidings; and in truth

he daily had more reason to be anxious about some fresh arrangement of

his people. Either he must soon renew his old contracts,--a measure he

was not specially fond of; for several of his actors, who reckoned

themselves indispensable, were growing more and more arrogant,--or else

he must entirely new-model and re-form his company; which plan he looked

upon as preferable.

Though he did not personally importune our friend, he set Aurelia and

Philina on him; and the other wanderers, longing for some kind of

settlement, on their side, gave Wilhelm not a moment's rest; so that he

stood hesitating in his choice, in no slight embarrassment till he

should decide. Who would have thought that a letter of Werner's, written

with quite different views, should have forced him on resolving? We

shall omit the introduction, and give the rest of it with little

alteration.

CHAPTER II.

"It was, therefore, and it always must be, right for every one, on any

opportunity, to follow his vocation and exhibit his activity. Scarcely

had the good old man been gone a quarter of an hour, when every thing in

the house began moving by a different plan than his. Friends,

acquaintances, relations, crowded forward, especially all sorts of

people who on such occasions use to gain any thing. They fetched and

carried, they counted, wrote, and reckoned; some brought wine and meat,

others ate and drank; and none seemed busier than the women getting out

the mournings.

"Such being the case, thou wilt not blame me, that, in this emergency, I

likewise thought of _my_ advantage. I made myself as active, and as

helpful to thy sister, as I could, and, so soon as it was any way

decorous, signified to her that it had now become our business to

accelerate a union which our parents, in their too great circumspection,

had hitherto postponed.

"Do not suppose, however, that it came into our heads to take possession

of that monstrous empty house. We are more modest and more rational.

Thou shalt hear our plan: thy sister, so soon as we are married, comes

to our house; and thy mother comes along with her. 'How can that be?'

thou wilt say: 'you have scarcely room for yourselves in that hampered

nest.' There lies the art of it, my friend. Good packing renders all

things possible: thou wouldst not believe what space one finds when one

desires to occupy but little. The large house we shall sell,--an

opportunity occurs for this; and the money we shall draw for it will

produce a hundred-fold.

"I hope this meets thy views: I hope also thou hast not inherited the

smallest particle of those unprofitable tastes for which thy father and

thy grandfather were noted. The latter placed his greatest happiness in

having about him a multitude of dull-looking works of art, which no one,

I may well say no one, could enjoy with him: the former lived in a

stately pomp, which he suffered no one to enjoy with him. We mean to

manage otherwise, and we expect thy approbation.

"It is true, I myself in all the house have no place whatever but the

stool before my writing-desk; and I see not clearly where they will be

able to put a cradle down: but, in return, the room we shall have out of

doors will be the more abundant. Coffee-houses and clubs for the

husband, walks and drives for the wife, and pleasant country jaunts for

both. But the chief advantage in our plan is, that, the round table

being now completely filled, our father cannot ask his friends to

dinner, who, the more he strove to entertain them, used to laugh at him

the more.

"Now no superfluity for us! Not too much furniture and apparatus; no

coach, no horses! Nothing but money, and the liberty, day after day, to

do what you like in reason. No wardrobe; still the best and newest on

your back: the man may wear his coat till it is done; the wife may truck

her gown, the moment it is going out of fashion. There is nothing so

unsufferable to me as an old huckster's shop of property. If you would

offer me a jewel, on condition of my wearing it daily on my finger, I

would not accept it; for how can one conceive any pleasure in a dead

capital? This, then, is my confession of faith: To transact your

business, to make money, to be merry with your household; and about the

rest of the earth to trouble yourself no farther than where you can be

of service to it.

"But ere now thou art saying, 'And, pray, what is to be done with me in

this sage plan of yours? Where shall I find shelter when you have sold

my own house, and not the smallest room remains in yours?'

"This is, in truth, the main point, brother; and in this, too, I shall

have it in my power to serve thee. But first I must present the just

tribute of my praise for time so spent as thine has been.

"Tell me, how hast thou within a few weeks become so skilled in every

useful, interesting object? Highly as I thought of thy powers, I did not

reckon such attention and such diligence among the number. Thy journal

shows us with what profit thou art travelling. The description of the

iron and the copper forges is exquisite: it evinces a complete knowledge

of the subject. I myself was once there; but my relation, compared with

this, has but a very bungled look. The whole letter on the linen-trade

is full of information: the remarks on commercial competition are at

once just and striking. In one or two places, there are errors in

addition, which indeed are very pardonable.

"But what most delights my father and myself, is thy thorough knowledge

of husbandry, and the improvement of landed property. We have thoughts

of purchasing a large estate, at present under sequestration, in a very

fruitful district. For paying it, we mean to use the money realized by

the sale of the house; another portion we shall borrow; a portion may

remain unpaid. And we count on thee for going thither, and

superintending the improvement of it; by which means, before many years

are passed, the land, to speak in moderation, will have risen above a

third in value. We shall then bring it to the market again, seek out a

larger piece, improve and trade as formerly. For all this thou art the

man. Our pens, meanwhile, will not lie idle here; and so by and by we

shall rise to be enviable people.

"For the present, fare thee well! Enjoy life on thy journey, and turn

thy face wherever thou canst find contentment and advantage. For the

next half-year we shall not need thee; thou canst look about thee in the

world as thou pleasest: a judicious person finds his best instruction in

his travels. Farewell! I rejoice at being connected with thee so closely

by relation, and now united with thee in the spirit of activity."

* * * * *

Well as this letter might be penned, and full of economical truths as it

was, Wilhelm felt displeased with it for more than one reason. The

praise bestowed on him for his pretended statistical, technological, and

rural knowledge was a silent reprimand. The ideal of the happiness of

civic life, which his worthy brother sketched, by no means charmed him:

on the contrary, a secret spirit of contradiction dragged him forcibly

the other way. He convinced himself, that, except on the stage, he could

nowhere find that mental culture which he longed to give himself: he

seemed to grow the more decided in his resolution, the more strongly

Werner, without knowing it, opposed him. Thus assailed, he collected all

his arguments together, and buttressed his opinions in his mind the more

carefully, the more desirable he reckoned it to show them in a favorable

light to Werner; and in this manner he produced an answer, which also we

insert.

CHAPTER III.

"Thy letter is so well written, and so prudently and wisely conceived,

that no objection can be made to it. Only thou must pardon me, when I

declare that one may think, maintain, and do directly the reverse, and

yet be in the right as well as thou. Thy mode of being and imagining

appears to turn on boundless acquisition, and a light, mirthful manner

of enjoyment: I need scarcely tell thee, that in all this I find little

that can charm me.

"First, however, I am sorry to admit, that my journal is none of mine.

Under the pressure of necessity, and to satisfy my father, it was

patched together by a friend's help, out of many books: and though in

words I know the objects it relates to, and more of the like sort, I by

no means understand them, or can occupy myself about them. What good

were it for me to manufacture perfect iron while my own breast is full

of dross? What would it stead me to put properties of land in order,

while I am at variance with myself?

"To speak it in a word, the cultivation of my individual self, here as I

am, has from my youth upwards been constantly though dimly my wish and

my purpose. The same intention I still cherish, but the means of

realizing it are now grown somewhat clearer. I have seen more of life

than thou believest, and profited more by it also. Give some attention,

then, to what I say, though it should not altogether tally with thy own

opinions.

