sharpened and accelerated by an opposing will. Here is the seat of all
that is fearful in the oracles, the region in which Œdipus lords it
over all. Less tragic appears necessity in the guise of duty in the
“Antigone”; and in how many forms does it not appear! But all necessity
is despotic, whether it belong to the realm of Reason, like custom
and civil law, or to Nature, like the laws of Becoming, and Growing
and Passing-away, of Life and of Death. Before all these we tremble,
without realizing that it is the good of the _whole_ that is aimed at.
The will, on the contrary, is free, appears free, and is advantageous
to the _individual_. Thus the will is a flatterer, and takes possession
of men as soon as they learn to recognize it. It is the god of the
modern world. Dedicated to it, we are afraid of opposing doctrines, and
here lies the crux of that eternal division which separates our art and
thought from the ancients. Through the motive of Necessity, tragedy
became mighty and strong; through the motive of Will, weak and feeble.
Out of the latter arose the so-called Drama, in which dread Necessity
is overcome and dissolved through the Will. But just because this comes
to the aid of our weakness we feel moved when, after painful tension,
we are at last a little encouraged and consoled.
As I turn now, after these preliminaries, to Shakespeare, I must
express the hope that the reader himself will make the proper
comparisons and applications. It is Shakespeare’s unique distinction
that he has combined in such remarkable fashion the old and the new. In
his plays Will and Necessity struggle to maintain an equilibrium; both
contend powerfully, yet always so that Will remains at a disadvantage.
No one has shown perhaps better than he the connection between
Necessity and Will in the individual character. The person, considered
as a character, is under a certain necessity; he is constrained,
appointed to a certain particular line of action; but as a human being
he has a will, which is unconfined and universal in its demands. Thus
arises an inner conflict, and Shakespeare is superior to all other
writers in the significance with which he endows this. But now an
outer conflict may arise, and the individual through it may become so
aroused that an insufficient will is raised through circumstance to
the level of irremissible necessity. These motives I have referred to
earlier in the case of Hamlet; but the motive is repeated constantly
in Shakespeare,--Hamlet through the agency of the ghost; Macbeth
through the witches, Hecate, and his wife; Brutus through his friends
gets into a dilemma and situation to which they were not equal; even
in Coriolanus the same motive is found. This Will, which reaches
beyond the power of the individual, is decidedly modern. But since in
Shakespeare it does not spring from within, but is developed through
external circumstance, it becomes a sort of Necessity, and approaches
the classical motive. For all the heroes of ancient poetry willed
only what was possible to men, and from this arose that beautiful
balance between Necessity, Will, and Accomplishment. Still their
Necessity is a little too severe for it really to be able to please
us, even though we may wonder at and admire it. A Necessity which
more or less, or even completely, excludes human freedom does not
chime with our views any longer. It is true that Shakespeare in his
own way has approximated this, but in making this Necessity a moral
necessity he has, to our pleasure and astonishment, united the spirit
of the ancient and the modern worlds. If we are to learn anything from
him, here is the point where we must study in his school. Instead of
singing the praises of our Romanticism so exclusively, and sticking
to it so uncritically,--our Romanticism, which need not be chidden or
rejected,--and thus mistaking and obscuring its strong, solid practical
aspect, we should rather attempt to make this great fusion between the
old and the new, even though it does seem inconsistent and paradoxical;
and all the more should we make the attempt, because a great and unique
master, whom we value most highly, and, often without knowing why, give
homage to above all others, has already most effectively accomplished
this miracle. To be sure, he had the advantage of living in a true
time of harvest, and of working in a vigorous Protestant country,
where the madness of bigotry was silent for a time, so that freedom
was given to a true child of nature, such as Shakespeare was, to
develop religiously his own pure inner nature, without reference to any
established religion.
