procedure. To me it is clear that Shakespeare meant, in the present
case, to represent the effects of a great action laid upon a soul unfit
for the performance of it. In this view the whole piece seems to me to
be composed. There is an oak-tree planted in a costly jar, which should
have borne only pleasant flowers in its bosom; the roots expand, the jar
is shivered.
"A lovely, pure, noble, and most moral nature, without the strength of
nerve which forms a hero, sinks beneath a burden which it cannot bear
and must not cast away. All duties are holy for him; the present is too
hard. Impossibilities have been required of him, not in themselves
impossibilities, but such for him. He winds, and turns, and torments
himself; he advances and recoils; is ever put in mind, ever puts himself
in mind; at last does all but lose his purpose from his thoughts; yet
still without recovering his peace of mind."
Aurelia seemed to give but little heed to what was passing; at last she
conducted Wilhelm to another room, and going to the window, and looking
out at the starry sky she said to him, "You have still much to tell us
about Hamlet; I will not hurry you; my brother must hear it as well as
I; but let me beg to know your thoughts about Ophelia."
"Of her there cannot much be said," he answered; "for a few master
strokes complete her character. The whole being of Ophelia floats in
sweet and ripe sensation. Kindness for the Prince, to whose hand she may
aspire, flows so spontaneously, her tender heart obeys its impulses so
unresistingly, that both father and brother are afraid; both give her
warning harshly and directly. Decorum, like the thin lawn upon her
bosom, cannot hide the soft, still movements of her heart; it on the
contrary betrays them. Her fancy is smit; her silent modesty breathes
amiable desire; and if the friendly goddess Opportunity should shake the
tree, its fruit would fall."
"And then," said Aurelia, "when she beholds herself forsaken, cast away,
despised; when all is inverted in the soul of her crazed lover, and the
highest changes to the lowest, and instead of the sweet cup of love he
offers her the bitter cup of woe--"
"Her heart breaks," cried Wilhelm; "the whole structure of her being is
loosened from its joinings; her father's death strikes fiercely against
it; and the fair edifice altogether crumbles into fragments...."
Serlo, at this moment entering, inquired about his sister; and looking
in the book which our friend had hold of, cried, "So you are again at
'Hamlet'? Very good! Many doubts have arisen in me, which seem not a
little to impair the canonical aspect of the piece as you would have it
viewed. The English themselves have admitted that its chief interest
concludes with the third act; the last two lagging sorrily on, and
scarcely uniting with the rest: and certainly about the end it seems to
stand stock still."
"It is very possible," said Wilhelm, "that some individuals of a nation
which has so many masterpieces to feel proud of, may be led by prejudice
and narrowness of mind to form false judgments; but this cannot hinder
us from looking with our own eyes, and doing justice where we see it
due. I am very far from censuring the plan of 'Hamlet': on the other
hand, I believe there never was a grander one invented; nay, it is not
invented, it is real."
"How do you demonstrate that?" inquired Serlo.
"I will not demonstrate anything," said Wilhelm; "I will merely show you
what my own conceptions of it are."
Aurelia rose up from her cushion, leaned upon her hand, and looked at
Wilhelm; who, with the firmest assurance that he was in the right, went
on as follows:--
"It pleases us, it flatters us to see a hero acting on his own strength;
loving and hating as his heart directs him; undertaking and completing;
casting every obstacle aside; and at length attaining some great object
which he aimed at. Poets and historians would willingly persuade us that
so proud a lot may fall to man. In 'Hamlet' we are taught another
lesson: the hero is without a plan, but the piece is full of plan. Here
we have no villain punished on some self-conceived and rigidly
accomplished scheme of vengeance: a horrid deed occurs; it rolls itself
along with all its consequences, dragging guiltless persons also in its
course; the perpetrator seems as if he would evade the abyss which is
made ready for him, yet he plunges in, at the very point by which he
thinks he shall escape and happily complete his course.
"For it is the property of crime to extend its mischief over innocence,
as it is of virtue to extend its blessings over many that deserve them
not; while frequently the author of the one or of the other is not
punished or rewarded at all. Here in this play of ours, how strange! The
Pit of Darkness sends its spirit and demands revenge; in vain! All
circumstances tend one way, and hurry to revenge; in vain! Neither
earthly nor infernal thing may bring about what is reserved for Fate
alone. The hour of judgment comes: the wicked falls with the good; one
race is mowed away, that another may spring up."