"Had I been a nobleman, our dispute would soon have been decided; but,

being a simple burgher, I must take a path of my own: and I fear it may

be difficult to make thee understand me. I know not how it is in foreign

countries, but in Germany, a universal, and, if I may say so, personal,

cultivation is beyond the reach of any one except a nobleman. A burgher

may acquire merit; by excessive efforts he may even educate his mind;

but his personal qualities are lost, or worse than lost, let him

struggle as he will. Since the nobleman, frequenting the society of the

most polished, is compelled to give himself a polished manner; since

this manner, neither door nor gate being shut against him, grows at last

an unconstrained one; since, in court or camp, his figure, his person,

are a part of his possessions, and, it may be, the most necessary

part,--he has reason enough to put some value on them, and to show that

he puts some. A certain stately grace in common things, a sort of gay

elegance in earnest and important ones, becomes him well; for it shows

him to be everywhere in equilibrium. He is a public person; and the more

cultivated his movements, the more sonorous his voice, the more staid

and measured his whole being is, the more perfect is he. If to high and

low, to friends and relations, he continues still the same, then nothing

can be said against him, none may wish him otherwise. His coldness must

be reckoned clearness of head, his dissimulation prudence. If he can

rule himself externally at every moment of his life, no man has aught

more to demand of him; and, whatever else there may be in him or about

him, capacities, talents, wealth, all seem gifts of supererogation.

"Now, imagine any burgher offering ever to pretend to these advantages,

he will utterly fail, and the more completely, the greater inclination

and the more endowments nature may have given him for that mode of

being.

"Since, in common life, the nobleman is hampered by no limits; since

kings, or kinglike figures, do not differ from him,--he can everywhere

advance with a silent consciousness, as if before his equals: everywhere

he is entitled to press forward, whereas nothing more beseems the

burgher than the quiet feeling of the limits that are drawn round him.

The burgher may not ask himself, 'What art thou?' He can only ask, 'What

hast thou? What discernment, knowledge, talent, wealth?' If the

nobleman, merely by his personal carriage, offers all that can be asked

of him, the burgher by his personal carriage offers nothing, and can

offer nothing. The former has a right to _seem_: the latter is compelled

to _be_, and what he aims at seeming becomes ludicrous and tasteless.

The former does and makes, the latter but effects and procures; he must

cultivate some single gifts in order to be useful; and it is beforehand

settled, that, in his manner of existence, there is no harmony, and can

be none, since he is bound to make himself of use in one department, and

so has to relinquish all the others.

"Perhaps the reason of this difference is not the usurpation of the

nobles, and the submission of the burghers, but the constitution of

society itself. Whether it will ever alter, and how, is to me of small

importance: my present business is to meet my own case, as matters

actually stand; to consider by what means I may save myself, and reach

the object which I cannot live in peace without.

"Now, this harmonious cultivation of my nature, which has been denied me

by birth, is exactly what I most long for. Since leaving thee, I have

gained much by voluntary practice: I have laid aside much of my wonted

embarrassment, and can bear myself in very tolerable style. My speech

and voice I have likewise been attending to; and I may say, without much

vanity, that in society I do not cause displeasure. But I will not

conceal from thee, that my inclination to become a public person, and to

please and influence in a larger circle, is daily growing more

insuperable. With this, there is combined my love for poetry and all

that is related to it; and the necessity I feel to cultivate my mental

faculties and tastes, that so, in this enjoyment henceforth

indispensable, I may esteem as good the good alone, as beautiful the

beautiful alone. Thou seest well, that for me all this is nowhere to be

met with except upon the stage; that in this element alone can I effect

and cultivate myself according to my wishes. On the boards a polished

man appears in his splendor with personal accomplishments, just as he

does so in the upper classes of society; body and spirit must advance

with equal steps in all his studies; and there I shall have it in my

power at once to be and seem as well as anywhere. If I further long for

solid occupations, we have there mechanical vexations in abundance: I

may give my patience daily exercise.

"Dispute not with me on this subject; for, ere thou writest, the step is

taken. In compliance with the ruling prejudices, I will change my name;

as, indeed, that of Meister, or Master, does not suit me. Farewell! Our

fortune is in good hands: on that subject I shall not disturb myself.

What I need I will, as occasion calls, require from thee: it will not be

much, for I hope my art will be sufficient to maintain me."

* * * * *

Scarcely was the letter sent away, when our friend made good his words.

To the great surprise of Serlo and the rest, he at once declared that he

was ready to become an actor, and bind himself by a contract on

reasonable terms. With regard to these they were soon agreed; for Serlo

had before made offers, with which Wilhelm and his comrades had good

reason to be satisfied. The whole of that unlucky company, wherewith we

have had so long to occupy ourselves, was now at once received; and,

except perhaps Laertes, not a member of it showed the smallest

thankfulness to Wilhelm. As they had entreated without confidence, so

they accepted without gratitude. Most of them preferred ascribing their

appointment to the influence of Philina, and directed their thanks to

her. Meanwhile the contracts had been written out, and were now

a-signing. At the moment when our friend was subscribing his assumed

designation, by some inexplicable concatenation of ideas, there arose

before his mind's eye the image of that green in the forest where he lay

wounded in Philina's lap. The lovely Amazon came riding on her gray

palfrey from the bushes of the wood: she approached him and dismounted.

Her humane anxiety made her come and go: at length she stood before him.

The white surtout fell down from her shoulders: her countenance, her

form, began to glance in radiance: and she vanished from his sight. He

wrote his name mechanically only, not knowing what he did, and felt not,

till after he had signed, that Mignon was standing at his side, was

holding by his arm, and had softly tried to stop him, and pull back his

hand.

CHAPTER IV.

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 any

thing 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 imperfect whole.

He thought, that as pieces usually stood, there was little reason to be

chary about meddling with them; that of course Shakspeare, 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 counselled 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 every thing 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 Wilhelm to review

once more the many conversations they had had together about "Hamlet,"

and himself to invent some means of properly re-forming 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

Shakspeare 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 the 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_ any thing:

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 mean time

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."

CHAPTER V.

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 Shakspeare. 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 Shakspeare'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 new-comer 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 Shakspeare'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

any thing; they are society itself; and Shakspeare 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."

"I understand you," answered Serlo, "and we can arrange it. One of them

we shall hand over to Elmira, Old Boisterous's eldest daughter: it will

all be right, if they look well enough; and I will deck and trim the

puppets so that it shall be first-rate fun to behold them."

Philina was rejoicing not a little, that she had to act the Duchess in

the small subordinate play. "I will show it so natural," cried she, "how

you wed a second husband, without loss of time, when you have loved the

first immensely. I mean to win the loudest plaudits, and every man shall

wish to be the third."

Aurelia gave a frown: her spleen against Philina was increasing every

day.

"'Tis a pity, I declare," said Serlo, "that we have no ballet; else you

should dance me a _pas de deux_ with your first, and then another with

your second husband,--and the first might dance himself to sleep by the

measure; and your bits of feet and ankles would look so pretty, tripping

to and fro upon the side stage."

"Of my ankles you do not know much," replied she pertly; "and as to my

bits of feet," cried she, hastily reaching below the table, pulling off

her slippers, and holding them together out to Serlo, "here are the

cases of them; and I challenge you to find me more dainty ones."

"I was in earnest," said he, looking at the elegant half-shoes. "In

truth, one does not often meet with any thing so dainty."

They were of Parisian workmanship: Philina had received them as a

present from the countess, a lady whose foot was celebrated for its

beauty.

"A charming thing!" cried Serlo: "my heart leaps at the sight of them."

"What gallant throbs!" replied Philina.

"There is nothing in the world beyond a pair of slippers," said he, "of

such pretty manufacture, in their proper time and place, when"--

Philina took her slippers from his hands, crying, "You have squeezed

them all! They are far too wide for me!" She played with them, and

rubbed the soles of them together. "How hot it is!" cried she, clapping

the sole upon her cheek, then again rubbing, and holding it to Serlo. He

was innocent enough to stretch out his hand to feel the warmth. "Clip!

clap!" cried she, giving him a smart rap over the knuckles with the

heel; so that he screamed, and drew back his hand. "That's for indulging

in thoughts of your own at the sight of my slippers."

"And that's for using old folk like children," cried the other; then

sprang up, seized her, and plundered many a kiss, every one of which she

artfully contested with a show of serious reluctance. In this romping,

her long hair got loose, and floated round the group; the chair overset;

and Aurelia, inwardly indignant at such rioting, arose in great

vexation.

CHAPTER VI.

Though in this remoulding 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."

"In his own station," answered Wilhelm, "I have frequently admired him."

