KRIEMHILD.
Oh, had I only told it him!
Oh, my beloved, no woman host thou known,
I see it now! Else nevermore hadst thou
Unto a trembling girl who doth betray
Herself through fear, intrusted such a secret.
Still do I hear the playful whispered words
With which thou told'st it to me when I praised
The dragon's death. And then I made thee swear
To tell no other soul in all the world,
And now--Oh birds that circle overhead,
Oh snow white doves that fly about me now,
Take pity on me, warn him, fly to him!
[_Exit_.]
ACT V
_Oden Forest_.
SCENE I
_Enter_ HAGEN, GUNTHER, VOLKER, DANKWART _and serving men_.
HAGEN.
This is the place. The spring is gushing forth,
The bushes cover it. If I stand here,
I can impale the man who stoops to drink
Against the rock.
GUNTHER.
I've given no command.
HAGEN.
When thou hast taken thought thou wilt command.
There is no other way, and there will come
No second day like this one. Therefore speak,
Or if thou wilt not speak, be still!
(_To the serving men_.)
Hello!
'Tis here we rest!
[_The serving men prepare a meal_.]
GUNTHER.
Thou'st always hated him.
HAGEN.
I'll not deny that gladly to this work
I lend my hand, and I would surely meet
In combat any man who came between
My enemy and me, and yet the deed
I hold not for that reason less than just.
GUNTHER.
And yet my brothers spoke against the deed
And turned their backs upon us.
HAGEN.
Had they then
The courage to warn him and hinder us?
They must have felt that we are in the right,
And it is but their youth that makes them shrink
From blood that is not shed in open fight.
GUNTHER.
It must be so.
HAGEN.
Why he has bought off death
And so ennobled murder.
(_To the serving men_.)
Sound the horns,
And call the hunt together. For 'tis time
That we should eat.
[_The horns are blown_.]
Now take things as they are
And leave it all to me. If thou art not
Offended, or forgivest what is past,
So be it, yet forbid thy servant not
To rescue and avenge thy noble wife!
She will not break the solemn oath she swore.
If she's deceived in her firm trust in us--Her
confidence that we'll redeem the pledge--Then
all the joy of life that once again,
May be aroused within her youthful heart
When shadows deepen and the end is near,
Will be transformed into one dreadful curse,
One final imprecation upon thee!
GUNTHER.
There still is time.
SCENE II
_Enter_ SIEGFRIED _with_ RUMOLT _and huntsmen_.
SIEGFRIED.
I'm here! And now ye hunters,
Where are your spoils? Mine were to follow me
Upon a wagon, but the wagon broke.
HAGEN.
A lion is the game I chase today,
But I have failed to find one.
SIEGFRIED.
That I know,
For I myself have killed him!--Food is spread.
Sound trumpets in his praise who ordered that,
For now we feel the need. Accursed ravens,
Here too? Now blow your bugles till they burst!
I've thrown near every kind of game I killed
At this black flock; at last I threw a fox,
But still they would not fly, and yet I hate
Nothing so much in all the woodland green
As that deep black--'tis like the devil's hue.
The doves have never flocked around me so!
Shall we stay here to pass the night?
GUNTHER.
We thought--
SIEGFRIED.
'Tis well, the choice is fitting, and there gapes
A hollow tree. I'll take it for myself.
For all my life have I been used to that,
And I know nothing better than at night
On soft dry wood to lay my weary head,
And so to dream, half waking, half asleep,
To count the passing hours by the birds
That waken slowly, softly, one by one,
Each singing in his turn. Then tick, tick, tick!
Now it is two. Tock, tock, and one must stretch!
Kiwitt, kiwitt! The sun is blinking now,
And now its eyes are open. Chanticleer
Bids all arise, lest they should sneeze.
VOLKER.
I know!
It is as if Time wakened them himself,
As in the dark he feels his way along,
To beat the rhythm of his pace for him.
In measured intervals, as from the glass
Trickles the sand, and as the shadow long
Creeps on the dial, so there follow now
The mountain cock, the blackbird and the thrush,
And none disturbs the other as by day,
Nor coaxes him to warble ere his time.
I've watched it oft myself.
SIEGFRIED.
I too.--My brother,
Thou art not happy.
GUNTHER.
