Theater Poet in Mannheim
Die Schaubühne ist mehr als jede andere öffentliche Anstalt des
Staats eine Schule der praktischen Weisheit, ein Wegweiser, durch
das bürgerliche Leben, ein unfehlbarer Schlüssel zu den geheimsten
Zugängen der menschlichen Seele.--_Discourse on the Theater, 1784_.
Mannheim, famed for the geometric regularity of its streets, was in
Schiller's day a city of about twenty thousand inhabitants. Since 1720
it had been the capital of the Bavarian Palatinate, and under the
Elector Karl Theodor it had acquired some distinction as a nursery of
the arts. We have seen that Schiller, coming thither from Suabia,
imagined himself escaping from the land of the barbarians to the land
of the Greeks. In the year 1777 the Upper and Lower Palatinate were
united, and the Elector transferred his residence to München. For this
withdrawal of the light of their ruler's countenance the Mannheimers
were compensated in a measure by the establishment among them of a
so-called National Theater. There was no German nation at the time, but
there was a very general interest in the German drama. Lessing's famous
experiment at Hamburg, though it turned out badly, had set people
thinking. Playwrights and actors were learning to regard themselves no
longer as purveyors of mere amusement, but as the dignified
representatives of a noble art having boundless possibilities of
influence. The public was becoming interested in the principles of
dramatic construction and in the criteria of excellence. Scholars were
beginning to inquire whether the stage might not again become what it
had been for the ancient Athenians. And so the way had been prepared
for a serious conception of the theater and for experiments like that
at Mannheim.
The management of the enterprise was placed in the hands of Baron
Heribert von Dalberg, a young nobleman (born in 1750), who had given no
evidence of unusual fitness for such an office, but was a connoisseur
and a gentleman. He devoted himself zealously to his work and soon made
his theater famous. He was courteous and hospitable, kept an eye open
for promising talent and enjoyed the role of Maecenas. His system
provided for regular meetings of his actors, at which plays were
discussed, reports rendered and grievances ventilated. For the rest he
was not a man of ideas, but a follower of tradition. He disliked to take
risks and often missed the mark in his judgment of persons and of plays.
He continued until 1803 to act as intendant and occasionally tried his
hand at dramatic composition, or the adaptation of a Shaksperian play,
All told, his services were such that the Mannheiniers have deemed him
worthy of a statue.
Among the actors whom Baron Dalberg's enterprise had assembled at
Mannheim were three or four of notable talent. Thus there was Iffland,
of the same age as Schiller, who was destined to win fame as an actor,
playwright and manager. Like Diderot, Iffland believed ardently in the
moral mission of the drama. He was himself a man of character who had
taken to the stage against the wish of his kinfolk, and now his hobby
was to refine the language of the stage and to elevate the actor's
profession. He was an industrious and thoughtful player, who gave
careful attention to the little matters of mimicry and personation and
seldom failed to please. Another was Beil, a greater actor in point of
natural endowment, who relied more upon vigorous realism than upon
studied refinements. Then there was Beck, who was at his best as a
portrayer of youthful enthusiasm and sentiment. His nature was akin to
Schiller's and a warm friendship sprang up between the two.
When Schiller arrived in Mannheim, late in July, 1783, Dalberg was in
Holland. There was nothing going on at the theater, and the sweltering
town, deserted by such as could get away, was suffering from an epidemic
of malarial fever. But the faithful Streicher was there and friend
Meyer, the manager, and Schwan, the publisher, whose vivacious daughter,
Margarete, gradually kindled in the heart of the new-comer another faint
blue flame which he ultimately mistook for love. His first concern was
to write to Frau von Wolzogen, who had loaned him money for his journey,
a detailed report of his finances. He was the possessor of fifteen
thalers, whereof he had reserved five for the return to Bauerbach. His
friend Meyer had found him a nice place where, by dispensing with
breakfast, he could eat, drink and lodge for about two thalers a week.
Hair-dresser, washerwoman, postman and tobacconist would require, all
told, one thaler. So he hoped to keep afloat in the great world at least
three weeks, and then,--back to his heart's home in Saxony! The letter
continues:
Oh, I shall long to be soon, soon, with you again; and meanwhile, in
the midst of my greatest distractions, I shall think of you, my
dearest friend. I shall often break away from social circles and,
alone in my room, sadly dream myself back with you and weep.