"I do not think," said Serlo, "that there is in the world a more perfect

artist of his kind. No spectator ever hears him: we upon the stage catch

every syllable. He has formed in himself, as it were, a peculiar set of

vocal organs for this purpose: he is like a Genius that whispers

intelligibly to us in the hour of need. He feels, as if by instinct,

what portion of his task an actor is completely master of, and

anticipates from afar where his memory will fail him. I have known cases

in which I myself had scarcely read my part: he said it over to me word

for word, and I played happily. Yet he has some peculiarities which

would make another in his place quite useless. For example, he takes

such an interest in the plays, that, in giving any moving passage, he

does not indeed declaim it, but he reads it with all pomp and pathos.

By this ill habit he has nonplussed me on more than one occasion."

"As with another of his singularities," observed Aurelia, "he once left

me sticking fast in a very dangerous passage."

"How could this happen, with the man's attentiveness?" said Wilhelm.

"He is so affected," said Aurelia, "by certain passages, that he weeps

warm tears, and for a few moments loses all reflection; and it is not

properly passages such as we should call affecting that produce this

impression on him; but, if I express myself clearly, the _beautiful_

passages, those out of which the pure spirit of the poet looks forth, as

it were, through open, sparkling eyes,--passages which others at most

rejoice over, and which many thousands altogether overlook."

"And with a soul so tender, why does he never venture on the stage?"

"A hoarse voice," said Serlo, "and a stiff carriage, exclude him from

it; as his melancholic temper excludes him from society. What trouble

have I taken, and in vain, to make him take to me! But he is a charming

reader; such another I have never heard; no one can observe like him the

narrow limit between declamation and graceful recital."

"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.

"Shakspeare has introduced these travelling 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?'"

"If we can but persuade our man to come upon the stage," observed

Aurelia.

"We must lead him to it by degrees," said Serlo. "At the rehearsal he

may read the passage: we shall tell him that an actor whom we are

expecting is to play it; and so, by and by, we shall lead him nearer to

the point."

Having agreed on this affair, the conversation next turned upon the

Ghost. Wilhelm could not bring himself to give the part of the living

King to the Pedant, that so Old Boisterous might play the Ghost: he was

of opinion that they ought to wait a while; because some other actors

had announced themselves, and among these it was probable they would

find a fitter man.

We can easily conceive, then, how astonished Wilhelm must have been

when, returning home that evening, he found a billet lying on his table,

sealed with singular figures, and containing what follows:--

"Strange youth! we know thou art in great perplexity. For thy Hamlet

thou canst hardly find men enough, not to speak of ghosts. Thy zeal

deserves a miracle: miracles we cannot work, but somewhat marvellous

shall happen. If thou have faith, the Ghost shall arise at the proper

hour! Be of courage and keep firm! This needs no answer: thy

determination will be known to us."

With this curious sheet he hastened back to Serlo, who read and re-read

it, and at last declared, with a thoughtful look, that it seemed a

matter of some moment; that they must consider well and seriously

whether they could risk it. They talked the subject over at some length;

Aurelia was silent, only smiling now and then; and a few days after,

when speaking of the incident again, she gave our friend, not obscurely,

to understand that she held it all a joke of Serlo's. She desired him to

cast away anxiety, and to expect the Ghost with patience.

Serlo, for most part, was in excellent humor: the actors that were going

to leave him took all possible pains to play well, that their absence

might be much regretted; and this, combined with the new-fangled zeal of

the others, gave promise of the best results.

His intercourse with Wilhelm had not failed to exert some influence on

him. He began to speak more about art: for, after all, he was a German;

and Germans like to give themselves account of what they do. Wilhelm

wrote down many of their conversations; which, as our narrative must not

be so often interrupted here, we shall communicate to such of our

readers as feel an interest in dramaturgic matters, by some other

opportunity.

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 Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare 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

_succedaneum_ 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."

CHAPTER VII.

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 modelled by their sentiments. In the

drama the hero models nothing by himself; all things withstand him; and

he clears and casts away the hinderances 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, carries

forward men, without their own concurrence, 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, and the hero

is continually driven forward to a deed of terror, the work is tragic in

the highest sense, and admits of no other than a tragic end.

The book-rehearsal was now to take place, to which Wilhelm had looked

forward as to a festival. Having previously collated all the parts, no

obstacle on this side could oppose him. The whole of the actors were

acquainted with the piece: he endeavored to impress their minds with the

importance of these book-rehearsals. "As you require," said he, "of

every musical performer, that he shall, in some degree, be able to play

from the book: so every actor, every educated man, should train himself

to recite from the book, to catch immediately the character of any

drama, any poem, any tale he may be reading, and exhibit it with grace

and readiness. No committing to memory will be of service, if the actor

have not, in the first place, penetrated into the sense and spirit of

his author: the mere letter will avail him nothing."

Serlo declared that he would overlook all subsequent rehearsals,--the

last rehearsal itself,--if justice were but done to these rehearsals

from the book. "For, commonly," said he, "there is nothing more amusing

than to hear an actor speak of study: it is as if freemasons were to

talk of building."

The rehearsal passed according to their wishes; and we may assert, that

the fame and favor which our company acquired afterwards had their

foundation in these few but well-spent hours.

"You did right, my friend," said Serlo, when they were alone, "in

speaking to our fellow-laborers so earnestly; and yet I am afraid they

will scarcely fulfil your wishes."

"How so?" asked Wilhelm.

"I have noticed," answered Serlo, "that, as easily as you may set in

motion the imaginations of men, gladly as they listen to your tales and

fictions, it is yet very seldom that you find among them any touch of an

imagination you can call productive. In actors this remark is strikingly

exemplified. Any one of them is well content to undertake a beautiful,

praiseworthy, brilliant part; and seldom will any one of them do more

than self-complacently transport himself into his hero's place, without

in the smallest troubling his head whether other people view him so or

not. But to seize with vivacity what the author's feeling was in

writing; what portion of your individual qualities you must cast off, in

order to do justice to a part; how, by your own conviction that you are

become another man, you may carry with you the convictions of the

audience; how, by the inward truth of your conceptive power, you can

change these boards into a temple, this pasteboard into woods,--to seize

and execute all this, is given to very few. That internal strength of

soul, by which alone deception can be brought about; that lying truth,

without which nothing will affect us rightly,--have, by most men, never

even been imagined.

"Let us not, then, press too hard for spirit and feeling in our friends.

The surest way is first coolly to instruct them in the sense and letter

of the play,--if possible, to open their understandings. Whoever has the

talent will then, of his own accord, eagerly adopt the spirited feeling

and manner of expression; and those who have it not will at least be

prevented from acting or reciting altogether falsely. And among actors,

as indeed in all cases, there is no worse arrangement than for any one

to make pretensions to the spirit of a thing, while the sense and letter

of it are not ready and clear to him."

CHAPTER VIII.

Coming to the first stage-rehearsal very early, Wilhelm found himself

alone upon the boards. The appearance of the place surprised him, and

awoke the strangest recollections. A forest and village scene stood

exactly represented as he once had seen it in the theatre of his native

town. On that occasion also, a rehearsal was proceeding; and it was the

morning when Mariana first confessed her love to him, and promised him a

happy interview. The peasants' cottages resembled one another on the two

stages, as they did in nature: the true morning sun, beaming through a

half-closed window-shutter, fell upon a part of a bench ill joined to a

cottage door; but unhappily it did not now enlighten Mariana's waist and

bosom. He sat down, reflecting on this strange coincidence: he almost

thought that perhaps on this very spot he would soon see her again. And,

alas! the truth was nothing more, than that an afterpiece, to which this

scene belonged, was at that time very often played upon the German

stage.

