discovered or recognized, unless one brings home to one’s mind the
whole complex of its circumstances and social conditions. Something
of all this can be obtained from the papers, which give us enough
detailed information of public affairs. But this is not enough; we
must add to it what foreigners in their critical journals and reviews
are accustomed to say about themselves and about other nations,
particularly the Germans,--their ideas and opinions, their interest
in and reception of our productions. If one wishes, for instance,
to acquaint oneself with modern French literature, one should study
the lectures which have been given for the last two years and are
now appearing in print,--lectures such as Guizot’s _Cours d’histoire
moderne_, Villemain’s _Cours de littérature française_, and Cousin’s
_Cours de l’histoire de la philosophie_. The significance they have
both at home and for us comes out thus in the clearest fashion. Still
more effective and interesting are perhaps the frequent numbers and
volumes of _Le Globe_, _La Revue française_, and the daily, _Le Temps_.
None of these can be spared, if we are to keep vividly before our eyes
both sides of these great movements in France and all the subsidiary
currents that spring from them.
* * * * *
French poetry, like French literature, is not distinct in spirit from
the life and passions of the nation as a whole. In recent times it
appears naturally always as the “Opposition,” and summons every genius
to make the most of his talent in resisting the “powers that be,” which
since they are endowed with force do not need to be intellectual or
spiritual.
If we follow this verse, which reveals so much, we see deep down into
the soul of the nation, and from the way in which they judge us, more
or less favorably, we can at the same time learn to judge ourselves.
And it can do no harm to have some one make us think about ourselves.
Whoever follows the course proposed above will very quickly become
completely informed of all public affairs and semi-public affairs. In
our present admirably managed book-trade it is possible to obtain books
speedily, instead of waiting, as has often been my experience, until
the author takes occasion to send his work as a gift, so that I have
often read the book long before I received it from him.
From all this it is evident that it is no light task to keep in touch
with all the literature of the present day. Of the English, as well as
the Italian, I shall have to speak again more particularly, for there
is much more to be said.
V
(1830)
There has been talk for some time of a general world-literature, and
indeed not without justice. For the nations, after they had been shaken
into confusion and mutual conflict by the terrible wars, could not
return to their settled and independent life again without noticing
that they had learned many foreign ideas and ways, which they had
unconsciously adopted, and had come to feel here and there previously
unrecognized spiritual and intellectual needs. Out of this arose the
feeling of neighborly relations, and, instead of shutting themselves up
as before, they gradually came to desire the adoption of some sort of
more or less free spiritual intercourse.
This movement, it is true, has lasted only a short time, but still
long enough to start considerable speculation, and to acquire from it,
as one must always from any kind of foreign trade, both profit and
enjoyment.
ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY[6]
(1797)
The epic and the dramatic writer are both subject to the universal
poetic laws, especially the law of unity and the law of progressive
development. Furthermore they both deal with similar subjects and both
can use a great variety of motives. The essential difference consists
in this, that an epic poet narrates an event as completely past, while
the dramatist presents it as completely present. If one wished to
develop in detail from the nature of man these laws which both have to
follow, one would continually have to keep before his mind a rhapsodist
and an actor, each in the character of a poet, the former surrounded
by a circle of listeners quietly following with rapt attention, the
latter by an impatient throng who have come simply to see and to hear.
It would then not be difficult to deduce what is most advantageous to
either of these two forms of poetry, what subjects either will choose
preëminently, nor what motives either will make use of most frequently;
as I remarked in the beginning, neither can lay claim to any one thing
exclusively.
The subject of the epic as well as of tragedy should be based on the
purely human, it should be vital, and it should make an appeal to one’s
feelings. The best effect is produced when the characters stand upon
a certain plane of cultural advancement, so that their actions are
purely the expression of their personality and are not influenced by
moral, political or mechanical considerations. The myths of the heroic
times were especially useful to the poets on these grounds.