Continue, my dear, continue to be what you have been hitherto, my
first and dearest friend; and let us be, all by ourselves, an
example of pure friendship. We will make each other better and
nobler. By mutual sympathy and the delicate tie of beautiful
emotions we will exhaust the joys of this life and at the last be
proud of this our blameless league. Take no other friend into your
heart. Mine remains yours unto death and beyond that, if possible.
One sees that the writer of this letter had lived quite long enough
in his idyllic retirement, and that his benefactress had judged the
case wisely.
Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille,
Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der Welt.[57]
We who do not live in an epoch of emotional expansion have the right to
get what amusement we can out of this note of high-flown sentimentalism.
At the same time its instructive aspect should not be lost sight of.
When a youth of twenty-three, battling with the vulgar prose of life,
falls into such a tone in writing to a middle-aged lady who has
befriended him; when he lets his imagination brood upon the coming
luxury of tears and of beautiful emotions; when he is so pathetically
eager to reign without a rival in the heart of his friend, and to assure
her of his everlasting loyalty in the world to come,--how shall we
expect him to express himself when he undertakes to speak the language
of strong feeling in works of the imagination? Evidently we must be
prepared for all things in the way of sentimental extravagance.
After two weeks of idle waiting Schiller was able to report that Dalberg
had returned and was showing himself very friendly. The man was 'all
fire,'--only it was gunpowder flame that would not last long. The genial
intendant insisted that Schiller should by all means remain in Mannheim.
'Fiesco,' now in print as a tragedy, should be put upon the stage at
once; 'Louise Miller' should be taken under consideration, a performance
of 'The Robbers' be given for the author's special gratification, and so
forth. At first Schiller was little disposed to bank upon this effusive
kindness. His plans went no further than to effect a sale of the
stage-rights of his two plays and then to return to Bauerbach. But the
lures of Dalberg finally prevailed and in September he made a contract
for a year's employment as dramatist of the Mannheim theater. He was to
furnish one entirely new play, in addition to those he had on hand, and
to have as compensation three hundred florins, the copyright of all the
plays and the receipts of a single performance of each of them. For a
moment the future looked tolerably bright. He saw in his mind's eye an
assured income of more than twelve hundred florins, which would provide
amply for his needs and enable him to pay his debts.
But his plans went all wrong. In the first place, the pestilent fever,
which he fought with giant doses of quinine, proved very intractable and
held him in its grip for months. He was unable to work and fell into a
sort of mental coma. In a letter of November 13 he describes himself as
eating Peruvian bark like bread; and six weeks later he was still
suffering from the effects of his unlucky midsummer plunge into the
miasmatic air of Mannheim. In other ways, too, the new situation proved
a disappointment. Social demands involved him in expenditures far in
excess of his modest calculations, while the intervals of relief from
physical incapacity were filled with a hundred distractions which left
him no time for sustained mental effort. And so he drifted into the
winter without accomplishing anything more notable than the final
revision of 'Fiesco'.
About this time he was elected a member of the so-called 'German
Society', a learned body which enjoyed the protection of the Elector.
This little honor was highly valued by Schiller, since it made him a
citizen of the Palatinate and gave him an assured social status. On the
other hand, his emergence into the light of day as a respectable
functionary was not without its disadvantages, since his creditors now
became importunate. There were pressing duns from Stuttgart and from
Bauerbach, but the debtor could not pay. He became involved in a painful
correspondence with his father, who had undertaken to guarantee a small
debt of his son provided that another larger one be paid so and so. When
this hope failed, the old captain lost patience and began to deal out
counsel, reproof and warning with a lavish hand. He recommended his son
to save the pennies and live more economically; to return to medicine;
to marry a wife; to remember his Creator, and so on. To all of which the
perplexed Friedrich could only reply with fresh promises, excuses and
recommendations of patience. In like manner he put off Frau von Wolzogen
until she began to lose faith in him. A sharp letter from her brought
him to his knees with a humble apology, but it was years before he could
pay his debt to her.
