This poet is certainly not without talent, and yet how seldom does he
seem to be able to stand on his own feet when his Horace is not before
his eyes. The latter illumines the way for him, like Hero’s torch;
the moment he must go alone, he sinks. Space does not permit us to
prove our point here, but we ask every reader who knows his Horace
whether the poet does not grow tired and cold whenever Horace and King
David do not lend him thoughts, feelings, expressions, situations,
and in the case of the former even his mythology, all of which, we
must feel, are seldom used except when the imagination creates with
a cold heart. The well-known Horatian dialogue, _Donec gratus eram_,
Kleist has translated much better; but the “Lamentation of David and
Jonathan” we have never seen better versified than here. We wish the
writer an unspoilt maiden, days of complete leisure, and the pure
spirit of poetry without the spirit of mere authorship. The very best
of poets degenerates when in composing he thinks of the public, and is
filled with a yearning for fame, especially newspaper fame, rather than
completely absorbed by his subject.
II
_Cymbelline, a Tragedy, Based on a Shakespearian Theme_ [by J. G.
Sulzer]. Danzig, 1772.
The author, obliged by a severe illness to avoid all fatiguing
work,--so we are informed in the Preface,--amused himself with the
study of Shakespeare’s works. We could have told him in advance that
this was no reading for a convalescent; whoever wishes to share in
the life that glows through Shakespeare’s plays must himself be sound
in body and mind. At all events, our author, moved by a cool, weak,
critical modesty, regretted that so many “incongruités” should mar the
“many just sentiments” and “some beauties” (as the eminent Dr. Johnson
likewise remarks) that are to be found in this play. So he resolved
to separate the dross from the gold (that is _vox populi critici_ in
regard to Shakespeare since time immemorial), and to attempt nothing
less than this: what Sophocles would approximately have done if he had
tried to make a play out of the same material. So he _travestied_--no,
not travestied, for then something of the appearance of the original
would remain--_parodied_--no, not that either, for then something could
be guessed by the very contrast--what then? what word will express the
poverty that is here, compared with the infinite riches of Shakespeare!
Shakespeare, who felt the spirit of several centuries in his breast,
through whose soul the life of whole centuries was stirring!--and
here--comedians in silk and buckram, and daubed scene-painting! The
scene a wood; in front a thick copse, through which one enters a
grotto; in the background a large pasteboard rock, on which ladies and
gentlemen sit, lie, are stabbed, etc.
That is the way Sophocles would have handled this theme! It is bad
enough to take Shakespeare’s play, whose very essence is the life of
history, and reduce it to the Sophoclean unity which aims merely at
presenting action; but to model it on the “Treatise on Tragedy” in the
first part of the old _Leipziger Bibliothek_![9] We are certain that
every one, not merely readers of Shakespeare, will cast it aside with
contempt.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] By Nicolai.
BYRON’S _MANFRED_
(1820)
To me Byron’s tragedy of _Manfred_ was a wonderful phenomenon, touching
me closely. This singular but highly gifted poet has absorbed my own
_Faust_ into himself, and, like a hypochondriac, drawn from it the
strangest sort of nourishment. Those motives and ideas which suited
his purposes he has made use of, but in his own original way, so that
everything seems different; and for this reason I cannot wonder enough
at his genius. This transformation affects the whole so intimately
that highly interesting lectures could be given on the similarity and
dissimilarity which his work bears to his pattern; but I do not deny
that in the long run the dull glow of a boundless and profound despair
becomes irksome to us. Yet in the dissatisfaction which one feels there
are always interwoven both admiration and respect.
Thus we find in this tragedy quite uniquely the very quintessence of
the feelings and passions of a remarkable genius, but a genius doomed
from birth to suffering and anguish. The details of his life and
the characteristics of his poetry hardly permit of a just and fair
criticism. He has often enough confessed his anguish; he has repeatedly
presented it in his verse, and it is difficult for any one not to feel
real pity for the unbearable pain which he is forever working and
gnawing over in his heart.
There are two women whose shadows follow him unceasingly, and who
play a large rôle in his best-known works; one appears under the name
Astarte, the other, without form or presence, simply as A Voice.