But I am!
SIEGFRIED.
Oh, no!
I have seen people at a wedding feast,
And following a bier, and so I know
How different they look. Now let us do
As strangers might, who'd never met before
Until by accident within the wood
They meet, and one has this, the other that,
And so they put together all they have,
And thus with joy receive and also give.
'Tis well! For I bring meat of every kind,
And I will give to you a mountain bull,
Five boars and thirty, even forty stags,
And pheasants too, as many as you will,
Not mentioning the lion and the bear,
All this for one small beaker of cool wine.
DANKWART.
Alas!
SIEGFRIED.
What's Wrong?
HAGEN.
The wine has been forgotten.
SIEGFRIED.
Yes, I'll believe it. That may well befall
A hunter who is resting from the chase
And has a red hot coal for his own tongue
Inside his mouth. Well, I must seek myself,
Although I cannot scent it like a, hound--
But let it be--I'll never spoil your sport!
[_He seeks._]
There is none here, nor here! Where is the cask?
I pray thee, minstrel, save me, else I'll lose
The tongue that has till now been wagging so.
HAGEN.
And that may happen, for--there is no wine.
SIEGFRIED.
The devil and his fiends may take your hunt
If I am not to have a hunter's fare!
Whose duty was it to provide the drink?
HAGEN.
Mine! Yet I did not know where we should be,
[Illustration: Schnorr von Carolsfeld KRIEMHILD FINDS THE SLAIN
SIEGFRIED]
And sent the wine to Spessart, where it seems
There are no thirsty men.
SIEGFRIED.
Give thanks who will!
But have we then no water? Must a man
Be satisfied with evening dew, and lap
The drops from off the leaves?
HAGEN.
But hold thy tongue!
Thine ear will bring thee comfort!
SIEGFRIED (_listens_).
Hark, a spring!
Oh welcome stream! 'Tis true I love thee more
When thou, instead of welling from the stone
So suddenly and rushing to my mouth,
Thy winding way pursuest through the grape;
For from thy journey many things thou bring'st,
That fill our heads with foolish gaiety.
Yet even so be praised.
[_He goes to the spring._]
Ah no! I must
Do penance first and ye shall witness bear
That I have done it. I'm the thirstiest man
Among you all and I will drink the last,
Because I was so harsh with poor Kriemhild.
HAGEN.
Then I'll begin.
[_He goes to the spring._]
SIEGFRIED (_to GUNTHER_).
Pray look more cheerfully.
I know a way to reconcile thy bride;
Brunhilda's kisses shall ere long be thine.
My joy I will forego as long as thou.
HAGEN (_comes back and lays aside his weapons_).
The weapons will impede me when I stoop.
[_Retires again._]
SIEGFRIED.
Before the full assemblage of thy folk,
Kriemhild will sue for pardon ere we go.
This pledge was freely given, but she longs
To leave and hide her blushes.
HAGEN (_returns_).
Cold as ice!
SIEGFRIED.
Who next?
VOLKER.
First let us eat.
SIEGFRIED.
'Tis well!
[_He goes toward the spring but turns back again._]
Ah yes!
[_He lays aside his weapons. Exit._]
HAGEN (_pointing to the weapons_).
Away with them!
DANKWART (_carries the weapons away_).
HAGEN (_who has taken up his own weapons again and has
meanwhile kept his back turned toward_ GUNTHER; _takes
a running start and throws his spear_).
SIEGFRIED (_cries out_).
My friends!
HAGEN (_exclaims_).
Not quiet yet?
(_To the others._)
No word with him, whatever he may say!
SIEGFRIED (_crawls forward_).
Murdered--while I was drinking! Gunther, Gunther?
Have I deserved this from thee? In thy need
I stood by thee.
HAGEN.
Lop branches from the trees,
We need a bier. Quick, choose the strongest limbs,
For heavy is a dead man.
SIEGFRIED.
I am slain,
But yet not wholly!
[_He springs up._]
Where then is my sword?
They've taken it! Oh, by thy manhood, Hagen,
Give the dead man a sword! I challenge thee
E'en now to mortal combat!
HAGEN.
In his mouth
He has his enemy, yet seeks him still.
SIEGFRIED.
My life drips from me like a candle spent,
And e'en my sword this murderer denies,
Though granting it would render him less vile.