The epic poem represents more especially action restricted to
individuals; tragedy, suffering restricted to individuals. The epic
poem represents man as an external agent, engaged in battles, journeys,
in fact in every possible kind of undertaking, and so demands a certain
elaborateness of treatment. Tragedy, on the other hand, represents man
as an internal agent, and the action, therefore, requires but little
space in a genuine tragedy.
There are five kinds of motives:
(1) Progressive, which advance the action. These the drama uses
preëminently.
(2) Retrogressive, which draw the action away from its goal. These the
epic poem uses almost exclusively.
(3) Retarding, which delay the progress of the action or lengthen its
course. Both epic and tragic poetry use these to very great advantage.
(4) Retrospective, which introduce into the poem events which happened
before the time of the poem.
(5) Prospective, which anticipate what will happen after the time of
the poem. The epic as well as the dramatic poet uses the last two kinds
of motives to make his poem complete.
The worlds which are to be represented are common to both, namely:--
(1) The physical world, which consists first of all of the immediate
world to which the persons represented belong and which surrounds them.
In it the dramatist limits himself mostly to one locality, while the
epic poet moves about with greater freedom and in a larger sphere.
Secondly, the physical world, containing the more remote world in
which all of nature is included. This world the epic poet, who appeals
exclusively to the imagination, makes more intelligible through the use
of similes and metaphors, which figures of speech are employed more
sparingly by the dramatist.
(2) The moral world, which is absolutely common to both, and, whether
normal or pathological, is best represented in its simplicity.
(3) The world of fancies, forebodings, apparitions, chance and fate.
This is available to both, only it must of course be approximated
to the world of the senses. In this world there arises a special
difficulty for us moderns, because we cannot easily find substitutes
for the fabulous creatures, gods, soothsayers and oracles of the
ancients, however much we may desire to.
If we consider the manner of treatment as a whole, we shall find the
rhapsodist, who recites what is completely past, appearing as a wise
man, with calm deliberation surveying the events. It will be the
purpose of his recital to get his hearers into an even frame of mind,
so that they will listen to him long and willingly. He will divide
the interest evenly, because it is impossible for him to counteract
quickly a too vivid impression. He will, according to his pleasure,
go back in point of time or anticipate what is to come. We may follow
him everywhere, for he makes his appeal only to the imagination, which
originates its own images and which is to a certain extent indifferent
as to which images are called up. The rhapsodist as a higher being
ought not to appear himself in his poem; he would read best of all
behind a curtain, so that we may separate everything personal from his
work, and may believe we are hearing only the voice of the Muses.
The actor represents the very reverse of this. He presents himself as
a definite individuality. It is his desire to have us take interest
exclusively in him and in his immediate surroundings, so that we may
feel with him the sufferings of his soul and of his body, may share his
embarrassments and forget ourselves in him. To be sure he, too, will
proceed by degrees, but he can risk far more vivid effects, because by
his actual presence before the eyes of the audience he can neutralize
a stronger impression even by a weaker one. The senses of spectators
and listeners must be constantly stimulated. They must not rise to a
contemplative frame of mind, but must follow eagerly; their imagination
must be completely suppressed; no demands must be made upon it; and
even what is narrated must be vividly brought before their vision, as
it were, in terms of action.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] By Goethe and Schiller.
SUPPLEMENT TO ARISTOTLE’S _POETICS_[7]
(1827)
Every one who has concerned himself at all about the theory of poetic
art--and of tragedy in particular--will remember a passage in Aristotle
which has caused the commentators much difficulty, without their ever
having been able to convince themselves wholly of its meaning. In his
definition of tragedy this great writer seems to demand of it that,
through the representation of stirring deeds and events, which should
arouse pity and fear, the soul of the spectator should be purified of
these passions.
My thoughts and convictions in regard to this passage I can best impart
by a translation of it:--
“Tragedy is the imitation of a significant and complete action, which
has a certain extension in time and is portrayed in beautiful language
by separate individuals, each of whom plays a rôle, instead of having
all represented by one person as in the narration of a story or epic.