The following story is told of the tragic adventure which was his
experience with the first. As a young, daring and highly attractive
youth he won the love of a Florentine lady; her husband discovered it
and murdered her. But the murderer was found dead that same night in
the street, and there was nothing to throw suspicion upon a single
soul. Lord Byron left Florence, but these apparitions haunted him
throughout his whole life.
This romantic event appears in his poems in countless allusions, as
for example where he, probably brooding over his own tragedy, applies
the sad story of the king of Sparta to his own case. The story is as
follows: Pausanias, the Lacedæmonian general, having won fame in the
important victory at Platæa, later through arrogance, stubbornness, and
cruel treatment, loses the affection of the Greeks, and, on account
of a secret understanding with the enemy, loses also the confidence
of his countrymen. He thus brings blood-guiltiness upon his head,
which pursues him to a miserable end. For while in command of the
fleet of the Greek allies in the Black Sea, he falls violently in love
with a girl of Byzantium. After a long struggle he wins her from her
parents; she is to be brought to him in the night. Filled with shame,
she requests the servants to put out the light; this is done, but
groping about in the room, she knocks over the lamp-stand. Pausanias
awakes suddenly from sleep, suspects murder, seizes his sword and
kills his beloved. The horrible vision of this scene never leaves him
afterwards, its shadow pursues him unceasingly, so that he appeals in
vain to the gods and to necromancers for aid and absolution.
What a sick heart the poet must have who would seek out such a story
from the ancient world, appropriate it to himself, and burden himself
with its tragic image! This will explain the following monologue,
so laden with gloom and the despair of life; we recommend it to all
lovers of declamation for serious practice. Hamlet’s monologue is here
intensified. It will take considerable art especially to pick out the
interpolations and yet keep the connection and the flow and smoothness
of the whole. Besides it will be discovered that a certain vehement,
even eccentric, expression is needed in order to do justice to the
intention of the poet.[10]
FOOTNOTES:
[10] The quotation which follows here, translated by Goethe
into German, is Manfred’s speech at the end of act 2, scene 2,
beginning:
“We are the fools of Time and Terror! Days
Steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.”
BYRON’S _DON JUAN_[11]
(1821)
In hesitating some time ago to insert a passage from [Manzoni’s]
_Count Carmagnola_, a piece which is perhaps translatable, and in the
present instance making the daring attempt to take up and discuss
the untranslatable _Don Juan_, it may seem as if we are guilty of an
inconsistency. We shall therefore point out the difference between
the two cases. Manzoni is as yet but little known among us, and it
is better that people should learn to know his merits first in their
complete fullness, as they are presented only in the original; after
that, a translation by one of our young poets would be decidedly in
order. With Lord Byron’s talent, on the other hand, we are sufficiently
acquainted, and can neither help nor injure him by translation, for the
originals are in the hands of all cultivated people.
Yet such an attempt, even if it were attempting the impossible, will
always have a certain value. For if a false reflection does not exactly
give back the original picture to us, yet it makes us attentive at
least to the mirror itself and to its more or less perceptible defects.
_Don Juan_ is a work of infinite genius, misanthropical with the
bitterest inhumanity, yet sympathetic with the deepest intensity of
tender feeling. And since we now know the author and esteem him, and
do not wish him to be otherwise than he is, we enjoy thankfully what he
dares with overgreat independence, indeed insolence, to bring before
us. The technical treatment of the verse is quite in accord with the
singular, reckless, unsparing content. The poet spares his language
as little as he does his men, and as we examine it more closely we
discover indeed that English poetry has a cultivated comic language
which we Germans wholly lack.
The comic in German lies preëminently in the idea, less in the
treatment or style. We admire Lichtenberg’s abounding wealth; he has
at his command a whole world of knowledge and relations to mix like a
pack of cards and deal them out roguishly at pleasure. With Blumauer
too, whose compositions in verse certainly possess the comic spirit,
it is especially the sharp contrast between old and new, aristocrats
and common people, the noble and the mean, that delights us. If we
examine further we find that the German, in order to be amusing, steps
back several centuries and has the luck to be peculiarly ingenuous and
engaging only in doggerel rhyme.