For shame! Such cowardice! He fears my thumb,
For that is all that's left of me.
[_He stumbles over his shield._]
My shield!
My faithful shield, I'll throw thee at the hound!
[_He stoops over the shield, but cannot lift it, and rises
unsteadily once more._]
As if 'twere nailed there! E'en for this revenge
'Tis now too late!
HAGEN.
Oh, if this chatterer
Would maim his foolish tongue between his teeth
Where it has sinned so long all unreproved--
His idle tongue that is not silenced yet!--
Then would he have revenge, for that alone
Has brought him to this pass.
SIEGFRIED.
Thou liest! 'Twas
Thine envy!
HAGEN.
Silence!
SIEGFRIED.
Threats for a dead man?
Aimed I so true that thou dost fear me still?
Then draw, for now I fall, and thou canst dare
To spit upon me like a heap of dust,
For here I lie--
[_He falls to the ground._]
And you are free from Siegfried!
Yet know, the blow that slew him killed you too,
For who will trust you? They will drive you forth
As I had driven the Danes.
HAGEN.
This simpleton!
He hath not grasped our trick!
SIEGFRIED.
Then 'tis not true?
Oh, horrible, that men should lie like this!
Ah well! You are alone in this! And folk
Will always curse you too, whene'er they curse.
They'll say: Toads, vipers and Burgundians!
Nay you are first: Burgundians, vipers, toads.
For all is lost to you--nobility
And honor, fame and all, are lost with me!
There is no bound nor limit now for crime,
The arm indeed may pierce the heart, but when
The heart is dead the arm is useless too.
My wife! My poor, foreboding, tender wife--
How wilt thou bear the blow! If Gunther's heart
Still means to do one deed of faith and love,
May he be kind to thee!--Yet rather go
Unto my father!--Hearest thou, Kriemhild?
[_He dies._]
HAGEN.
He's silent now. Small merit is in that!
DANKWART.
What shall we tell?
HAGEN.
Some stupid tale of thieves
Who killed him in the forest. It is true
None will believe it, yet I think that none
Will call us liars. Once again we stand
Where none will dare to call us to account;
For we're like fire and water. Till the Rhine
Seeks out some lie to justify its floods,
And fire explains why it has broken forth,
We need not fear accusers. Thou, my King,
Gav'st no commands--thou should'st remember that!
The blame is mine alone. Now bear him forth!
[_Exeunt with the body._]
SCENE III
_KRIEMHILD'S room. Deep night._
KRIEMHILD.
'Tis far too early yet. It is my blood
That wakened me, and not the cock I heard,
Or seemed to hear.
[_She goes to the window and opens it partly._]
The stars are shining still,
It surely is an hour yet till mass.
Today I long to go to church and pray.
SCENE IV
_Enter UTE softly._
UTE.
Already up, Kriemhild?
KRIEMHILD.
I am amazed
That thou art up, for thou hast always slept
More soundly after dawn and claimed thy right
To have thy daughter wake thee, as thou her
So long ago.
UTE.
Today I could not sleep,
I heard strange sounds.
KRIEMHILD.
And didst thou mark them too?
UTE.
It was like people trying to be still.
KRIEMHILD.
So I was right?
UTE.
They seemed to hold their breath,
Yet dropped a sword that clanged! On tiptoe walked,
And yet upset the brazier! Hushed the dog,
Yet trod upon his paw.
KRIEMHILD.
They have perhaps
Returned.
UTE.
The hunters?
KRIEMHILD.
Once it seemed to me
That some one softly crept up to my door.
I thought it must be Siegfried.
UTE. Didst thou make
Some sign that thou wast wakeful?
KRIEMHILD.
No.
UTE.
Indeed
It might then have been Siegfried, but 'twould be
Almost too soon.
KRIEMHILD.
To me it seems so too!
And then he did not knock.
UTE.
The hunt was not,
Or so I think, to bring us game for food;
They wanted our poor farmers to have peace,
Who have been threatening to burn their ploughs
Because the wild boar harvests where they sow!
KRIEMHILD.
Was that it?
UTE.
Child, thou art already dressed,
Yet hast not any maid with thee?
KRIEMHILD.
I thought
That I would learn who woke the first of all.