* * * * *
The preceding words were written in the summer of 1813; I ask that the
reader will not now find fault with me, but simply recall what was said
above,--that this is merely an individual attempt to show how different
poetic geniuses have tried to reconcile and resolve that tremendous
antithesis which has appeared in their works in so many forms. To
say more would be superfluous, since interest has been centred in
this question for the past few years, and excellent explanations have
been given us. Above all I wish to mention Blümner’s highly valuable
treatise, _On the Idea of Fate in the Tragedies of Æschylus_, and
the excellent criticism of it in the supplement of the _Jenaische
Literaturzeitung_. Therefore, I come without further comment to my
third point, which relates immediately to the German theatre and to
Schiller’s efforts to establish it for the future.
_III. Shakespeare as Playwright_
When lovers of art wish to enjoy any work, they contemplate and delight
in it as a whole, that is, they try to feel and apprehend the unity
which the artist can bring to them. Whoever, on the other hand, wishes
to judge such works theoretically, to assert some judgment about them,
or instruct some one about them, must use his discriminating and
analytic faculty. This we attempted to carry out when we discussed
Shakespeare, first, as poet in general, and then compared him with
the ancient and modern poets. Now we intend to close the matter by
considering him as a playwright, or poet of the theatre.
Shakespeare’s fame and excellence belong to the history of poetry; but
it is an injustice towards all playwrights of earlier and more recent
times to give him his entire merit in the annals of the theatre.
A universally recognized talent may make of its capacities some use
which is problematical. Not everything which the great do is done in
the best fashion. So Shakespeare belongs by necessity in the annals of
poetry; in the annals of the theatre he appears only by accident. Since
we can honor him so unreservedly in the first case, it behooves us in
the second to explain the conditions to which he had to accommodate
himself, but not therefore to extol these conditions as either
admirable or worthy of imitation.
We must distinguish closely-related poetic _genres_, however often
they may be confused and merged together in actual treatment,--epic,
dialogue, drama, play. _Epic_ requires the verbal delivery to the
crowd through the mouth of an individual; _dialogue_, conversation
in a narrow circle, where the crowd may eventually listen; _drama_,
conversation bound up with action, even if enacted only before the
imagination; _play_, all three together, in so far as they appeal to
the sense of vision, and can be embodied under certain conditions of
personal presence and stage-setting.
Shakespeare’s works are in this sense highly dramatic; by his
treatment, his revelation of the inner life, he wins the reader; the
theatrical demands appear to him unimportant, and so he takes it easy,
and we, spiritually speaking, take it easy with him. We pass with
him from place to place; our power of imagination provides all the
episodes which he omits. We even feel grateful to him for arousing our
imagination in so profitable a way. Since he exhibits everything in
dramatic form, he renders easy the working of our imaginations; for
with the “stage that signifies the world,” we are more familiar than
with the world itself, and we can read and hear the most phantastic
things, and still imagine that they might pass before our eyes on the
stage. This accounts for the frequently bungling dramatizations of
favorite novels.
Strictly speaking, nothing is theatrical except what is immediately
symbolical to the eye: an important action, that is, which signifies
a still more important one. That Shakespeare knew how to attain this
summit, that moment witnesses where the son and heir in _Henry IV_
takes the crown from the side of the slumbering king, who lies sick
unto death,--takes the crown and marches proudly away with it. But
these are only moments, scattered jewels, separated by much that is
untheatrical. Shakespeare’s whole method finds in the stage itself
something unwieldy and hostile. His great talent is that of a universal
interpreter, or “epitomizer” (_Epitomator_), and since the poet
in essence appears as universal interpreter of Nature, so we must
recognize Shakespeare’s great genius as lying in this realm; it would
be only falsehood--and in no sense is this to his dishonor--were we to
say that the stage was a worthy field for his genius. These limitations
of the stage, however, have forced upon him certain limitations of
his own. But he does not, like other poets, pick out disconnected
materials for his separate works, but puts an idea at the centre, and
to it relates the world and the universe. As he works over and boils
down ancient and modern history, he can often make use of the material
of old chronicles; indeed, he often adapts them word for word. With
romances he does not deal so conscientiously, as _Hamlet_ shows us.