In translating _Don Juan_ there are many useful things to be learned
from the Englishman. There is only one joke which we cannot imitate
from him,--one that gets its effect by a singular and dubious accent in
words which look quite differently on paper. The English linguist may
judge how far the poet in this case has wantonly exceeded the proper
limits.
It is only by chance that the verses inserted here happened to be
translated, and they are now published not as a pattern but for their
suggestiveness. All our talented translators ought to try their
skill at least partly upon them; they will have to permit assonances
and imperfect rhymes and who knows what besides. A certain laconic
treatment will also be necessary, in order to give the full quality and
significance of this audacious mischievousness. Only when something has
been accomplished along these lines, can we discuss the subject further.
Possibly we may be reproached for spreading in translation such
writings as these through Germany, thus making an honest, peaceful,
decorous nation acquainted with the most immoral works that the art
of poetry ever produced. But according to our way of thinking, these
attempts at translation should not be intended for the press, but may
serve as excellent practice for talented brains. Our poets may then
discreetly apply and cultivate what they acquire in this way, for the
pleasure and delight of their countrymen. No particular injury to
morality is to be feared from the publication of such poems, since
poets and authors would have to cast aside all restraint to be more
corrupting than the papers of the present day.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] This paper is preceded by a translation into German verse
of the first five stanzas of _Don Juan_.
CALDERON’S _DAUGHTER OF THE AIR_
(1822)
“De nugis hominum seria veritas
Uno volvitur assere.”
Certainly if any course of human follies, presented in lofty style, is
to be put upon the stage, then this drama should carry off the prize.
We often allow ourselves to be charmed by the merits of a work of art,
to the extent that the last good thing which has come before us we
consider and discuss as the greatest we have ever seen. Still this does
no harm, for we study such a work then _con amore_ and all the more
closely, and seek to discover its merits, in order that our judgment
may be justified. For this reason I do not hesitate to acknowledge
that in the _Daughter of the Air_ I admire more than ever Calderon’s
great talent, his lofty genius and clear insight. We should not fail
to recognize that the subject is superior to his other plays, in that
the story is based on motives purely human, and there is no more of the
supernatural element than is necessary for the extraordinary and the
exceptional in human affairs to develop and proceed in natural fashion.
Only the beginning and the end are marvelous; everything else proceeds
in a natural course.
What there is to say of this play is true of all the plays by this
poet. He gives us in no way a real view of nature; he is rather
theatrical throughout, even stagey. Of what we call illusion,
especially such as touches the feelings, we find not a trace. The
design is clear to one’s mind, the scenes follow of necessity, in a
kind of ballet-order, pleasing and artistic in its way, and suggest
the technique of our latest comic opera. The inner leading motives are
always the same,--conflict of duty, passion, conditions derived from
the antithesis of the characters and the existing relations.
The main action proceeds in a poetic and dignified manner; the minor
scenes, which have an elegant movement, in the style of the minuet, are
rhetorical, dialectical, sophisticated. All the types of humanity are
exhausted; there is not missing even the fool, whose simple mind makes
havoc of deception whenever a pretense is made of sympathy and kindness.
Now we must admit on reflection that human situations and emotions
cannot be put on the stage in their primitive realism, but must be
worked up, touched up, idealized. And thus we find them in this case,
too; the poet however stands on the threshold of over-refinement, he
gives us a quintessence of humanity.
Shakespeare on the contrary gives us the rich ripe grape from the vine.
According to our taste we can enjoy the single berries, press them out
and taste or sip the juice or the fermented wine--however we treat them
we are refreshed. With Calderon, on the other hand, nothing is left to
the choice or taste of the spectator; we receive from him the spirits
already drawn off and distilled, seasoned with many spices, or flavored
with sweets; we must accept the beverage as it is, as a delicious and
palatable stimulant, or else refuse it.
But the reason for our giving the _Daughter of the Air_ so high a
place has already been suggested; it is favored by its excellent
subject-matter. For we object to seeing a noble and free man, as in
several of Calderon’s plays, indulging in dark error and lending his
reason to indiscretions and folly; here we have a quarrel with the poet
himself, since his material offends us, whereas his manner charms.
This is the case in _The Devotion of the Cross_ and in _Daybreak in
Copacabana_.