Besides, it was a pastime.
UTE.
Each in turn,
My candle in my hand, I gazed upon.
For each year brings a different kind of sleep.
Fifteen and sixteen sleep like five and six,
But seventeen brings dreams, and eighteen, thoughts,
And nineteen brings desires--
SCENE V
_A Chamberlain cries out before the door._
CHAMBERLAIN.
Almighty God!
UTE.
What is it? What is wrong?
CHAMBERLAIN (_enters_).
I almost fell.
UTE.
And that was why you called?
CHAMBERLAIN.
Some one is dead!
UTE.
What's that?
CHAMBERLAIN.
A dead man lying at the door!
UTE.
A dead man?
KRIEMHILD (_falls_).
Then 'tis Siegfried, 'tis my lord!
UTE (_catches her in her arms_).
Impossible!
(_To the CHAMBERLAIN._)
Bring light!
[_CHAMBERLAIN brings a light and then nods his head._]
UTE.
'Tis Siegfried? Go!
Awaken all!
CHAMBERLAIN.
Help, help!
[_The maidens rush in._]
UTE.
O piteous wife!
KRIEMHILD (_rising_).
Brunhild commanded, Hagen did the deed!--
A light!
UTE.
My child!
KRIEMHILD (_seizes a torch_).
'Tis he! I know, I know!
Let no one tread on him; for thou didst hear
The servants stumble over him.--The servants!
Yet once great kings made way for him.
UTE.
The light!
KRIEMHILD.
I'll place it there myself.
[_She opens the door and falls to the floor._]
Oh Mother, Mother,
Why didst thou bear thy child! Oh thou dear head,
But let me kiss thee. I'll not seek thy mouth,
For all to me is precious. Thou canst not
Forbid me as thou would'st perhaps.--Thy lips--
'Tis too much pain!
CHAMBERLAIN.
She's dying.
UTE.
I could wish
That she might die!
SCENE VI
_Enter GUNTHER with DANKWART, RUMOLT, GISELHER and GERENOT._
UTE (_approaching GUNTHER_).
My son, what deed was this?
GUNTHER.
I fain would weep myself. Yet of his death
You've heard already? By the holy words
Of our good priest you were to learn of this.
I went to tell him in the night.
UTE (_with a motion of the head_).
Thou see'st
The dead man told his story for himself.
GUNTHER (_aside to DANKWART_).
But how was this?
DANKWART.
My brother bore him here!
GUNTHER.
For shame!
DANKWART.
From his intent he'd not desist,
And when he came again he laughed and said:
This is my gratitude for his farewell.
SCENE VII
_Enter the Chaplain._
GUNTHER (_going to meet him_).
Too late!
CHAPLAIN.
And such a man slain in the woods!
DANKWART.
The robber's spear was guided by blind chance,
So that it struck the spot. In such a way
A child may kill a giant.
UTE (_still busying herself with the maidens over KRIEMHILD_).
Rise, Kriemhild!
KRIEMHILD.
Another parting? No, I'll cling to him,
And to the grave together will we go,
Or you must leave him here. But half my love
I gave him living. Now that he is dead
I know it. Were it the reverse! His eyes
I never yet had kissed! All, all is new!
We thought we'd time before us.
UTE.
Come my child!
We cannot leave him lying in the dust.
KRIEMHILD. Oh that is true! The costliest and rarest
Today shall be as naught.
[_She rises._]
Here, take the keys!
[_She throws down keys._]
There'll be no festivals again! The silk,
The wondrous golden garments, and the linen--
Bring everything. Be sure to gather flowers--
He loved them so! And you must cut them all,
Even the little buds that have not bloomed.
For whom then should they blossom? Lay them all
Within his coffin, then my bridal robes,
And lay him softly down, and I'll do so,
[_She stretches out her arms._]
And I will be his covering!
GUNTHER (_to his followers_).
Your oath!
Let no one harm her more.
KRIEMHILD (_turns around_).
The murderer's here?
Away, for fear the blood should flow again!
No! No! Come here!
[_She lays hold of DANKWART._]
That Siegfried may bear witness!
[_She wipes her hand on her dress._]
Alas, alas! My right hand nevermore
May dare to touch him. Does the blood gush forth?