The first performance of 'Fiesco', the adaptation of which to the stage
had cost its author such a world of trouble, took place on the 12th of
January, 1784. As played it differed a good deal from the published
version, and not alone with respect to the catastrophe. Thus the painful
episode of Bertha was worked over into something less revoltingly
horrible. In the stage version, instead of being brutally violated, she
is abducted by a tool of Gianettino, but rescued and restored to her
home unharmed. With this change made it would seem as if there were less
reason than ever for her being cursed and sent to a subterraneous
prison-vault. Nevertheless Verrina's curse was allowed to
remain,--chiefly, as one cannot help surmising, that the girl might be
rescued with _éclat_ in the fourth act. (The rescue scene in 'The
Robbers' had been a great success.) It has already been noted that the
offensive quarrel between Julia and Leonora was omitted and that Leonora
was allowed to live. And there were other such changes. Schiller had
been impressed by an actor's criticism of his florid and violent
language. He accordingly removed or toned down a few blemishes of this
kind, but without making a radical revision of the style. Even in the
stage version there is quite too much of rant and fustian.
The Mannheimers took but little interest in 'Fiesco,'--it was too
erudite for them, as Schiller explained to Reinwald some months
later.[58] Republican liberty, he went on to say, was in that region a
sound without meaning; there was no Roman blood in the veins of the
Pfälzer. In Berlin and Frankfurt, however, the piece had met with good
success. We cannot blame Schiller for trying to extract comfort from
these bits of evidence that the prophet was not without honor save in
his own country, though we may question his implication that republican
ideas were just then less rife in the Palatinate than in Berlin and
Frankfurt. The fact is that the lover of republican ideas must have been
the very person to feel the keenest dissatisfaction with 'Fiesco.' Where
it did succeed, its success was due to causes having little to do with
political sentiment. The Berlin triumph was equivocal, being the triumph
not so much of Schiller as of one Plümicke, who took high-handed
liberties with the original text and made it over, in both language and
thought, so as to suit the taste of the Berlin actors. This northern
version, thus diluted with the water of the Spree, was presently
published by the enterprising pirate, Himburg, and proved a formidable
rival of the genuine edition. The play was tried at several theaters and
with various endings,--curiously enough Plümicke made Fiesco commit
suicide in the moment of his triumph,--but it never became really
popular. It was translated into English in 1796, into French in 1799.
Much more favorable was the reception given to 'Cabal and Love', which
was first played at Mannheim on the 15th of April, 1784.[59] The part of
the lackey who describes the horrors attending the exportation of
soldiers to America was omitted; the satire was too strong for the
politic Dalberg, who had all along been troubled by Schiller's drastic
treatment of princely iniquity and his obvious allusions to well-known
persons. Even Schwan, who was delighted with 'Louise Miller' from the
first and readily undertook to publish it, described its author as an
executioner. This time the Mannheimers had no difficulty of
comprehension and they gave their applause unstintingly. After the great
scene in the second act they rose and cheered vociferously,--whereat
Schiller bowed and felt very happy. 'His manner', says honest Streicher,
who has left a report of the memorable evening, 'his proud and noble
bearing, showed that he had satisfied himself and was pleased to see his
merit appreciated.'
A few days later the Mannheim players repeated their triumph at
Frankfurt, where Schiller was lionized to his heart's content. 'Cabal
and Love' now quickly became a stage favorite. Within a few months it
was played successfully at nearly all the more important theaters of
Germany. Even Stuttgart fell into line, but the Duke of Württemberg was
not pleased, and a memorial of the nobility led to the prohibition of a
second performance. At Braunschweig It was tried with a happy ending,
but this innovation, reasonable as it seems, took no root. A badly
garbled English translation by Timaeus appeared in 1795; a better one by
Monk Lewis, under the title of 'The Minister', in 1797. A French
translation by La Martellière was hissed off the stage of the Théâtre
Français in 1801.
From the Minerva press the new play got blame and praise. One writer saw
in it the same Schiller who was already known as the 'painter of
terrible scenes and the creator of Shaksperian thoughts'. A Berlin
critic named Moritz, of whom we shall hear later, called the piece a
disgrace to the age and wondered how a man could write and print such
nonsense. The plot consisted, he declared, of a simpleton's quarrel with
Providence over a stupid and affected girl. It was full of crass, ribald
wit and senseless rodomantade. There were a few scenes of which
something might have been made, but 'this writer converted everything
into inflated rubbish'. Some one taxed Moritz with undue severity,
whereupon he returned to the attack, insisting that this extravagant,
blasphemous and vulgar diction, which purported to be nature rude and
strong, was in reality altogether unnatural.[60]
And, to be candid, the critic was able to bring together an anthology of
quotations which seemed like a rather forcible indictment of Schiller's
literary taste. What Moritz failed to see was that the bad taste was
only an excrescence growing upon a very vigorous stock. This was felt by
another reviewer who declared that high poetic genius shone forth from
every scene of Schiller's works. Many years later Zelter, the friend of
Goethe, bore witness to the electric effect of the play upon himself and
the other excitable youth who saw it in the first days of its
popularity. Like 'The Robbers,' it was a harbinger of the revolution. It
seemed to voice the hitherto voiceless woe of the third estate; and just
because of that savage force which made it seem absurd to sedate minds,
just because it rang out in such shrill and clangorous notes, it has
continued to be heard. Good taste is a matter of fashion. It is never
the most vital quality of literature.