Out of these meditations he was roused by the other actors, along with

whom two amateurs, frequenters of the wardrobe and the stage, came in,

and saluted Wilhelm with a show of great enthusiasm. One of these was in

some degree attached to Frau Melina, but the other was entirely a lover

of the art, and both were of the kind which a good company should always

wish to have about it. It was difficult to say whether their love for

the stage, or their knowledge of it, was the greater. They loved it too

much to know it perfectly: they knew it well enough to prize the good

and to discard the bad. But, their inclination being so powerful, they

could tolerate the mediocre; and the glorious joy which they experienced

from the foretaste and the aftertaste of excellence surpassed

expression. The mechanical department gave them pleasure, the

intellectual charmed them; and so strong was their susceptibility, that

even a discontinuous rehearsal afforded them a species of illusion.

Deficiencies appeared in their eyes to fade away in distance: the

successful touched them like an object near at hand. In a word, they

were judges such as every artist wishes in his own department. Their

favorite movement was from the side-scenes to the pit, and from the pit

to the side-scenes; their happiest place was in the wardrobe; their

busiest employment was in trying to improve the dress, position,

recitation, gesture, of the actor; their liveliest conversation was on

the effect produced by him; their most constant effort was to keep him

accurate, active, and attentive, to do him service or kindness, and,

without squandering, to procure for the company a series of enjoyments.

The two had obtained the exclusive privilege of being present on the

stage at rehearsals as well as exhibitions. In regard to "Hamlet," they

had not in all points agreed with Wilhelm: here and there he had

yielded; but, for most part, he had stood by his opinion: and, upon the

whole, these discussions had been very useful in the forming of his

taste. He showed both gentlemen how much he valued them; and they again

predicted nothing less, from these combined endeavors, than a new epoch

for the German theatre.

The presence of these persons was of great service during the

rehearsals. In particular they labored to convince our players, that,

throughout the whole of their preparations, the posture and action, as

they were intended ultimately to appear, should always be combined with

the words, and thus the whole be mechanically united by habit. In

rehearsing a tragedy especially, they said, no common movement with the

hands should be allowed: a tragic actor that took snuff in the rehearsal

always frightened them; for, in all probability, on coming to the same

passage in the exhibition, he would miss his pinch. Nay, on the same

principles, they maintained that no one should rehearse in boots, if his

part were to be played in shoes. But nothing, they declared, afflicted

them so much as when the women, in rehearsing, stuck their hands into

the folds of their gowns.

By the persuasion of our friends, another very good effect was brought

about: the actors all began to learn the use of arms. Since military

parts occur so frequently, said they, can any thing look more absurd

than men, without the smallest particle of discipline, trolling about

the stage in captains' and majors' uniforms?

Wilhelm and Laertes were the first that took lessons of a subaltern:

they continued their practising of fence with the greatest zeal.

Such pains did these two men take for perfecting a company which had so

fortunately come together. They were thus providing for the future

satisfaction of the public, while the public was usually laughing at

their taste. People did not know what gratitude they owed our friends,

particularly for performing one service,--the service of frequently

impressing on the actor the fundamental point, that it was his duty to

speak so loud as to be heard. In this simple matter, they experienced

more opposition and repugnance than could have been expected. Most part

maintained that they were heard well enough already; some laid the blame

upon the building; others said, one could not yell and bellow, when one

had to speak naturally, secretly, or tenderly.

Our two friends, having an immeasurable stock of patience, tried every

means of undoing this delusion, of getting round this obstinate

self-will. They spared neither arguments nor flatteries; and at last

they reached their object, being aided not a little by the good example

of Wilhelm. By him they were requested to sit down in the remotest

corners of the house, and, every time they did not hear him perfectly,

to rap on the bench with a key. He articulated well, spoke out in a

measured manner, raised his tones gradually, and did not overcry

himself in the most vehement passages. The rapping of the key was heard

less and less every new rehearsal: by and by the rest submitted to the

same operation, and at last it seemed rational to hope that the piece

would be heard by every one in all the nooks of the house.

From this example we may see how desirous people are to reach their

object in their own way; what need there often is of enforcing on them

truths which are self-evident; and how difficult it may be to reduce the

man who aims at effecting something to admit the primary conditions

under which alone his enterprise is possible.

CHAPTER IX.

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 still 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

chronical 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 pedlers 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.

CHAPTER X.

The main rehearsal was at length concluded: it had lasted very long.

Serlo and Wilhelm still found much to care for: notwithstanding all the

time which had already been consumed in preparation, some highly

necessary matters had been left to the very last moment.

Thus, the pictures of the kings, for instance, were not ready: and the

scene between Hamlet and his mother, from which so powerful an effect

was looked for, had a very helpless aspect, as the business stood; for

neither Ghost nor painted image of him was at present forthcoming. Serlo

made a jest of this perplexity: "We should be in a pretty scrape," said

he, "if the Ghost were to decline appearing, and the guard had nothing

to fight with but the air, and our prompter were obliged to speak the

spirit's part from the side-scenes."

"We will not scare away our strange friend by unbelief," said Wilhelm:

"doubtless at the proper season he will come, and astonish us as much as

the spectators."

"Well, certainly," said Serlo, "I shall be a happy man to-morrow night,

when once the play will have been acted. It costs us more arrangement

than I dreamed of."

"But none of you," exclaimed Philina, "will be happier than I, little as

my part disturbs me. Really, to hear a single subject talked of forever

and forever, when, after all, there is nothing to come of it beyond an

exhibition, which will be forgotten like so many hundred others, this is

what I have not patience for. In Heaven's name, not so many _pros_ and

_cons_! The guests you entertain have always something to object against

the dinner; nay, if you could hear them talk of it at home, they cannot

understand how it was possible to undergo so sad a business."

"Let me turn your illustration, pretty one, to my own advantage,"

answered Wilhelm. "Consider how much must be done by art and nature, by

traffickers and tradesmen, before an entertainment can be given. How

many years the stag must wander in the forest, the fish in the river or

the sea, before they can deserve to grace our table! And what cares and

consultations with her cooks and servants has the lady of the house

submitted to! Observe with what indifference the people swallow the

production of the distant vintager, the seaman, and the vintner, as if

it were a thing of course. And ought these men to cease from laboring,

providing, and preparing; ought the master of the house to cease from

purchasing and laying up the fruit of their exertions,--because at last

the enjoyment it affords is transitory? But no enjoyment can be

transitory; the impression which it leaves is permanent: and what is

done with diligence and effort communicates to the spectator a hidden

force, of which we cannot say how far its influence may reach."

"'Tis all one to me," replied Philina: "only here again I must observe,

that you men are constantly at variance with yourselves. With all this

conscientious horror at curtailing Shakspeare, you have missed the

finest thought there was in 'Hamlet'!"

"The finest?" cried our friend.

"Certainly the finest," said Philina: "the prince himself takes pleasure

in it."

"And it is?" inquired Serlo.

"If you wore a wig," replied Philina, "I would pluck it very coolly off

you; for I think you need to have your understanding opened."

The rest began to think what she could mean: the conversation paused.

The party arose; it was now grown late; they seemed about to separate.

While they were standing in this undetermined mood, Philina all at once

struck up a song, with a very graceful, pleasing tune:--

"Sing me not with such emotion,

How the night so lonesome is:

Pretty maids, I've got a notion

It is the reverse of this.

For as wife and man are plighted,

And the better half the wife;

So is night to day united:

Night's the better half of life.

Can you joy in bustling daytime,

Day when none can get his will?

It is good for work, for haytime;

For much other it is ill.

But when, in the nightly glooming,

Social lamp on table glows,

Face for faces dear illuming,

And such jest and joyance goes;

When the fiery, pert young fellow,

Wont by day to run or ride,

Whispering now some tale would tell O,

All so gentle by your side;

When the nightingale to lovers

Lovingly her songlet sings,

Which for exiles and sad rovers

Like mere woe and wailing rings,--

With a heart how lightsome feeling,

Do ye count the kindly clock,

Which twelve times deliberate pealing,

Tells you none to-night shall knock!

Therefore, on all fit occasions,

Mark it, maidens, what I sing:

Every day its own vexations,

And the night its joys, will bring."

She made a slight courtesy on concluding, and Serlo gave a loud "Bravo!"