O Mother, look! I cannot! No? Then these
But hide the deed. I seek the murderer.
If Hagen Tronje's here, let him come forth!
He is not guilty--I'll give him my hand.
UTE.
My child--
KRIEMHILD.
Now go and hear Brunhilda laugh.
She's eating too, and drinking.
UTE.
It was robbers--
KRIEMHILD.
I know them well.
[_She takes GISELHER and GERENOT by the hand._]
Thou wast not with them there!
Thou didst not go!
UTE.
But hear me!
RUMOLT.
Through the wood
We had been scattered; for it was his wish,
And 'tis our custom too. We found him dying
At our next meeting place.
KRIEMHILD.
You found him there?
What did he say? A word! His dying word!
I will believe thy tale, if thou canst tell,
And if it is no curse. But oh, beware!
For sooner would a rose bloom from thy mouth
Than thou imagine what thou didst not hear.
(_As RUMOLT hesitates._)
It is a lie!
CHAPLAIN.
'Tis possible! I've heard
A magpie dropped a knife that killed a man
Who could not have been reached by human hands.
And what a wingéd thief by chance could do
Because his gleaming booty burdened him,
A robber well might do.
KRIEMHILD.
Oh, holy father,
Thou knowest not!
DANKWART.
Princess, thy grief is sacred,
But yet unjust and blind. Our warriors here,
Our noblest will bear witness--
[_Meanwhile the door has been closed and the body is no longer
visible._]
KRIEMHILD (_who observes this_). Halt! Who dares--
[_She hastens to the door._]
UTE.
Stop, stop! He was but gently lifted up
As thou thyself would'st wish.
KRIEMHILD.
Oh, give him back!
Else they will rob me, they will bury him
Where I shall never find him!
CHAPLAIN.
To the church!
I'll follow him, for now he's God's alone.
[_Exit._]
SCENE VIII
KRIEMHILD.
So be it! To the church!
(_To GUNTHER._)
'Twas robbers then?
I bid thee gather all thy kindred there
To try the test of murder.
GUNTHER.
Be it so.
KRIEMHILD.
But bring them one and all, for now I find
That some are missing. Call the absent too!
[_Exeunt omnes; the men and women by
different doors._]
SCENE IX
_In the cathedral. Torches. The Chaplain with other priests is at one
side before an iron door. At the main entrance of the cathedral about
sixty of_ HAGEN's _kindred are assembled. Finally_ HAGEN, GUNTHER _and
the others. Knocking is heard._
CHAPLAIN.
Who knocks
VOICE FROM WITHOUT.
A great king from the Netherlands
Whose crowns are as the fingers on his hands.
CHAPLAIN.
I know him not.
[_The knocking is repeated._]
Who knocks?
VOICE FROM WITHOUT.
A warrior brave,
Whose trophies are as many as his teeth.
CHAPLAIN.
I know him not.
[_The knocking is repeated._]
Who knocks?
VOICE FROM WITHOUT.
Thy brother Siegfried,
Whose sins are as the hairs upon his head.
CHAPLAIN.
Then open!
[_The door is opened and_ SIEGFRIED's _body
is brought in on the bier._ KRIEMHILD _and_
UTE _with their maidens follow him._]
CHAPLAIN (_turning toward the bier_).
Thou art welcome, my dead brother,
For peace thou seekest here!
[_To the women whom he keeps away from
the coffin by coming between them and it,
while it is being set down._]
Be welcome too,
If you are seeking peace as Siegfried is.
[_He holds up the cross before KRIEMHILD._]
Thou turn'st away from this most holy cross?
KRIEMHILD.
I come to ask for justice and for truth.
CHAPLAIN.
Thou seekest vengeance, and the Lord hath said,
Vengeance is mine. It is the Lord alone
Who sees what's hidden. He alone requites.
KRIEMHILD.
I am a woman, weak, half crushed to earth;
No warrior can I strangle with my hair.
What vengeance then is left for me, I pray?
CHAPLAIN.
Why should'st thou search to find thine enemy,
Unless thou seek'st on him to take revenge?
His Judge knows all, and is not that enough?
KRIEMHILD.
I do not want to curse the innocent.
CHAPLAIN.