_Romeo and Juliet_ is truer to the original; still he almost destroys
the tragic content of it by his two comic characters, Mercutio and the
old nurse, played apparently by two favorite actors, the nurse perhaps
originally by a male performer. If one examines the construction of the
piece carefully, however, one notices that these two figures, and what
surrounds them, come in only as farcical interludes, and must be as
unbearable to the minds of the lovers on the stage as they are to us.
But Shakespeare appears most remarkable when he revises and pieces
together already existing plays. In _King John_ and _Lear_ we can make
this comparison, for the older plays are extant. But in these cases,
too, he turns out to be more of a poet than playwright.
In closing, let us proceed to the solution of the riddle. The
primitiveness of the English stage has been brought to our attention
by scholars. There is no trace in it of that striving after realism,
which we have developed with the improvement of machinery and the art
of perspective and costuming, and from which we should find it hard to
turn back to that childlike beginning of the stage,--a scaffolding,
where one saw little, where everything was _signified_, where the
audience was content to assume a royal chamber behind a green curtain;
and the trumpeter, who always blew his trumpet at a certain place, and
all the rest of it. Who would be content to-day to put up with such a
stage? But amid such surroundings, Shakespeare’s plays were highly
interesting stories, only told by several persons, who, in order to
make somewhat more of an impression, had put on masks, and, when it was
necessary, moved back and forth, entered and left the stage; but left
to the spectator nevertheless the task of imagining at his pleasure
Paradise and palaces on the empty stage.
How else then did Schroeder acquire the great distinction of bringing
Shakespeare’s plays to the German stage, except by the fact that he was
the “epitomizer” of the “epitomizer”!
Schroeder confined himself exclusively to effect; everything else he
discarded, even many necessary things, if they seemed to injure the
effect which he wanted to produce on his country and his time. Thus
by the omission, for instance, of the first scenes of _King Lear_, he
annulled the character of the play. And he was right, for in this scene
Lear seems so absurd that we are not able, in what follows, to ascribe
to his daughters the entire guilt. We are sorry for the old man, but
we do not feel real pity for him; and it is pity that Schroeder wishes
to arouse, as well as abhorrence for the daughters, who are indeed
unnatural, but not wholly blameworthy.
In the old play, which Shakespeare revised, this scene produces in the
course of the action the loveliest effect. Lear flees to France; the
daughters and the stepson, from romantic caprice, make a pilgrimage
over the sea, and meet the old man, who does not recognize them. Here
everything is sweet, where Shakespeare’s loftier tragic genius has
embittered us. A comparison of these plays will give the thoughtful
reader ever fresh pleasure.
Many years ago the superstition crept into Germany that Shakespeare
must be given literally word for word, even if actors and audience
were murdered in the process. The attempts, occasioned by an excellent
and exact translation, were nowhere successful, of which fact the
painstaking and repeated endeavors of the stage at Weimar are the best
witness. If we wish to see a Shakespearean play, we must take up again
Schroeder’s version; but the notion that in the staging of Shakespeare
not an iota may be omitted, senseless as it is, one hears constantly
repeated. If the defenders of this opinion maintain the upper hand, in
a few years Shakespeare will be quite driven from the stage, which for
that matter would be no great misfortune; for then the reader, whether
he be solitary or sociable, will be able to get so much the purer
pleasure out of him.