In this connection we may say in print what we have often expressed
privately, that we must regard it as one of the greatest advantages of
life that Shakespeare enjoyed, that he was born and brought up as a
Protestant. He appears always as a human being, with a complete faith
and confidence in human values and affairs: error and superstition
he feels to be beneath him, and only toys with them, compelling the
supernatural to serve his purposes. Tragic ghosts, droll goblins he
summons to his ends, in which everything is clarified and cleansed
of superstition, so that the poet never feels the dilemma of being
compelled to deify the absurd, the saddest downfall which mankind,
conscious of possessing reason, can experience.
Returning to the _Daughter of the Air_, this question suggests
itself: If we are now enabled to transport ourselves to so remote
an atmosphere, without knowing the locality or understanding the
language, to enter familiarly into a foreign literature without
previous historical research, and to bring home to ourselves in one
example the quality and flavor of a certain age, the mind and genius
of a people--to whom do we owe thanks for all this? Evidently to the
translator, who all his life and with laborious industry has thus
utilized his talent to our benefit. Our warmest thanks, therefore,
we present to Dr. Gries; he has given us a gift whose value is
overwhelming, a gift in considering which we gladly refrain from all
comparisons, because it delights us by its clearness, wins us by its
charm, and by the complete harmony of all its parts convinces us that
nothing in it could or should have been different.
Such excellence older readers are likely to prize more highly, for
they like to enjoy in comfort a perfectly adequate presentation;
younger men, on the contrary, actively engaged in work, coöperating and
struggling, do not always acknowledge merit which they themselves hope
to emulate.
All honor then to the translator, who concentrated his energies on a
single point, and went ahead in a _single_ direction, so that we could
enjoy in a _thousand_ different ways!
MOLIÈRE’S _MISANTHROPE_
(1828)
_Histoire de la Vie et des Ouvrages de Molière_, par J. Taschereau.
Paris, 1828.
This work deserves to be read carefully by all true lovers of
literature, because it gives us new insight into the qualities and
individuality of a great man. It will also be welcome to his devoted
admirers, although they hardly need this in order to treasure him
highly; to the attentive reader he has revealed himself sufficiently in
his works.
Examine the _Misanthrope_ carefully and ask yourself whether a poet has
ever represented his inner spirit more completely or more admirably.
We can well call the content and treatment of this play “tragic.” Such
an impression at least it has always left with us, because that mood
is brought before our mind’s eye which often in itself brings us to
despair, and seems as if it would make the world unbearable.
Here is represented the type of man who despite great cultivation
has yet remained natural, and who with himself, as well as others,
would like only too well to express himself with complete truth and
sincerity. But we see him in conflict with the social world, where one
cannot move without dissimulation and shallowness.
In contrast to such a type Timon is merely a comic character. I wish
that a talented poet would depict such a visionary who was always
deceiving himself as to the world, and then was greatly put out with
it, as if it had deceived him.
OLD GERMAN FOLKSONGS
(1806)
_Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Old German Songs_, edited by Achim von Arnim
and Klemens Brentano. Heidelberg, 1806.
We are decidedly of the opinion that for the present criticism should
not concern itself with this collection. The editors have collected
and arranged this volume with such love and diligence, such good taste
and delicacy of feeling, that their countrymen should first of all
show their gratitude for this loving care by their good-will, their
interest, and their sympathetic appreciation. This little book ought to
be found in every home in which lively and healthy people dwell,--at
the window, under the mirror, or wherever else songbooks and cookbooks
are usually found, so that it may be opened in any happy or unhappy
mood, and one may always find something which strikes a similar or a
new chord, even though one must perhaps turn over a few pages.
But the most fitting place for this volume would be upon the piano of
a lover or a master of music, so that full justice might be done the
songs by setting them to old familiar tunes, or suitable tunes might be
adapted to them, or, God willing, new and striking melodies might be
composed through their inspiration.
If these songs were then borne from ear to ear, from mouth to mouth,
clothed in their own melodious harmony, if they gradually returned
regenerated and enhanced in beauty to the people from whom they, so to
speak, have in part sprung, then we might truly say that the little
book had fulfilled its mission, and could now be lost again in its
written or printed form, because it had become part and parcel of the
life and culture of the nation.