After a pause, in which they looked at one another, Serlo said: "You pay
no great compliment to Providence, in thus exalting Shakespeare; and
besides, it appears to me that for the honor of your poet, as others for
the honor of Providence, you ascribe to him an object and a plan which
he himself had never thought of."
"Let me also put a question," said Aurelia. "I have looked at Ophelia's
part again; I am contented with it, and conceive that under certain
circumstances I could play it. But tell me, should not the poet have
furnished the insane maiden with another sort of songs? Could not one
select some fragments out of melancholy ballads for this purpose? What
have double meanings and lascivious insipidities to do in the mouth of
such a noble-minded person?"
"Dear friend," said Wilhelm, "even here I cannot yield you one iota. In
these singularities, in this apparent impropriety, a deep sense is hid.
Do we not understand from the very first what the mind of the good
soft-hearted girl was busied with? Silently she lived within herself,
yet she scarce concealed her wishes, her longing; the tones of desire
were in secret ringing through her soul; and how often may she have
attempted, like an unskillful nurse, to lull her senses to repose with
songs which only kept them more awake? But at last, when her
self-command is altogether gone, when the secrets of her heart are
hovering on her tongue, that tongue betrays her; and in the innocence of
insanity she solaces herself, unmindful of king or queen, with the echo
of her loose and well-beloved songs, 'Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's
Day,' and 'By Gis and by Saint Charity.'
"I am much mistaken," cried he, "if I have not now discovered how the
whole is to be managed; nay, I am convinced that Shakespeare 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 that 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 dispatch 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 had 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_ anything:
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 war-like 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 church-yard 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 piece; not one of them
can possibly be left. The right of popular election now again comes in
force, and Hamlet gives his dying voice for Horatio."
"Quick! quick!" said Serlo; "sit down and work the piece; your plan has
my entire approbation; only do not let your zeal for it evaporate." ...
Wilhelm had already been for some time busied with translating Hamlet;
making use, as he labored, of Wieland's spirited performance, by means
of which he had first become acquainted with Shakespeare. What in
Wieland's work had been omitted he replaced; and he had at length
procured himself a complete version, at the very time when Serlo and he
finally 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.
So soon as 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 piece; 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
for himself--is like a background, in front of which the acting figures
move. Your large and simple prospect of the fleet and Norway will very
much improve the piece; 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 Shakespeare'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 of them were of opinion that as the piece 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
undertook Ophelia; Laertes was already designated by his name; a young,
thick-set, jolly new-comer was to be Horatio; the King and the Ghost
alone occasioned some perplexity. For both of these was 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 also had allowed both Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to continue
in his piece. "Why not compress them into one?" said Serlo. "This
abbreviation will not cost you much."
"Heaven keep me from 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
Shakespeare'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 anything; they
are society itself; and Shakespeare 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."
THE INDENTURE
From 'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity transient. To
act is easy, to think is hard; to act according to our thought is
troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful; the threshold is the place of
expectation. The boy stands astonished, his impressions guide him; he
learns sportfully, seriousness comes on him by surprise. Imitation is
born with us; what should be imitated is not easy to discover. The
excellent is rarely found, more rarely valued. The height charms us, the
steps to it do not; with the summit in our eye, we love to walk along
the plain. It is but a part of art that can be taught; the artist needs
it all. Who knows it half, speaks much and is always wrong; who knows it
wholly, inclines to act and speaks seldom or late. The former have no
secrets and no force; the instruction they can give is like baked bread,
savory and satisfying for a single day; but flour cannot be sown, and
seed corn ought not to be ground. Words are good, but they are not the
best. The best is not to be explained by words. The spirit in which we
act is the highest matter. Action can be understood and again
represented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing while he
acts aright; but of what is wrong we are always conscious. Whoever works
with symbols only is a pedant, a hypocrite, or a bungler. There are many
such, and they like to be together. Their babbling detains the scholar;
their obstinate mediocrity vexes even the best. The instruction which
the true artist gives us opens the mind; for where words fail him, deeds
speak. The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the unknown, and
approaches more and more to being a master.
THE HARPER'S SONGS
From 'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
"What notes are those without the wall,
Across the portal sounding?
Let's have the music in our hall,
Back from its roof rebounding."
So spoke the king: the henchman flies;
His answer heard, the monarch cries,
"Bring in that ancient minstrel."
"Hail, gracious king, each noble knight!
Each lovely dame, I greet you!