She scuttled off, and left the room with a teehee of laughter. They

heard her singing and skipping as she went down-stairs.

Serlo passed into another room: Wilhelm bade Aurelia good-night; but she

continued looking at him for a few moments, and said,--

"How I dislike that woman! Dislike her from my heart, and to her very

slightest qualities! Those brown eyelashes, with her fair hair, which

our brother thinks so charming, I cannot bear to look at; and that scar

upon her brow has something in it so repulsive, so low and base, that I

could recoil ten paces every time I meet her. She was lately telling as

a joke, that her father, when she was a child, threw a plate at her

head, of which this is the mark. It is well that she is marked in the

eyes and brow, that those about her may be on their guard."

Wilhelm made no answer; and Aurelia went on, apparently with greater

spleen,--

"It is next to impossible for me to speak a kind, civil word to her, so

deeply do I hate her, with all her wheedling. Would that we were rid of

her! And you, too, my friend, have a certain complaisance for the

creature, a way of acting towards her, that grieves me to the soul,--an

attention which borders on respect; which, by Heaven! she does not

merit."

"Whatever she may be," replied our friend, "I owe her thanks. Her

upbringing is to blame: to her natural character I would do justice."

"Character!" exclaimed Aurelia; "and do you think such a creature has a

character? O you men! It is so like you! These are the women you

deserve!"

"My friend, can you suspect me?" answered Wilhelm. "I will give account

of every minute I have spent beside her."

"Come, come," replied Aurelia: "it is late, we will not quarrel. All

like each, and each like all! Good-night, my friend! Good-night, my

sparkling bird-of-paradise!"

Wilhelm asked how he had earned this title.

"Another time," cried she; "another time. They say it has no feet, but

hovers in the air, and lives on ether. That, however, is a story, a

poetic fiction. Good-night! Dream sweetly, if you are in luck!"

She proceeded to her room; and he, being left alone, made haste to his.

Half angrily he walked along his chamber to and fro. The jesting but

decided tone of Aurelia had hurt him: he felt deeply how unjust she was.

Could he treat Philina with unkindness or ill-nature? She had done no

evil to him; but, for any love to her, he could proudly and confidently

take his conscience to witness that it was not so.

On the point of beginning to undress, he was going forward to his bed to

draw aside the curtains, when, not without extreme astonishment, he saw

a pair of women's slippers lying on the floor before it. One of them was

resting on its sole, the other on its edge. They were Philina's

slippers: he recognized them but too well. He thought he noticed some

disorder in the curtains; nay, it seemed as if they moved. He stood, and

looked with unaverted eyes.

A new impulse, which he took for anger, cut his breath: after a short

pause, he recovered, and cried in a firm tone,--

"Come out, Philina! What do you mean by this? Where is your sense, your

modesty? Are we to be the speech of the house to-morrow?"

Nothing stirred.

"I do not jest," continued he: "these pranks are little to my taste."

No sound! No motion!

Irritated and determined, he at last went forward to the bed, and tore

the curtains asunder. "Arise," said he, "if I am not to give you up my

room to-night."

With great surprise, he found his bed unoccupied; the sheets and pillows

in the sleekest rest. He looked around: he searched and searched, but

found no traces of the rogue. Behind the bed, the stove, the drawers,

there was nothing to be seen: he sought with great and greater

diligence; a spiteful looker-on might have believed that he was seeking

in the hope of finding.

All thought of sleep was gone. He put the slippers on his table; went

past it, up and down; often paused before it; and a wicked sprite that

watched him has asserted that our friend employed himself for several

hours about these dainty little shoes; that he viewed them with a

certain interest; that he handled them and played with them; and it was

not till towards morning that he threw himself on the bed, without

undressing, where he fell asleep amidst a world of curious fantasies.

He was still slumbering, when Serlo entered hastily. "Where are you?"

cried he: "still in bed? Impossible! I want you in the theatre: we have

a thousand things to do."

CHAPTER XI.

The forenoon and the afternoon fled rapidly away. The playhouse was

already full: our friend hastened to dress. It was not with the joy

which it had given him when he first essayed it, that he now put on the

garb of Hamlet: he only dressed that he might be in readiness. On his

joining the women in the stage-room, they unanimously cried that nothing

sat upon him right; the fine feather stood awry; the buckle of his belt

did not fit: they began to slit, to sew, and piece together. The music

started: Philina still objected somewhat to his ruff; Aurelia had much

to say against his mantle. "Leave me alone, good people," cried he:

"this negligence will make me liker Hamlet." The women would not let him

go, but continued trimming him. The music ceased: the acting was begun.

He looked at himself in the glass, pressed his hat closer down upon his

face, and retouched the painting of his cheeks.

At this instant somebody came rushing in, and cried, "The Ghost! the

Ghost!"

Wilhelm had not once had time all day to think of the Ghost, and whether

it would come or not. His anxiety on that head was at length removed,

and now some strange assistant was to be expected. The stage-manager

came in, inquiring after various matters: Wilhelm had not time to ask

about the Ghost; he hastened to present himself before the throne, where

King and Queen, surrounded with their court, were already glancing in

all the splendors of royalty, and waiting till the scene in front of

them should be concluded. He caught the last words of Horatio, who was

speaking of the Ghost, in extreme confusion, and seemed to have almost

forgotten his part.

The intermediate curtain went aloft, and Hamlet saw the crowded house

before him. Horatio, having spoken his address, and been dismissed by

the King, pressed through to Hamlet; and, as if presenting himself to

the Prince, he said, "The Devil is in harness: he has put us all in

fright."

In the mean while, two men of large stature, in white cloaks and

capouches, were observed standing in the side-scenes. Our friend, in the

distraction, embarrassment, and hurry of the moment, had failed in the

first soliloquy; at least, such was his own opinion, though loud

plaudits had attended his exit. Accordingly, he made his next entrance

in no pleasant mood, with the dreary wintry feeling of dramatic

condemnation. Yet he girded up his mind, and spoke that appropriate

passage on the "rouse and wassail," the "heavy-headed revel" of the

Danes, with suitable indifference; he had, like the audience, in

thinking of it, quite forgotten the Ghost; and he started, in real

terror, when Horatio cried out, "Look, my lord! it comes!" He whirled

violently round; and the tall, noble figure, the low, inaudible tread,

the light movement in the heavy-looking armor, made such an impression

on him, that he stood as if transformed to stone, and could utter only

in a half-voice his "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" He glared

at the form, drew a deep breathing once or twice, and pronounced his

address to the Ghost in a manner so confused, so broken, so constrained,

that the highest art could not have hit the mark so well.

His translation of this passage now stood him in good stead. He had kept

very close to the original, in which the arrangement of the words

appeared to him expressive of a mind confounded, terrified, and seized

with horror:--

"'Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,

That I will speak to thee: I'll call thee Hamlet,

King, father, royal Dane: oh, answer me!'"

A deep effect was visible in the audience. The Ghost beckoned, the

Prince followed him amid the loudest plaudits.

The scene changed: and, when the two had re-appeared, the Ghost, on a

sudden, stopped, and turned round; by which means Hamlet came to be a

little too close upon it. With a longing curiosity, he looked in at the

lowered visor; but except two deep-lying eyes, and a well-formed nose,

he could discern nothing. Gazing timidly, he stood before the Ghost; but

when the first tones issued from the helmet, and a somewhat hoarse, yet

deep and penetrating, voice, pronounced the words, "I am thy father's

spirit," Wilhelm, shuddering, started back some paces; and the audience

shuddered with him. Each imagined that he knew the voice: Wilhelm

thought he noticed in it some resemblance to his father's. These strange

emotions and remembrances, the curiosity he felt about discovering his

secret friend, the anxiety about offending him, even the theatric

impropriety of coming too near him in the present situation, all this

affected Wilhelm with powerful and conflicting impulses. During the long

speech of the Ghost, he changed his place so frequently, he seemed so

unsettled and perplexed, so attentive and so absent-minded, that his

acting caused a universal admiration, as the Spirit caused a universal

horror. The latter spoke with a feeling of melancholy anger, rather than

of sorrow; but of an anger spiritual, slow, and inexhaustible. It was

the mistemper of a noble soul, that is severed from all earthly things,

and yet devoted to unbounded woe. At last he vanished, but in a curious

manner; for a thin, gray, transparent gauze arose from the place of

descent, like a vapor, spread itself over him, and sank along with him.