If any one should be tempted to think that Schiller's youthful ideals of
the dramatic art were not sufficiently exalted, he should read the
lecture given before the Mannheim German Society, in June, 1784, on the
question: 'What can a good permanent theater really effect?' It is an
excellent, thoughtful essay, instinct with lofty idealism and at the
same time full of sound observation. Setting out from the postulate that
the highest aim of all institutions whatsoever is the furtherance of the
general happiness, the paper discusses the theater as a public
institution of the state. Its claims are examined, and the sphere and
manner of its influence discussed, along with those of religion and the
laws. Probably too much is made out of the moral and educational utility
of the stage,--so at least it will be apt to seem to an American or an
Englishman,--but the familiar arguments, the validity of which is now
generally recognized in Germany, are marshalled with a fine breadth of
view and with many felicities of expression. Toward the end there is a
passage which shows that Schiller himself felt the shakiness of the
utilitarian argument. He says: 'What I have tried to prove
hitherto--that the stage exerts an essential influence upon morals and
enlightenment--was doubtful'; and then he goes on to speak of a value
not doubtful, namely, its value as a means of refined pleasure. This is
the heart of the matter forever and ever; and one could hardly sum up
the case more sagely than Schiller does in the sentence: 'The stage is
the institution in which pleasure combines with instruction, rest with
mental effort, diversion with culture; where no power of the soul is put
under tension to the detriment of any other, and no pleasure is enjoyed
to the damage of the community,'
The experience of Schiller at Mannheim illustrates the higher uses of
adversity. Had he been well and happy, he might have written his third
play, won the good will of Dalberg and then stuck fast for years in the
Palatinate; which would have been a misfortune for him and for German
letters. As it was, Mannheim gradually became odious to him. He had no
buoyancy of spirit. 'God knows I have not been happy here', he wrote to
Reinwald in May, 1784. His life was full of petty worries and
distractions which weighted his imagination as with lead. As his year
drew to an end he imagined that he had but to say the word to have his
contract with the Mannheim theater renewed, but it was not so; Dalberg
had quietly decided to get rid of him. From _his_ point of view his poet
had been a bad investment. Schiller had not kept his contract in the
matter of the new play; he had done nothing but procrastinate and make
excuses. 'Don Carlos' had not even been begun. There seemed to be no
excuse for such dawdling, when a man like Iffland could always be relied
upon to turn out a fairly acceptable play in a few weeks. No great
wonder, therefore, that Dalberg lost faith in Schiller and concluded
that he had exhausted his vein. Through a friend he suggested a return
to medicine.
Curiously enough Schiller grasped at the idea, professing that a medical
career was the one thing nearest his heart. He had long feared, so he
wrote, that his inspiration would forsake him if he relied upon
literature for his living; but if he could devote himself to it in the
intervals of medical practice, good things might be hoped for. He
accordingly proposed a renewal of the contract for another year, with
the understanding that he devote himself principally to his medical
studies to the end of qualifying for the doctor's degree; in the mean
time he would undertake to produce one 'great play' and also to edit a
dramatic journal. To this amazing proposal Dalberg paid no attention;
and when the 1st of September arrived Schiller's connection with the
Mannheim theater came to an end.
It was a troublous, harassing time for him, that summer of 1784, and the
more since the woes of the distracted lover were added to those of the
disappointed playwright and the impecunious debtor. A German savant
observes that Schiller was not, like Goethe, a virtuoso in love. And so
it certainly looks, albeit the difference might perhaps appear a little
less conspicuous if he had lived to a ripe old age and dressed up his
recollections of youth in an autobiographical romance. He did not lack
the data of experience, but without the charm of the retrospective
poetic treatment his early love-affairs are not profoundly interesting.