After a course of events arousing pity and fear, the action closes with
the equilibration of these passions.”
In the foregoing translation, I believe I have made this hitherto
dubious passage clear; it will only be necessary to add the following
remarks: Could Aristotle, notwithstanding his always objective
manner,--as, for instance, here, where he seems to be speaking
exclusively of the technique of tragedy,--be really thinking of the
effect, indeed the distant effect, upon the _spectator_? By no means!
He speaks clearly and definitely: When the course of action is one
arousing pity and fear, the tragedy must close _on the stage_ with an
equilibration, a reconciliation, of these emotions.
By “catharsis,” he understands this reconciling culmination, which is
demanded of all drama, indeed of all poetical works.
This occurs in the tragedy through a kind of human sacrifice, whether
it be rigidly worked out with the death of the victim, or, under the
influence of a favoring divinity, be satisfied by a substitute, as
in the case of Abraham and Agamemnon. But this reconciliation, this
release, is necessary at the end if the tragedy is to be a perfect
work of art. This release, on the other hand, when effected through
a favorable or desirable outcome, rather makes the work resemble an
intermediate species of art, as in the return of Alcestis. In comedy,
on the contrary, for the clearing up of all complications, which
in themselves are of little significance from the point of view of
arousing fear and hope, a marriage is usually introduced; and this,
even if it does not end life completely, does make in it an important
and serious break. Nobody wants to die, everybody to marry; and in
this lies the half-jocose, half-serious difference between tragedy and
comedy in practical æsthetics.
We shall perceive further that the Greeks did make use of their
“trilogy” for such a purpose; for there is no loftier “catharsis” than
the _Œdipus of Kolonus_, where a half-guilty delinquent,--a man who,
through a demonic strain in his nature, through the sombre vehemence as
well as greatness of his character, and through a headstrong course of
action, puts himself at the mercy of the ever-inscrutable, unalterable
powers,--plunges himself and his family into the deepest, irreparable
misery, and yet finally, after having made atonement and reparation, is
raised to the company of the gods, as the auspicious protecting spirit
of a region, revered with special sacrifices and services.
Here we find the principle of the great master, that the hero of a
tragedy must be regarded and represented neither as wholly guilty nor
as wholly innocent. In the first case the catharsis would merely result
from the nature of the story, and the murdered wretch would appear only
to have escaped the common justice which would have fallen upon him
anyway by law. In the second case, it is not feasible either; for then
there would seem to fall on human power or fate the weight of an all
too heavy burden of injustice.
But on this subject I do not wish to wax polemical, any more than on
any other; I have only to point out here how up to the present time
people have been inclined to put up with a dubious interpretation of
this passage. Aristotle had said in the _Politics_ that music could be
made use of in education for ethical purposes, since by means of the
sacred melodies the minds of those raised to frenzy by the orgies were
quieted and soothed again; thus he thought other emotions and passions
could be calmed and equilibrated. That the argument here is from
analogous cases we cannot deny; yet we think they are not identical.
The effect of music depends on its particular character, as Handel has
worked out in his “Alexander’s Feast,” and as we can see evidenced at
every ball, where perhaps after a chaste and dignified polonaise, a
waltz is played and whirls the whole company of young people away in a
bacchic frenzy.
For music, like all the arts, has little power directly to influence
morality, and it is always wrong to demand such results from them.
Philosophy and Religion alone can accomplish this. If piety and duty
must be stimulated, the arts can only casually effect this stimulation.
What they can accomplish, however, is a softening of crude manners and
morals; yet even this may, on the other hand, soon degenerate into
effeminacy.
Whoever is on the path of a truly moral and spiritual self-cultivation,
will feel and acknowledge that tragedy and tragic romance do not quiet
and satisfy the mind, but rather tend to unsettle the emotions and
what we call the heart, and induce a vague, unquiet mood. Youth is apt
to love this mood and is for that reason passionately devoted to such
productions.