Hamlet's friends now entered, and swore upon the sword. Old Truepenny,

in the mean time, was so busy under ground, that, wherever they might

take their station, he was sure to call out right beneath them, "Swear!"

and they started, as if the soil had taken fire below them, and hastened

to another spot. On each of these occasions, too, a little flame pierced

through at the place where they were standing. The whole produced on the

spectators a profound impression.

After this, the play proceeded calmly on its course: nothing failed; all

prospered; the audience manifested their contentment, and the actors

seemed to rise in heart and spirits every scene.

CHAPTER XII.

The curtain fell, and rapturous applauses sounded out of every corner of

the house. The four princely corpses sprang aloft, and embraced each

other. Polonius and Ophelia likewise issued from their graves, and

listened with extreme satisfaction, as Horatio, who had stepped before

the curtain to announce the following play, was welcomed with the most

thundering plaudits. The people would not hear of any other play, but

violently required the repetition of the present.

"We have won," cried Serlo, "and so not another reasonable word this

night! Every thing depends on the first impression: we should never take

it ill of any actor, that, on occasion of his first appearance, he is

provident, and even self-willed."

The box-keeper came, and delivered him a heavy sum. "We have made a good

beginning," cried the manager, "and prejudice itself will now be on our

side. But where is the supper you promised us? To-night we may be

allowed to relish it a little."

It had been agreed that all the party were to stay together in their

stage-dresses, and enjoy a little feast among themselves. Wilhelm had

engaged to have the place in readiness, and Frau Melina to provide the

victuals.

A room, which commonly was occupied by scene-painters, had accordingly

been polished up as well as possible: our friends had hung it round with

little decorations, and so decked and trimmed it, that it looked half

like a garden, half like a colonnade. On entering it, the company were

dazzled with the glitter of a multitude of lights, which, across the

vapors of the sweetest and most copious perfumes, spread a stately

splendor over a well-decorated and well-furnished table. These

preparations were hailed with joyful interjections by the party; all

took their places with a certain genuine dignity; it seemed as if some

royal family had met together in the Kingdom of the Shades. Wilhelm sat

between Aurelia and the Frau Melina; Serlo between Philina and Elmira;

nobody was discontented with himself or with his place.

Our two theatric amateurs, who had from the first been present, now

increased the pleasure of the meeting. While the exhibition was

proceeding, they had several times stepped round, and come upon the

stage, expressing, in the warmest terms, the delight which they and the

audience felt. They now descended to particulars, and each was richly

rewarded for his efforts.

With boundless animation, the company extolled man after man, and

passage after passage. To the prompter, who had modestly sat down at the

bottom of the table, they gave a liberal commendation for his "rugged

Pyrrhus;" the fencing of Hamlet and Laertes was beyond all praise;

Ophelia's mourning had been inexpressibly exalted and affecting; of

Polonius they would not trust themselves to speak.

Every individual present heard himself commended through the rest and by

them, nor was the absent Ghost defrauded of his share of praise and

admiration. He had played the part, it was asserted, with a very happy

voice, and in a lofty style; but what surprised them most, was the

information which he seemed to have about their own affairs. He entirely

resembled the painted figure, as if he had sat to the painter of it; and

the two amateurs described, in glowing language, how awful it had looked

when the spirit entered near the picture, and stepped across before his

own image. Truth and error, they declared, had been commingled in the

strangest manner: they had felt as if the Queen really did not see the

Ghost. And Frau Melina was especially commended, because on this

occasion she had gazed upwards at the picture, while Hamlet was pointing

downwards at the Spectre.

Inquiry was now made how the apparition could have entered. The

stage-manager reported that a back-door, usually blocked up by

decorations, had that evening, as the Gothic hall was occupied, been

opened; that two large figures in white cloaks and hoods, one of whom

was not to be distinguished from the other, had entered by this passage;

and by the same, it was likely, they had issued when the third act was

over.

Serlo praised the Ghost for one merit,--that he had not whined and

lamented like a tailor; nay, to animate his son, had even introduced a

passage at the end, which more beseemed such a hero. Wilhelm had kept it

in memory: he promised to insert it in his manuscript.

Amid the pleasures of the entertainment, it had not been noticed that

the children and the harper were absent. Erelong they made their

entrance, and were blithely welcomed by the company. They came in

together, very strangely decked: Felix was beating a triangle, Mignon a

tambourine; the old man had his large harp hung round his neck, and was

playing on it whilst he carried it before him. They marched round and

round the table, and sang a multitude of songs. Eatables were handed

them; and the guests seemed to think they could not do a greater

kindness to the children, than by giving them as much sweet wine as they

chose to have. For the company themselves had not by any means neglected

a stock of savory flasks, presented by the two amateurs, which had

arrived that evening in baskets. The children tripped about, and sang:

Mignon, in particular, was frolicsome beyond all wont. She beat the

tambourine with the greatest liveliness and grace: now, with her finger

pressed against the parchment, she hummed across it swiftly to and fro;

now rattled on it with her knuckles, now with the back of her hand; nay,

sometimes, with alternating rhythm, she struck it first against her knee

and then against her head; and anon twirling it in her hand, she made

the shells jingle by themselves; and thus, from the simplest instrument,

elicited a great variety of tones. After she and Felix had long rioted

about, they sat down upon an elbow-chair which was standing empty at the

table, exactly opposite to Wilhelm.

"Keep out of the chair!" cried Serlo: "it is waiting for the Ghost, I

think; and, when he comes, it will be worse for you."

"I do not fear him," answered Mignon: "if he come, we can rise. He is my

uncle, and will not harm me." To those who did not know that her reputed

father had been named the Great Devil, this speech was unintelligible.

The party looked at one another: they were more and more confirmed in

their suspicion that the manager was in the secret of the Ghost. They

talked and tippled, and the girls from time to time cast timid glances

towards the door.

The children, who, sitting in the big chair, looked from over the table

but like puppets in their box, did actually at length start a little

drama in the style of Punch. The screeching tone of these people Mignon

imitated very well; and Felix and she began to knock their heads

together, and against the edges of the table, in such a way as only

wooden puppets could endure. Mignon, in particular, grew frantic with

gayety: the company, much as they had laughed at her at first, were in

fine obliged to curb her. But persuasion was of small avail; for she now

sprang up, and raved, and shook her tambourine, and capered round the

table. With her hair flying out behind her, with her head thrown back,

and her limbs, as it were, cast into the air, she seemed like one of

those antique Mænads, whose wild and all but impossible positions still,

on classic monuments, often strike us with amazement.

Incited by the talents and the uproar of the children, each endeavored

to contribute something to the entertainment of the night. The girls

sung several canons; Laertes whistled in the manner of a nightingale;

and the Pedant gave a symphony _pianissimo_ upon the Jew's-harp.

Meanwhile the youths and damsels, who sat near each other, had begun a

great variety of games; in which, as the hands often crossed and met,

some pairs were favored with a transient squeeze, the emblem of a

hopeful kindness. Madam Melina in particular seemed scarcely to conceal

a decided tenderness for Wilhelm. It was late; and Aurelia, perhaps the

only one retaining self-possession in the party, now stood up, and

signified that it was time to go.

By way of termination, Serlo gave a firework, or what resembled one; for

he could imitate the sound of crackers, rockets, and fire wheels, with

his mouth, in a style of nearly inconceivable correctness. You had only

to shut your eyes, and the deception was complete. In the mean time,

they had all risen: the men gave their arms to the women to escort them

home. Wilhelm was walking last with Aurelia. The stage-manager met him

on the stairs, and said to him, "Here is the veil our Ghost vanished in;

it was hanging fixed to the place where he sank; we found it this

moment."--"A curious relic!" said our friend, and took it with him.