Then curse thou no man, and 'twill not befall!--
Thou poor frail child created but from dust
And ashes, with no strength to breast the wind,
Thy burden's great, well may'st thou cry to heaven,
Yet gaze on Him who bore a greater still!
In humblest guise He came upon the earth,
And took upon Himself the sins of men,
And suffered for atonement all the griefs
That ever there have been throughout all time--
The griefs that follow fallen mortals still.
He suffered in thy sorrow more than thou!
And heavenly power flowed from out His lips
And all the angels floated round his head,
But Jesus Christ was faithful unto death--
Unto His shameful death upon the cross.
This sacrifice He brought thee in his love,
In pity that we may not comprehend.
Wilt thou deny thine offering to Him?
Then let them bury him! And turn thou back!
KRIEMHILD.
Thy work is done, and I will now do mine!
[_She goes and stands at the head of the
coffin._]
Approach the bier, the dread ordeal begins!
CHAPLAIN (_goes also to the coffin and stands at the foot.
Three trumpet blasts are heard_).
HAGEN (_to GUNTHER_).
What then has happened?
GUNTHER.
Murder has been done.
HAGEN.
Why stand I here?
GUNTHER.
Suspicion rests on thee.
HAGEN.
My kin are gathered here. Of my fair name
I'll question them.--Are ye prepared to swear
That Hagen Tronje is no murderer?
ALL EXCEPT GISELHER.
We are prepared.
HAGEN.
Thou'rt silent, Giselher?
Wilt thou not for thine uncle take thine oath
That Hagen Tronje is no murderer?
GISELHER (_raising his hand_).
I am prepared.
HAGEN.
Ye need not take the oath.
[_He goes forward to_ KRIEMHILD _in the
cathedral._]
Thou see'st, my kin will clear me when I will,
'Tis needless that I now approach the bier,
Yet will I stand there and will be the first!
[_He walks slowly to the bier._]
UTE.
Oh Kriemhild, do not look.
KRIEMHILD.
Perchance he lives!
My Siegfried! Had he strength to speak one word
Or gaze but once upon me!
UTE.
My poor child,
It is but nature, moving once again.
Ghastly enough!
CHAPLAIN.
It is the hand of God,
That softly stirs once more these sacred springs
Because He must inscribe the sign of Cain.
HAGEN (_bending over the coffin_).
The scarlet blood! I ne'er believed the sign!
But now I see it here with mine own eyes.
KRIEMHILD.
Yet thou canst stand and gaze?
[_She springs toward him._]
Away, thou fiend!
Who knows but every drop of blood gives pain,
That thy foul, murderous presence draws from him!
HAGEN.
Fair Kriemhild, if a dead man's blood still boils,
Why may not mine? I am a living man.
KRIEMHILD.
Away! Away! I'd seize thee with my hands,
Had I but some one who would back them off
And cast them from me that I might be clean--
For washing would not cleanse them, even if
I dipped them in thy blood. Away! Away!
So stood'st thou not to deal the deadly blow,
Thy wolfish eyes fixed on him steadily,
With fiendish grin disclosing thy intent
Before the time! But slyly didst thou creep
Behind him, ever shrinking from his gaze,
As wild beasts do that fear the human eye,
And peered to find the spot, that I--Thou dog,
What was thine oath to me?
HAGEN.
To shelter him
From fire and water.
KRIEMHILD.
Not from human foes?
HAGEN.
That too, and I'd have done it.
KRIEMHILD.
Thou didst mean
To murder him thyself?
HAGEN.
To punish him!
KRIEMHILD.
Was murder ever called a punishment
Since heaven and earth began?
HAGEN. I'd challenged him
To mortal combat, thou may'st take my word,
But none might tell the hero from the dragon,
And dragons must be killed. So proud a knight,
Why did he hide him in the dragon's skin!
KRIEMHILD.
The dragon's skin! He had to slay him first,
And with the dragon slew he all the world!
The forest depths with all their monstrous beasts,
And every warrior that had feared to slay
The dreadful dragon, Hagen with the rest!
Thy slander cannot harm him. But the dart
Thine envy borrowed from thy wickedness.
And folk will tell of his nobility
As long as men still dwell upon the earth,
And just so long they'll tell thy tale of shame.
HAGEN.
So be it then!