We now return to our original point, and repeat: Aristotle speaks of
the _technique_ of tragedy, in the sense that the poet, making it the
object of his attention, contrives to create something pleasing to eye
and ear in a course of a completed action.
If the poet has fulfilled this purpose and his duty on his side, tying
together his knots of meaning and unraveling them again, the same
process will pass before the mind of the spectator; the complications
will perplex him, the solution enlighten him, but he will not go home
any the better for it all. He will be inclined perhaps, if he is given
to reflection, to be amazed at the state of mind in which he finds
himself at home again--just as frivolous, as obstinate, as zealous, as
weak, as tender or as cynical as he was when he went out. On this point
we believe we have said all we can until a further working out of the
whole subject makes it possible to understand it more clearly.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] “I have just re-read the _Poetics_ of Aristotle with the
greatest pleasure; intelligence in its highest manifestation is a fine
thing. It is really remarkable how Aristotle limits himself entirely to
experience, and so appears, if perhaps somewhat material, for the most
part all the more solid. It was also stimulating to me to see with what
liberality he always shields the poet against the fault-finders and the
hypercritical, how he always insists on essentials, and in everything
else is so lax that in more than one place I was simply amazed. It
is this that makes his whole view of poetry, and especially of his
favorite forms, so vivifying that I shall soon take up the book again,
especially in regard to some important passages which are not quite
clear and the meaning of which I wish to investigate further.”--Goethe
to Schiller, April 28, 1797.
ON THE GERMAN THEATRE
(1815)
Now that the German stage, as one of our best national institutions, is
emerging from an unfortunate narrowness and seclusion into freedom and
vitality, wise directors are exerting themselves to produce an effect
on a wide public, and not to confine themselves, however earnestly, to
any single institution. Poets, actors, managers, and public will come
to a better and better’ mutual understanding, but in the gratification
of the moment they must not forget what their predecessors
accomplished. Only upon a repertory which includes older plays can a
national theatre be founded. I hope that the following words will have
a favorable reception, so that the author’s courage will be stimulated
and he will come forward from time to time with similar suggestions.
_A Plan of Schiller’s, and What Came of It_
When the lamented Schiller, through the influence of the court, the
solicitations of society, and the inclinations of his friends, was
moved to change his place of residence from Jena to Weimar, and to
renounce that seclusion in which until then he had wrapt himself, he
had the theatre at Weimar particularly in his mind, and he decided to
devote his attention carefully and closely to the productions there.
And such a narrowing of his field the poet needed, for his
extraordinary genius from his youth up had sought the heights and the
depths. The power of his imagination, his poetical activity, had led
him over a great range; but in spite of the ardor with which his mind
traversed this broad range, with further experience it could not escape
his clear insight that these qualities must necessarily lead him astray
in the field of the theatre.
At Jena his friends had been witness to the perseverance and resolute
determination with which he occupied himself with “Wallenstein.” This
subject, which kept expanding at the hands of his genius, was worked
out, knit together, revised, in numerous ways, until he saw at last
that it would be necessary to divide the piece into three parts, as was
thereupon done. And afterwards he did not cease to make alterations, in
order that the principal scenes might acquire all the effect that was
possible. The result was, however, that the _Death of Wallenstein_ was
given oftener on all stages than the _Camp_ and the _Piccolomini_.
_Don Carlos_ had been condensed still earlier for the stage; and
whoever will compare this play, as it is produced, with the earlier
printed edition, will recognize the same laborious changes. For though
Schiller in sketching out the plan of his work felt bound by no
limitations, in a later revision for theatrical purposes he had the
courage, as a result of his convictions, to adapt it stringently, yes
even mercilessly, to the practical exigencies of the situation. These
meant a definite limitation of time; all the principal scenes had to
pass before the eyes of the audience in a certain period of time. All
the other scenes he omitted, and yet he could never really confine
himself to the space of three hours.