At this instant his left arm was laid hold of, and he felt a smart

twinge of pain in it. Mignon had hid herself in the place: she had

seized him, and bit his arm. She rushed past him, down stairs, and

disappeared.

On reaching the open air, almost all of them discovered that they had

drunk too liberally. They glided asunder without taking leave.

The instant Wilhelm gained his room, he stripped, and, extinguishing his

candle, hastened into bed. Sleep was overpowering him without delay,

when a noise, that seemed to issue from behind the stove, aroused him.

In the eye of his heated fancy, the image of the harnessed King was

hovering there: he sat up that he might address the Spectre; but he felt

himself encircled with soft arms, and his mouth was shut with kisses,

which he had not force to push away.

CHAPTER XIII.

Next morning Wilhelm started up with an unpleasant feeling, and found

himself alone. His head was still dim with the tumult, which he had not

yet entirely slept off; and the recollection of his nightly visitant

disquieted his mind. His first suspicion lighted on Philina; but, on

second thoughts, he conceived that it could not have been she. He sprang

out of bed: and, while putting on his clothes, he noticed that the door,

which commonly he used to bolt, was now ajar; though whether he had shut

it on the previous night, or not, he could not recollect.

But what surprised him most was the Spirit's veil, which he found lying

on his bed. Having brought it up with him, he had most probably thrown

it there himself. It was a gray gauze: on the hem of it he noticed an

inscription broidered in dark letters. He unfolded it, and read the

words, "FOR THE FIRST AND THE LAST TIME! FLEE, YOUTH! FLEE!" He was

struck with it, and knew not what to think or say.

At this moment Mignon entered with his breakfast. The aspect of the

child astonished Wilhelm, we may almost say frightened him. She appeared

to have grown taller over night: she entered with a stately, noble air,

and looked him in the face so earnestly, that he could not endure her

glances. She did not touch him, as at other times, when, for morning

salutation, she would press his hand, or kiss his cheek, his lips, his

arm, or shoulder; but, having put his things in order, she retired in

silence.

The appointed time of a first rehearsal now arrived: our friends

assembled, all of them entirely out of tune from yesternight's debauch.

Wilhelm roused himself as much as possible, that he might not at the

very outset violate the principles he had preached so lately with such

emphasis. His practice in the matter helped him through; for practice

and habit must, in every art, fill up the voids which genius and temper

in their fluctuations will so often leave.

But, in the present case, our friends had especial reason to admit the

truth of the remark, that no one should begin with a festivity any

situation that is meant to last, particularly that is meant to be a

trade, a mode of living. Festivities are fit for what is happily

concluded: at the commencement, they but waste the force and zeal which

should inspire us in the struggle, and support us through a

long-continued labor. Of all festivities, the marriage festival appears

the most unsuitable: calmness, humility, and silent hope befit no

ceremony more than this.

So passed the day, which to Wilhelm seemed the most insipid he had ever

spent. Instead of their accustomed conversation in the evening, the

company began to yawn: the interest of Hamlet was exhausted; they rather

felt it disagreeable than otherwise that the play was to be repeated

next night. Wilhelm showed the veil which the royal Dane had left: it

was to be inferred from this, that he would not come again. Serlo was of

that opinion; he appeared to be deep in the secrets of the Ghost: but,

on the other hand, the inscription, "Flee, youth! Flee!" seemed

inconsistent with the rest. How could Serlo be in league with any one

whose aim it was to take away the finest actor of his troop?

It had now become a matter of necessity to confer on Boisterous the

Ghost's part, and on the Pedant that of the King. Both declared that

they had studied these sufficiently: nor was it wonderful; for in such a

number of rehearsals, and so copious a treatment of the subject, all of

them had grown familiar with it: each could have exchanged his part with

any other. Yet they rehearsed a little here and there, and prepared the

new adventurers, as fully as the hurry would admit. When the company was

breaking up at a pretty late hour, Philina softly whispered Wilhelm as

she passed, "I must have my slippers back: thou wilt not bolt the door?"

These words excited some perplexity in Wilhelm, when he reached his

chamber; they strengthened the suspicion that Philina was the secret

visitant: and we ourselves are forced to coincide with this idea;

particularly as the causes, which awakened in our friend another and a

stranger supposition, cannot be disclosed. He kept walking up and down

his chamber in no quiet frame: his door was actually not yet bolted.

On a sudden Mignon rushed into the room, laid hold of him, and cried,

"Master! save the house! It is on fire!" Wilhelm sprang through the

door, and a strong smoke came rushing down upon him from the upper

story. On the street he heard the cry of fire; and the harper, with his

instrument in his hand, came down-stairs breathless through the smoke.

Aurelia hurried out of her chamber, and threw little Felix into

Wilhelm's arms.

"Save the child!" cried she, "and we will mind the rest."

Wilhelm did not look upon the danger as so great: his first thought was,

to penetrate to the source of the fire, and try to stifle it before it

reached a head. He gave Felix to the harper; commanding him to hasten

down the stone stairs, which led across a little garden-vault out into

the garden, and to wait with the children in the open air. Mignon took a

light to show the way. He begged Aurelia to secure her things there

also. He himself pierced upwards through the smoke, but it was in vain

that he exposed himself to such danger. The flame appeared to issue from

a neighboring house; it had already caught the wooden floor and

staircase: some others, who had hastened to his help, were suffering

like himself from fire and vapor. Yet he kept inciting them; he called

for water; he conjured them to dispute every inch with the flame, and

promised to abide by them to the last. At this instant, Mignon came

springing up, and cried. "Master! save thy Felix! The old man is mad! He

is killing him." Scarcely knowing what he did, Wilhelm darted down

stairs; and Mignon followed close behind him.

On the last steps, which led into the garden-vault, he paused with

horror. Some heaps of fire-wood branches, and large masses of straw,

which had been stowed in the place, were burning with a clear flame;

Felix was lying on the ground, and screaming; the harper stood aside,

holding down his head, and leaned against the wall. "Unhappy creature!

what is this?" said Wilhelm. The old man spoke not; Mignon lifted Felix,

and carried him with difficulty to the garden; while Wilhelm strove to

pull the fire asunder and extinguish it, but only by his efforts made

the flame more violent. At last he, too, was forced to flee into the

garden, with his hair and his eyelashes burned; tearing the harper with

him through the conflagration, who, with singed beard, unwillingly

accompanied him.

Wilhelm hastened instantly to seek the children. He found them on the

threshold of a summer-house at some distance: Mignon was trying every

effort to pacify her comrade. Wilhelm took him on his knee: he

questioned him, felt him, but could obtain no satisfactory account from

either him or Mignon.

Meanwhile, the fire had fiercely seized on several houses: it was now

enlightening all the neighborhood. Wilhelm looked at the child in the

red glare of the flames: he could find no wound, no blood, no hurt of

any kind. He groped over all the little creature's body, but the boy

gave no sign of pain: on the contrary, he by degrees grew calm, and

began to wonder at the blazing houses, and express his pleasure at the

spectacle of beams and rafters burning all in order, like a grand

illumination, so beautifully there.

Wilhelm thought not of the clothes or goods he might have lost: he felt

deeply how inestimable to him was this pair of human beings, who had

just escaped so great a danger. He pressed little Felix to his heart

with a new emotion: Mignon, too, he was about to clasp with joyful

tenderness; but she softly avoided this: she took him by the hand, and

held it fast.

"Master," said she (till the present evening she had hardly ever named

him master; at first she used to name him sir, and afterwards to call

him father),--"Master! we have escaped an awful danger: thy Felix was on

the point of death."

By many inquiries, Wilhelm learned from her at last, that, when they

came into the vault, the harper tore the light from her hand, and set on

fire the straw. That he then put Felix down, laid his hands with strange

gestures on the head of the child, and drew a knife as if he meant to

sacrifice him. That she sprang forward, and snatched it from him; that

she screamed; and some one from the house, who was carrying something

down into the garden, came to her help, but must have gone away again in

the confusion, and left the old man and the child alone.