[_He takes_ SIEGFRIED'S _sword, Balmung, from
beside the body._]
And now 'twill never end!
[_He girds on the sword and walks slowly
back to his kindred._]
KRIEMHILD.
To murder foul is added robbery!
(_To_ GUNTHER.)
A judgment, Gunther! Judgment I demand.
CHAPLAIN.
Remember Him who on the cross forgave!
KRIEMHILD.
A judgment! If the king denies it me,
The blood of Siegfried stains his mantle too.
UTE. Cease, Kriemhild! Thou wilt ruin thy whole house!
KRIEMHILD.
So be it! For the measure's over full!
[_She turns toward_ SIEGFRIED'S _body and falls upon the bier._]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Siegfried's wonderful sword is named Balmung.]
[Footnote 2: The reference is to a passage in the _Chanson de Roland_.
Roland was in command of a rear guard and was warned of the approach of
a large force of Saracens. His comrade Oliver begged him to sound his
horn and summon Charlemagne and his forces. Roland would not blow the
horn until nearly all his men were slain. At last, however, the Saracens
learned of Charlemagne's approach and fled. Roland then blew his horn
once more and died alone on the field as he heard Charlemagne's battle
cry.--TRANSLATOR.]
[Footnote 3: Balmung is the name of Siegfried's magical sword.]
[Footnote 4: The Mandrake is a plant growing in the Mediterranean region
and belonging to the potato family. It was early famed for its poisonous
and narcotic qualities. Love philtres were also made from its roots, and
an old High German story tells of little images made from the root, thus
endowed with the power of prophecy and respected as oracles. Probably
Hebbel refers to the German tradition, as he is speaking of the dwarfs
who are both small and wise. The German name of the plant is
_Alraune_.--TRANSLATOR.]
[Footnote 5: The translator finds that authorities and versions of the
tale differ as to Siegfried's _"Kappe."_ In Maurice Grau's
Götterdaemmerung libretto it is called in the English translation
"Tarnhelm," and Siegfried hangs it to his belt when not in use. Dippold
in his account of the Nibelung tale speaks of the _Tarn kappe_ or magic
_cap_ of darkness which _renders the wearer invisible._ But the
_Encyclopaedia Britannica_ speaks of the "cape of darkness" and Heath's
_Dictionary_ gives cap first, but calls _Tarn kappe_ "hiding cape." In
either case invisibility was obtained.--TRANSLATOR.]
ANNA (1836)
BY FRIEDRICH HEBBEL
TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING
"Mild the air, and heaven blue,
Fragrant flowers full of dew,
And at even dance and play,
That is quite too much, I say."
Anna, the young servant maid, was gaily singing this song one bright
Sunday morning, while busily engaged in washing up the kitchen and dairy
crockery. At that moment Baron Eichenthal, in whose service she had been
for the last six months, passed by, wearing a green damask
dressing-gown. He was a decrepit young man, full of spleen and whims.
"What's the meaning of this yodelling!" he demanded haughtily, pausing
in front of her--"You know that I cannot bear frivolity."
Anna blushed violently: she remembered that her severe master would have
been very pleased to find her frivolous a few evenings ago in the
summerhouse. A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but forcibly
suppressing it, she started to take up a white porcelain soup-tureen,
and, in a violent struggle with her natural fearlessness, let it fall to
the ground. The valuable dish broke and the Baron, who had already taken
a few steps forward, turned around, his face flaming with anger.
"What!" he exclaimed loudly, and strode up to the girl, "would you cool
your temper on my mother's kitchen crockery, you little sneak, because
your stubborn spirit will not allow you to accept a well-merited reproof
quietly, as becomes you?" And with that, scolding and storming, he gave
her, right and left, box after box on the ear, while she, stunned, gazed
at him, like a child, bereft of speech, indeed almost of her senses,
still holding the handle of the tureen in one hand, and involuntarily
pressing the other against her breast.
She was first aroused from this state, which bordered on a swoon, by the
mocking laughter of the chamber-maid Frederika, who, more easy going
than she, gladly allowed the Baron to trifle wantonly with her and pinch
her cheeks or play with her curls. The insolent wench looked at her
derisively, and called out, "That will give you a good appetite for the
kermess, Miss Prude."