But since in our modern times, especially in Germany, nothing seems
to exist or to have any effect unless it is written about again and
again, adjudged and made a bone of contention, a few remarks may
not improperly be introduced here about this collection,--a few
observations which may not enhance our enjoyment of the book, but at
least will not impair or destroy it.
What may at the outset be said unreservedly in praise of the collection
is that it is thoroughly varied and characteristic. It contains more
than two hundred poems of the last three centuries, all of them
differing so much from one another in sense, conception, sound, and
manner that the same criticism cannot apply to any two of them. We
shall therefore assume the agreeable task of characterizing [some of]
them in order as the inspiration of the moment may prompt us:
_The Wunderhorn._ Fairy-like, childlike, pleasing.
_The Sultan’s Little Daughter._ Tender Christian feeling, charming.
_Tell and His Child._ Honest and solid.
_Grandmother Snake-cook._ Deep, enigmatic, dramatic, admirably
handled.
_Isaiah’s Face._ Barbaric grandeur.
_Fire Incantation._ Appropriate and true to the spirit of the brigand.
_Poor Schwartenhals._ Roguish, whimsical, jolly.
_Death and the Maiden._ After the manner of the Dance of Death; like
a woodcut; admirable.
_Nocturnal Musicians._ Droll, extravagant, inimitable.
_The Stubborn Bride._ Humorous, somewhat grotesque.
_Cloister-shy._ Capriciously confused, yet to the purpose.
_The Braggart Knight._ Very good in the realistic-romantic manner.
_The Black-brown Witch._ Rather confused in transmission, but the
theme of inestimable value.
_Love Without Caste._ Romantic twilight.
_The Hospitality of Winter._ Written with a great deal of elegance.
_The High-born Maiden._ Christian pedantry, but not wholly unpoetical.
_Love Spins no Silk._ Charmingly confused and therefore rousing the
imagination.
_The Faith of an Hussar._ Swiftness and lightness expressed in a
wonderful way.
_The Ratcatcher of Hameln._ Tends toward the manner of the
ballad-monger, but not coarse.
_Tuck Your Dress, Gretlein._ After the manner of vagabond poets;
unexpectedly epigrammatic.
_The Song of the Ring._ Romantic tenderness.
_The Knight and the Maiden._ Romantic twilight; powerful.
_Harvest Song._ A Catholic funeral hymn; good enough to be Protestant!
_A Surfeit of Learning._ A gallant piece; but the pedant cannot get
rid of his learning.
_The Fight at Murten._ Realistic, probably modernized.
_The Haste of Time in God._ Christian, somewhat too historical, but
quite suited to its subject, and very good.
_Reveille._ Priceless for any one who has the imagination to
understand it.
_Drought._ Thought, feeling, presentation everywhere right.
_The Drummer Boy._ Lively presentation of a distressing incident. A
poem which the discriminating will find it difficult to match.
_Should and Must._ Perfect in plan, although here in a dismembered
and curiously restored condition.
_A Friendly Service._ German romanticism, pious and pleasing.
_Cradle Song._ Rhyming nonsense, perfectly suited to put one to sleep.
_Miller’s Farewell._ To one who can grasp the situation, a priceless
thing; but the first stanza requires an emendation.
_Abbot Neidhard and His Monks._ A prank of Till Eulenspiegel of the
very best sort, and very well told.
_The Horrible Marriage._ An extraordinary case; in the
ballad-monger’s manner, but admirably handled.
_The Excellent Comrade._ Nonsense; but happy the man who can sing it
agreeably!
_Unrequited Love._ Very good, but tending toward a rather Philistine
prose.
_The Little Tree._ Full of longing and playfulness, yet full of
fervor.
_Mésalliance._ Excellent enigmatic fable, but a clearer treatment
might have been more pleasing to the reader.
With these impromptu characterizations--for how could they be other
than impromptu?--we do not intend to anticipate the judgment of any
readers of the book, and least of all those readers who by their own
lyric enjoyment and the appreciation of a sympathetic heart can get
more from the poems themselves than any brief characterizations like
ours can ever give them. We should like, however, in conclusion to say
something about the value of the collection as a whole.