They have, however, with the idea of making an attempt along the lines
of which we have spoken in detail above, revised _Romeo and Juliet_
for the theatre at Weimar. The principles according to which this was
done we shall develop before long, and it will perhaps become apparent
why this version, whose staging is by no means difficult, although it
must be handled artistically and carefully, did not take on the German
stage. Attempts of a similar kind are going on, and perhaps something
is preparing for the future, for frequent endeavors do not always show
immediate effects.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] “Goethe, in a thoughtful essay, _Shakespeare und kein
Ende_, written many years later than his famous criticism of Hamlet in
_Wilhelm Meister_, says that the distinction between the two [ancient
and modern drama] is the difference between _sollen_ and _wollen_,
that is, between _must_ and _would_. He means that in the Greek drama
the catastrophe is foreordained by an inexorable Destiny, while the
element of free will, and consequently choice, is the very axis of
the modern. The definition is conveniently portable, but it has its
limitations. Goethe’s attention was too exclusively fixed on the fate
tragedies of the Greeks, and upon Shakespeare among the moderns. In the
Spanish drama, for example, custom, loyalty, honor, and religion are as
imperative and as inevitable as doom. In the _Antigone_, on the other
hand, the crisis lies in the character of the protagonist.”--James
Russell Lowell, _Shakespeare Once More_.
FIRST EDITION OF _HAMLET_
(1827)
_The First Edition of the Tragedy of Hamlet_, by William Shakespeare,
London, 1603. Reprinted by Fleischer, Leipzig, 1825.
In this book Shakespeare’s devoted admirers receive a valuable present.
The first unbiased reading has given me a wonderful impression. It was
the old familiar masterpiece again, its action and movement in no way
altered, but the most powerful and effective principal passages left
untouched, just as they came from the original hand of the genius. The
play was exceedingly easy and delightful to read. One thought one’s
self in a wholly familiar world, and yet felt something peculiar which
could not be expressed, and this induced one to give the play a closer
consideration, and indeed a stricter comparison with the old. Hence
these few random remarks.
First of all, it was noticeable that there was no locality given, nor
was there information about the stage-setting, and just as little
about the division of the acts and scenes. All this was represented
by “Enter” and “Exit.” The imagination was allowed free play. One saw
again in his mind’s eye the old primitive English stage. The action
took its impetuous course of life and passion, and one did not take the
time to think of such things as places.
In the more recent familiar revision we find the division into acts and
scenes, and locality and stage-setting are given. Whether these are by
him or by later stage-managers, we leave undecided here.
The Polonius of the second revision is called Corambis in the first,
and the rôle appears through this little circumstance to take on
another character.
The unimportant supernumerary rôles were first designated merely by
numbers, but here we find them endowed with honor and significance
through being given names. We are thus reminded of Schiller, who in
_Wilhelm Tell_ gave names to his peasant women and some words to speak,
so that they became more acceptable rôles. The poet does the same here
with guards and courtiers.
If in the first edition we find a loosely written syllabication, in the
later one we find it better controlled, though always without pedantry.
Rhythmic passages are divided into five-foot iambics, though half and
quarter verses are not avoided.
So much for the external expression. A comparison of the inner
connections and relations will be of profit to any admirer who gives
the work an individual study. Here are only a few suggestions.
Passages, which in the first version are only lightly sketched by the
hand of genius, we find more deliberately executed, and in a way that
we have to approve and admire as necessary. We come, too, upon pleasing
amplifications, which may not be absolutely necessary, but which are
highly welcome. Here and there we find hardly perceptible yet vivid
aspersions, connective passages, even important transpositions to
make a highly effective speech,--everything done with a master-hand,
with intelligence and feeling, everything thrilling our emotions and
clarifying our insight.
Everywhere in the first version we admire that sureness of touch which,
without lengthy reflection, seems rather as if it had been poured out
spontaneously, a vivifying and illuminating discovery. And whatever
excellences the poet may have given to his later work, whatever
deviations he employed, at least we find nowhere any important omission
or alteration. Only here and there some rather coarse and naïve
expressions are expunged.
In closing we shall mention, however, a noticeable difference which
concerns the costume of the Ghost. His first appearance, as we know, is
in armor; he is armed from head to foot; his face is pale and sad, his
glance wan and yet austere. In this guise he appears on the terrace,
where the castle guard is marching up and down, and where he himself
may often have drawn up his warriors.
In the closet of the Queen, on the other hand, we find mother and son
in the familiar dialogue, and finally these words:--
“Queen. Hamlet, you break my heart.
Hamlet. O throw the worser part away and keep the better.”