In the midst of his troubles it came over him that marriage might be the
right thing for him; and so, one day in June, 1784, he offered himself
to Frau von Wolzogen for a son-in-law. Nothing came of the suggestion;
it was only a passing tribute to the abstract goodness of matrimony.
About a year later he made, with similar results, an argumentative bid
for the hand of Margarete Schwan. On the aforementioned visit to
Frankfurt he met Sophie Albrecht, a melancholy poetess who had sought
relief from the tameness of her married life by going upon the stage. Of
her he wrote shortly afterwards:
In the very first hours a firm and warm attachment sprang up between
us; our souls understood each other. I am glad and proud that she
loves me and that acquaintance with me may perhaps make her happy. A
heart fashioned altogether for sympathy, far above the pettiness of
ordinary social circles, full of noble, pure feeling for truth and
virtue, and admirable even where her sex is not usually so. I
promise myself divine days in her immediate society.[61]
But all these palpitations were as water unto wine in comparison with
his unwholesome passion for Charlotte von Kalb, whom he also met first
in the spring of 1784. This lady, after a lonely and loveless girlhood,
in which she had been tossed about as an unwelcome incumbrance from one
relation to another, had lately married a Baron von Kalb. Her heart had
no part in the marriage, which was arranged by her guardian. In the
pursuit of his career her husband left her much to herself. She was an
introspective creature, very changeable in her moods and passionately
fond of music and poetry. In Schiller she found her affinity. He acted
first as her guide about Mannheim, then as her mentor in matters of
literature. They saw much of each other; became intimately confidential
and soon were treading a dangerous path,--though not so dangerous,
peradventure, as has sometimes been inferred from the two poems,
'Radicalism of Passion' and 'Resignation', which belong to this period.
In the first of these poems our old friend, the lover of Laura, who is
supposed to have married another man in the year 1782, resolves to fight
no longer the 'giant-battle of duty'. He apostrophizes Virtue and bids
her take back the oath that she has extorted from him in a moment of
weakness. He will no longer respect the scruples that restrained him
when the pitying Laura was ready to give all. Her marriage vow was
itself sinful, and the god of Virtue is a detestable tyrant. In the
other poem, which is a sort of antidote to the first, we hear of a poet,
born in Arcadia, who surrendered his claim to earthly bliss on the
promise of a reward in heaven. He gave up his all, even his Laura, to
Virtue, though mockers called him a fool for believing in gods and
immortality. At last he appears before the heavenly throne to claim his
guerdon, but is told by an invisible genius that two flowers bloom for
humanity,--Hope and Enjoyment. Who has the one must renounce the other.
The high Faith that sustained him on earth was his sufficient reward and
the fulfillment of Eternity's pledge.
Wer dieser Blumen eine brach, begehre
Die andre Schwester nicht.
Geniesze wer nicht glauben kann. Die Lehre
Ist ewig wie die Welt. Wer glauben kann entbehre.
Die Weltgeschichte ist das Weltgericht.[62]
When these poems were published, in 1786, their author saw fit to
caution the public in a foot-note not to mistake an ebullition of
passion for a system of philosophy, or the despair of an imaginary lover
for the poet's confession of faith. Thus warned one should not be too
curious about the reality which is half revealed and half concealed by
the verses. Enough that it was not altogether a calm, Platonic
sentiment, and that the torment of it was a factor in that uneasiness
which finally became a burning desire to escape from Mannheim. And the
fates were preparing a way.
One day in June, when all was looking dark, Schiller received a packet
containing an epistolary greeting, an embroidered letter-case and four
portrait sketches. The letter was anonymous, but he presently discovered
that it came from Gottfried Körner, a young privat-docent in Leipzig,
who had united with three friends in sending this token of regard to a
Suabian poet whom they had found reason to like. Schiller did not answer
immediately and the skies grew darker still. His relations with the
Mannheim theater were presently strained to the point of disgust by the
production of a farce in which he was satirized. He was in terrible
straits for money. To have something to do, after he was set adrift by
Dalberg, he decided to go ahead with his project of a dramatic journal.
An attractive prospectus for the _Rhenish Thalia_ was issued, and he
began to prepare for the first number, which was to contain an
installment of 'Don Carlos'. The advance subscriptions fell far short of
his sanguine hopes. In these occupations the time passed until December.
Then one day he penned an answer to the Leipzig letter. It was a
turning-point in his destiny. A correspondence sprang up which presently
convinced him that where these people were, there he must be.