Two or even three houses were now flaming in a general blaze. Owing to

the conflagration in the vault, no person had been able to take shelter

in the garden. Wilhelm was distressed about his friends, and in a less

degree about his property. Not venturing to quit the children, he was

forced to sit, and see the mischief spreading more and more.

In this anxious state he passed some hours. Felix had fallen asleep on

his bosom: Mignon was lying at his side, and holding fast his hand. The

efforts of the people finally subdued the fire. The burned houses sank,

with successive crashes, into heaps; the morning was advancing; the

children awoke, and complained of bitter cold; even Wilhelm, in his

light dress, could scarcely brook the chillness of the falling dew. He

took the young ones to the rubbish of the prostrate building, where,

among the ashes and the embers, they found a very grateful warmth.

The opening day collected, by degrees, the various individuals of the

party. All of them had got away unhurt: no one had lost much. Wilhelm's

trunk was saved among the rest.

Towards ten o'clock Serlo called them to rehearse their "Hamlet," at

least some scenes, in which fresh players were to act. He had some

debates to manage, on this point, with the municipal authorities. The

clergy required, that, after such a visitation of Providence, the

playhouse should be shut for some time; and Serlo, on the other hand,

maintained, that both for the purpose of repairing the damage he had

suffered, and of exhilarating the depressed and terrified spirits of the

people, nothing could be more in place than the exhibition of some

interesting play. His opinion in the end prevailed, and the house was

full. The actors played with singular fire, with more of a passionate

freedom than at first. The feelings of the audience had been heightened

by the horrors of the previous night, and their appetite for

entertainment had been sharpened by the tedium of a wasted and

dissipated day: every one had more than usual susceptibility for what

was strange and moving. Most of them were new spectators, invited by the

fame of the play: they could not compare the present with the preceding

evening. Boisterous played altogether in the style of the unknown Ghost:

the Pedant, too, had accurately seized the manner of his predecessor;

nor was his own woful aspect without its use to him; for it seemed as

if, in spite of his purple cloak and his ermine collar, Hamlet were

fully justified in calling him a "king of shreds and patches."

Few have ever reached the throne by a path more singular than his had

been. But although the rest, and especially Philina, made sport of his

preferment, he himself signified that the count, a consummate judge, had

at the first glance predicted this and much more of him. Philina, on the

other hand, recommended lowliness of mind to him; saying, she would now

and then powder the sleeves of his coat, that he might remember that

unhappy night in the castle, and wear his crown with meekness.

CHAPTER XIV.

Our friends had sought out other lodgings, on the spur of the moment,

and were by this means much dispersed. Wilhelm had conceived a liking

for the garden-house, where he had spent the night of the conflagration:

he easily obtained the key, and settled himself there. But Aurelia being

greatly hampered in her new abode, he was obliged to retain little Felix

with him. Mignon, indeed, would not part with the boy.

He had placed the children in a neat chamber on the upper floor: he

himself was in the lower parlor. The young ones were asleep at this

time: Wilhelm could not sleep.

Adjoining the lovely garden, which the full moon had just risen to

illuminate, the black ruins of the fire were visible; and here and there

a streak of vapor was still mounting from them. The air was soft, the

night extremely beautiful. Philina, in issuing from the theatre, had

jogged him with her elbow, and whispered something to him, which he did

not understand. He felt perplexed and out of humor: he knew not what he

should expect or do. For a day or two Philina had avoided him: it was

not till to-night that she had given him any second signal. Unhappily

the doors, that he was not to bolt, were now consumed: the slippers had

evaporated into smoke. How the girl would gain admission to the garden,

if her aim was such, he knew not. He wished she might not come, and yet

he longed to have some explanation with her.

But what lay heavier at his heart than this, was the fate of the harper,

whom, since the fire, no one had seen. Wilhelm was afraid, that, in

clearing off the rubbish, they would find him buried under it. Our

friend had carefully concealed the suspicion which he entertained, that

it was the harper who had fired the house. The old man had been first

seen, as he rushed from the burning and smoking floor, and his

desperation in the vault appeared a natural consequence of such a deed.

Yet, from the inquiry which the magistrates had instituted touching the

affair, it seemed likely that the fire had not originated in the house

where Wilhelm lived, but had accidentally been kindled in the third from

that, and had crept along beneath the roofs before it burst into

activity.

Seated in a grove, our friend was meditating all these things, when he

heard a low footfall in a neighboring walk. By the melancholy song

which arose along with it, he recognized the harper. He caught the words

of the song without difficulty: it turned on the consolations of a

miserable man, conscious of being on the borders of insanity. Unhappily

our friend forgot the whole of it except the last verse:--

"Wheresoe'er my steps may lead me,

Meekly at the door I'll stay:

Pious hands will come to feed me,

And I'll wander on my way.

Each will feel a touch of gladness

When my aged form appears:

Each will shed a tear of sadness,

Though I reck not of his tears."

So singing, he had reached the garden-door, which led into an

unfrequented street. Finding it bolted, he was making an attempt to

climb the railing, when Wilhelm held him back, and addressed some kindly

words to him. The old man begged to have the door unlocked, declaring

that he would and must escape. Wilhelm represented to him that he might

indeed escape from the garden, but could not from the town; showing, at

the same time, what suspicions he must needs incur by such a step. But

it was in vain: the old man held by his opinion. Our friend, however,

would not yield; and at last he brought him, half by force, into the

garden-house, in which he locked himself along with him. The two carried

on a strange conversation; which, however, not to afflict our readers

with repeating unconnected thoughts and dolorous emotions, we had rather

pass in silence than detail at large.

CHAPTER XV.

Undetermined what to do with this unhappy man, who displayed such

indubitable symptoms of madness, Wilhelm would have been in great

perplexity, had not Laertes come that very morning, and delivered him

from his uncertainty. Laertes, as usual, rambling everywhere about the

town, had happened, in some coffee-house, to meet with a man, who, a

short time ago, had suffered under violent attacks of melancholy. This

person, it appeared, had been intrusted to the care of some country

clergyman, who made it his peculiar business to attend to people in

such situations. In the present instance, as in many others, his

treatment had succeeded: he was still in town, and the friends of the

patient were showing him the greatest honor.

Wilhelm hastened to find out this person: he disclosed the case to him,

and agreed with him about the terms. The harper was to be brought over

to him, under certain pretexts. The separation deeply pained our friend;

so used was he to see the man beside him, and to hear his spirited and

touching strains. The hope of soon beholding him recovered, served, in

some degree, to moderate this feeling. The old man's harp had been

destroyed in the burning of the house: they purchased him another, and

gave it him when he departed.

Mignon's little wardrobe had in like manner been consumed. As Wilhelm

was about providing her with new apparel, Aurelia proposed that now at

last they should dress her as a girl.

"No! no! not at all!" cried Mignon, and insisted on it with such

earnestness, that they let her have her way.

The company had not much leisure for reflection: the exhibitions

followed close on one another.

Wilhelm often mingled with the audience, to ascertain their feelings;

but he seldom heard a criticism of the kind he wished: more frequently

the observations he listened to distressed or angered him. Thus, for

instance, shortly after "Hamlet" had been acted for the first time, a

youth was telling, with considerable animation, how happy he had been

that evening in the playhouse. Wilhelm hearkened, and was scandalized to

learn that his neighbor had, on that occasion, in contempt of those

behind him, kept his hat on, stubbornly refusing to remove it till the

play was done; to which heroical transaction he still looked back with

great contentment.

Another gentleman declared that Wilhelm played Laertes very well, but

that the actor who had undertaken Hamlet did not seem too happy in _his_

part. This permutation was not quite unnatural; for Wilhelm and Laertes

did resemble one another, though in a very distant manner.

A third critic warmly praised his acting, particularly in the scene with

his mother; only he regretted much, that, in this fiery moment, a white

strap had peered out from below the Prince's waistcoat, whereby the

illusion had been greatly marred.