_The Robbers_, _Intrigue and Love_, _Fiesco_, productions of
an aggressive youthful impatience and indignation at a severe
and confining training, had to undergo many alterations for the
stage-production which was eagerly demanded by the public and
especially the young men. About them all he would speculate whether it
was not possible to assimilate them to a more refined taste, a taste
such as he had trained himself since to feel. On this point he was
accustomed to take long and detailed counsel with himself, in long
sleepless nights, and sometimes on pleasant evenings in talks with his
friends.
Could these discussions and suggestions have been preserved by a
shorthand writer, we should have possessed a noteworthy contribution to
productive criticism. But even more valuable will discerning readers
find Schiller’s own remarks about the projected and indeed commenced
“Demetrius,” which fine example of penetrating and critical creative
ability is preserved for us in the supplement to his works. The three
plays mentioned above, however, we decided not to touch, for what is
offensive in them is too closely bound up with their contents and form;
and we had to trust to fortune in transmitting them to posterity just
as they had sprung from a powerful and bizarre genius.
Schiller, finely matured, had not attended many performances, when his
active mind, considering the situation and taking a comprehensive view
of things, got the idea that what had been done to his own works could
be done in the case of other men’s. So he drew up a plan whereby the
work of earlier playwrights might be preserved for the German theatre,
without prejudice to contemporary writers,--the accepted material, the
contents of the works chosen, to be adapted to a form which should be
partly determined by the requirements of the stage and partly by the
ideas and spirit of the present time. For these reasons he decided to
devote the hours which were left him from his own work to constructing
plans, in company with congenial friends, whereby plays which had a
significance for our age might be revised, and a true German Theatre
founded,--not only for the benefit of the reader, who would come to
know famous plays from a new standpoint, but also for the benefit of
the numerous theatres of Germany, which would be given the opportunity
of strengthening their repertories by laying a solid foundation of
older works under the ephemeral productions of the day.
In order then to found the German Theatre on true German soil, it was
Schiller’s intention to revise Klopstock’s _Hermanns Schlacht_. The
play was taken up, but the first consideration of it produced much
doubt in his mind. Schiller’s judgment was in general very liberal,
but at the same time independent and critical. The ideal demands
which Schiller according to his nature was obliged to make were not
satisfied, and the piece was soon laid aside. Present-day criticism
requires no hints in order to discover the grounds for the decision.
Towards Lessing’s work Schiller had a singular attitude. He did not
care particularly for it,--indeed, _Emilia Galotti_ was repugnant to
him. Yet this tragedy as well as _Minna von Barnhelm_ was accepted
in the repertory. He then devoted himself to _Nathan der Weise_, and
in this revision, in which he was glad to have the coöperation of
discerning friends, the piece is played to this day, and it will be
retained on the boards, because able actors will always be found who
feel themselves equal to the rôle of Nathan. And may the German public
remember always that it is called not only to witness this well-known
piece, so excellently staged, but also to hear it and to understand it!
May there never come a time when the divine spirit of toleration and
forbearance contained in it will cease to be sacred to the nation.
The presence of the distinguished Iffland in 1796 gave occasion for
the shortening of _Egmont_ to the form in which it is now given here
and in several places at present. That Schiller rather mutilated it
in his revision is indicated by a comparison of the following scenes
with the printed play itself. The public was annoyed at the omission
of the Princess, for instance; yet there is in Schiller’s work such a
consistency that no one has dared to attempt to alter the piece for
fear that other errors and misadjustments might creep into its present
form.
_Egmont_
(_First Act_)
In an open square, cross-bow shooters. One of Egmont’s men is being
elevated to the post of captain, through his skill in shooting, and
his health and that of the lord are being drunk; public affairs are
discussed, and the characters of distinguished persons. The disposition
of the people begins to show itself. Other citizens come in; unrest is
revealed. A lawyer joins them, and begins to discuss the liberties of
the people. Dissent and quarrels follow. Egmont enters, quiets his
men, and threatens the trouble-maker. He exhibits himself as an honored
and popular prince.
(_Second Act_)