Toward the end of the year there came another glint of good-will from
the north. The Duke of Weimar happened to be visiting at the neighboring
Darmstadt, and through Frau von Kalb Schiller procured an introduction
and an invitation to read the beginning of 'Don Carlos'. The result was
the title of Weimar Councillor. This was very pleasant indeed; for while
it put no florins in his purse, it gave him an honorable status in the
German world. He had been cast off by a prince of the barbarians to be
taken up by _the_ prince of the Greeks! Henceforth he was in a sense the
colleague of Goethe and Wieland. He began to speak of the Duke of Weimar
as _his_ duke, and to indulge in day-dreams concerning the little city
of the Muses in Thüringen. For the rest there was an element of fate's
amusing irony in the new title, seeing that he had just announced
himself, in the prospectus of the _Rhenish Thalia_, as a literary
free-lance who served no prince, but only the public. The announcement
contained a sketch of his life and a confession of his sins,--which he
laid at the door of the Stuttgart Academy. 'The Robbers', he declared,
had cost him home and country; but now he was free, and his heart
swelled at the thought of wearing no other fetter than the verdict of
the public, and appealing to no other throne than the human soul.
Owing to various delays the first number of the new journal did not
appear until the spring of 1785, and by that time Schiller was all ready
for his flight northward. Matters had continued to go badly with him. On
the 22nd of February he wrote to Korner, 'in a nameless oppression of
the heart', as follows:
I can stay no longer in Mannheim. For twelve days I have carried the
decision about with me like a resolution to leave the world. People,
circumstances, earth and sky, are repulsive to me. I have not a soul
to fill the void in my heart--not a friend, man or woman; and what
might be dear to me is separated from me by conventions and
circumstances.... Oh, my soul is athirst for new nourishment, for
better people, for friendship, affection and love. I must come to
you; must learn, in your immediate society and in intimate relations
with you, once more to enjoy my own heart, and to bring my whole
being to a livelier buoyancy. My poetic vein is stagnant; my heart
has dried up toward my associations here. You must warm it again.
With you I shall be doubly, trebly, what I have been hitherto; and
more than all that, my dearest friends, I shall be happy. I have
never been so yet. Weep for me that I must make this confession. I
have not been happy; for fame and admiration and all the other
concomitants of authorship do not weigh as much as one moment of
love and friendship. They starve the heart.
To the worldly-wise such a perfervid sight-draft upon the bank of love,
made after a few weeks of epistolary acquaintance, will no doubt seem a
little risky. One is reminded of Goethe's Tasso, impulsively offering
his friendship to a cooler man and getting the reply:
In Einem Augenblicke forderst du
Was wohlbedächtig nur die Zeit gewährt.[63]
But this time Schiller's instinct had guided him aright. Körner was no
Antonio, and he did not recoil even when he learned that his new friend
was very much in need of money and would not be able to leave Mannheim,
unless a Leipzig publisher could be found who would take over his
magazine and advance a few pounds upon its uncertain prospects. This was
easily arranged, for Korner was well-to-do and had himself lately
acquired an interest in the publishing business of Göschen at Leipzig.
Göschen took the _Thalia_ (dropping the 'Rhenish'), Schiller paid his
more pressing debts, and early in April was on his way to Leipzig,
panting for the new friends as the hart panteth after the water-brooks.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 57:
A talent forms itself in solitude,
A character in the flowing tide of life.
--_Goethes 'Tasso'.]
[Footnote 58: Letter of May 5, 1784.]
[Footnote 59: But this performance was not the first in order of time.
'Cabal and Love' had already been played on the 13th of April by
Grossmann's company at Frankfurt. Grossmann was an intelligent
theatrical man, who had conceived a liking for Schiller; only he wished
that the 'dear fiery man' would be a little more considerate of stage
limitations.]
[Footnote 60: Moritz's critique is reprinted in J. Braun's "Schiller und
Goethe im Urteile ihrer Zeitgenossen", I, 103.]
[Footnote 61: From the letter of May 5, quoted above.]
[Footnote 62: In Bulwer's translation:
"He who has plucked the one, resigned must see
The sister's forfeit bloom:
Let Unbelief enjoy--Belief must be
All to the chooser;--the world's history
Is the world's judgment doom."]
[Footnote 63:
Thou askest in a single moment that
Which only time can give with cautious hand.]