What glittering stars salute my sight!
What heart unmoved may meet you!
Such lordly pomp is not for me,
Far other scenes my eyes must see:
Yet deign to list my harping."
The singer turns him to his art,
A thrilling strain he raises;
Each warrior hears with glowing heart
And on his loved one gazes.
The king, who liked his playing well,
Commands, for such a kindly spell,
A golden chain be given him.
"The golden chain give not to me:
Thy boldest knight may wear it,
Who 'cross the battle's purple sea
On lion breast may bear it;
Or let it be thy chancellor's prize,
Amid his heaps to feast his eyes,--
Its yellow glance will please him.
"I sing but as the linnet sings,
That on the green bough dwelleth;
A rich reward his music brings,
As from his throat it swelleth:
Yet might I ask, I'd ask of thine
One sparkling draught of purest wine
To drink it here before you."
He viewed the wine, he quaffed it up:
"O draught of sweetest savor!
O happy house, where such a cup
Is thought a little favor!
If well you fare, remember me,
And thank kind Heaven, from envy free,
As now for this I thank you."
* * * * *
Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the darksome hours
Weeping and watching for the morrow,--
He knows ye not, ye gloomy Powers.
To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,
To guilt ye let us heedless go,
Then leave repentance fierce to wring us;
A moment's guilt, an age of woe!
MIGNON'S SONG
From 'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
Such let me seem, till such I be;
Take not my snow-white dress away!
Soon from this dusk of earth I flee,
Up to the glittering lands of day.
There first a little space I rest,
Then wake so glad, to scenes so kind;
In earthly robes no longer drest,
This band, this girdle left behind.
And those calm shining sons of morn,
They ask not who is maid or boy;
No robes, no garments there are worn,
Our body pure from sin's alloy.
Through little life not much I toiled,
Yet anguish long this heart has wrung,
Untimely woe my blossoms spoiled:
Make me again forever young!
PHILINA'S SONG
From 'Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship'
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.
PROMETHEUS
Blacken thy heavens, Jove,
With thunder-clouds,
And exercise thee, like a boy
Who thistles crops,
With smiting oaks and mountain-tops:
Yet must leave me standing
My own firm earth;
Must leave my cottage, which thou didst not build,
And my warm hearth,
Whose cheerful glow
Thou enviest me.
I know naught more pitiful
Under the sun, than you, gods!
Ye nourish scantily
With altar taxes
And with cold lip-service,
This your majesty;--
Would perish, were not
Children and beggars
Credulous fools.
When I was a child,
And knew not whence or whither,
I would turn my 'wildered eye
To the sun, as if up yonder were
An ear to hear to my complaining--A
heart, like mine,
On the oppressed to feel compassion.
Who helped me
When I braved the Titans' insolence?
Who rescued me from death,
From slavery?
Hast thou not all thyself accomplished,
Holy-glowing heart?
And, glowing, young, and good,
Most ignorantly thanked
The slumberer above there?
I honor thee! For what?
Hast thou the miseries lightened
Of the down-trodden?
Hast thou the tears ever banished
From the afflicted?
Have I not to manhood been molded
By omnipotent Time,
And by Fate everlasting,
My lords and thine?
Dreamedst thou ever
I should grow weary of living,
And fly to the desert,
Since not all our
Pretty dream buds ripen?
Here sit I, fashion men
In mine own image,--
A race to be like me,
To weep and to suffer,
To be happy and enjoy themselves,
To be careless of _thee_ too,
As I!
Translation of John S. Dwight.
WANDERER'S NIGHT SONGS
Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending,
Come, ah come into my breast!
O'er all the hill-tops
Is quiet now,
In all the tree-tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait; soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.
Longfellow's Translation. Reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers, Boston
THE ELFIN-KING
Who rides so late through the midnight blast?
'Tis a father spurs on with his child full fast;
He gathers the boy well into his arm,
He clasps him close and he keeps him warm.
"My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?"--
"Father, dost thou not see the elfin-king?
The elfin-king with his crown and train!"--
"My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain!"
_"Come hither, thou darling, come, go with me!
Fine games I know that I'll play with thee;
Flowers many and bright do my kingdoms hold,
My mother has many a robe of gold."_
"O father, dear father, and dost thou not hear
What the elfin-king whispers so low in mine ear?"--
"Calm, calm thee, my boy, it is only the breeze,
As it rustles the withered leaves under the trees."