But then follows: “Enter the Ghost in his night-gowne.”
Who, on first hearing this, does not find it for a moment incongruous?
And yet if we grasp it, if we think it over, we shall find it right
and proper. He should--indeed he must--appear first in armor, when he
is entering the place where he has rallied his warriors, where he has
encouraged them to noble deeds. And now we begin to be less confident
of our conviction that it was suitable to see him enter the private
closet of the queen in armor, too. How much more private, homelike,
terrible, is his entrance here in the form in which he used to
appear--in his house apparel, his night robe, harmless and unarmed--a
guise which in itself stigmatizes in the most piteous way the treachery
which befell him. Let the intelligent reader, as he may, picture this
to himself. Let the stage-manager, convinced of this effect, produce it
in this way, if Shakespeare is to be staged in his integrity.
It is worth noting that the commentator Steevens has already criticized
this scene. When Hamlet says:--
“My father in his habit as he lived!”
this discerning critic adds this note:--“If the poet means by this
expression that the father is appearing in his own house costume, he
has either forgotten that at the beginning he introduced him in armor,
or else it must be his intention in this latter appearance to alter
his attire. Hamlet’s father, just as a warrior prince might do, does
not always remain in armor, or sleep, as they tell of King Haakon, of
Norway, with his battle-ax in his hand.”
If we had been clever enough, we should have already thought of
Hamlet’s first utterance in this scene, when he sees the Ghost:--“What
would your gracious figure?” For we have not words enough to express
all that the English mean by the word “gracious,”--everything that is
kind and gentle, friendly and benign, tender, and attractive, is fused
in that word. Certainly it is no term for a hero in armor.
These doubts are happily now dispelled by the reprinting of the first
edition. We are convinced anew that Shakespeare, like the Universe, is
always offering us new aspects, and still remains, at the end of it
all, lofty and inaccessible. For all our powers are not competent to do
justice to his words, much less his genius.
_TROILUS AND CRESSIDA_
(1824)
A comparison of the _Iliad_ with _Troilus and Cressida_ leads to
similar conclusions: here, too, there is neither parody nor travesty,
but, as in the case of the eagle and the owl two subjects taken
from nature were put in striking contrast with each other, so here
are contrasted the intellectual fibre of two epochs. The Greek poem
is in the grand style, self-restrained and self-sufficient, using
only the essential, and, in description and simile, disdaining all
ornament,--basing itself on noble myths and tradition. The English
classic, on the other hand, one might consider a happy transposition
and translation of the other great work into the romantic-dramatic
style.
In this connection we should not forget, however, that this piece, like
many another, is based on second-hand narratives, already rendered into
prose, and only half-poetical.
Yet it is also quite original, as much so as if the ancient piece
had never been at all; for it requires just as profound a sincerity,
just as decided a talent, to depict for us similar personalities and
characters with so light a touch and so lucid a meaning, and represent
them for a later age with all the human traits of that age, which thus
sees itself reflected in the guise of the ancient story.
ON OTHER WRITERS
GOETHE AS A YOUNG REVIEWER
(1772)
I
_Lyrical Poems_, by J. C. Blum. Berlin, 1772
We no longer feel certain whether it is wise for young poets to
read the ancients early. Our unimaginative mode of life stifles
genius, unless the singers of freer times kindle it and open to it an
atmosphere at least ideally more free; but these very singers also
breathe into the soul so exotic a spirit that the very best poet,
with the most fortunate genius, can soon merely support himself in
his flight through his imagination, and can no longer give expression
to that glowing inspiration which alone makes true poetry. Why are
the poems of the old skalds, of the Celts and the old Greeks, even
of the Orientals, so strong, so fiery, so great? Nature drives them
to singing as it does the bird in the air. As for us (for we cannot
deceive ourselves) we are driven to the lyre by an artificial and
stimulated feeling, which we owe to our admiration for the ancients,
and to our delight in them; and for this reason our best songs, with
few exceptions, are merely imitative copies.