The Baron, however, laughed loudly and placing his arms akimbo, said:
"You might just as well give up all desire for dance and play; I
withdraw the permission accorded by my mother, you shall take care of
the house. Is there nothing then for her to do today?" he continued,
talking to himself. Frederika whispered something to him. "Right," he
shouted, "she shall comb the flax until late at night; do you hear?"
Anna, completely bewildered, nodded her head, and then sank down
powerless on her knees; at the same time, however, she instinctively
snatched up a brass utensil, and, while the hot, uncontrollable tears
overflowed her eyes, she began to scour it bright.
The gardener had witnessed the foregoing scene from a distance. Fresh
and blooming as she was, he had long pursued her with attentions, but in
vain; coming up at that moment, he greeted her and asked maliciously how
she was? "Oh, oh," she moaned, quivering spasmodically, and springing,
up she clutched at the sneering fellow's breast and face.
"Madwoman," he cried, growing frightened, and, defending himself with
all his masculine strength, pushed her away. She stared after him with
wide-open eyes as though not realizing what she had done; then, as if
coming to her senses, returned to her work, which she continued without
interruption, except at times unconsciously heaving a loud sigh, until
at midday she was called to the kitchen to dinner. Here nothing but
faces expressing malicious joy at her discomfiture awaited her, and more
or less suppressed laughter and tittering, which grew stronger and more
pitiless as she continued to gaze down at her plate with burning cheeks,
and replied not a word to the volley of allusions.
The maids, already partly decked out in their finery, exchanged
bantering remarks, bearing unmistakable reference to her, on the score
of the lovers whom they had found, or hoped to find, and the flat-nosed
scullion, encouraged to commit the impertinence by the winks of the head
farm-hand and the coachman, asked Anna if he might not borrow her
red-flowered apron and the hat with the gay-colored ribbons that
Frederick, the Major's man, had given her at Christmas. She would
certainly not need these things in the flax-room, he said, and he hoped
by means of them to win the good graces of a girl who had no finery.
"Boy," she cried with white trembling lips, "I'll not cook you any milk
soup another time when you are sick in bed, and no one bothers himself
about you!" and shoving back her plate, she snatched up the empty
water-pails, which it was her duty to fill afresh at the well, and went
out.
"Fie," said John, an old servant, who, having grown gray in the service
of his lordship's father, was now eating the bread of charity in the
house of Baron Eichenthal. "It is wrong to spoil the wench's food and
drink with bitter words."
"Pshaw!" retorted the gardener, "it will not hurt her. Since that
lean-bodied toady, Frederick, has been running after her, she's as
proud as though she had angled a nobleman!"
"Pride comes before a fall!" said Lizzie, the buxom little cook, with a
tender glance at the phlegmatic head farm-hand. "Do you know that she
laces?"
"Why shouldn't she be proud," interjected the coachman, "isn't she the
schoolmaster's daughter!"
Frederika, the chambermaid, came into the kitchen with a heated face.
"Isn't Anna here?" she asked, drying her forehead with her silk
handkerchief. "The master has just gone to bed, he joked a good
deal"--here she coughed, as the others cast significant glances at one
another and laughed--"and I am to tell her that she is to begin combing
the flax right away, and"--this she added on her own authority--"she
must not stop work until ten o'clock."
"I'll give her the message, Rika!" answered Lizzie. Frederika tripped
out again.
"Doesn't she lace too?" asked the head farm-hand.
"Chut! Chut!" whispered John, and jingled his fork against his plate in
embarrassment. Anna entered the kitchen with her load of water.
"Anna," began Lizzie officiously, "I am to tell you--"
"I know all about it already," answered Anna drily, in a steady voice.
"I met the messenger. Where is the key to the flax-room hanging?"
"Over there on the nail!" replied the cook, and pointed with her finger
to the place.
Anna, composed, because inwardly crushed, took the key, and while the
others went off to their trunks in order to complete their toilet before
a three groschen mirror, she went hastily into the flax-room, the
windows of which looked out upon the castle courtyard and the high-road.
She sat down, her face turned toward the windows so that she could see
all the merry-makers on their way from the village to the kermess and
hear their gay talk. She began to work with gloomy industry. Although at
times she unconsciously sank into a fit of brooding, she would
immediately start up again terrified, as though bitten by a snake or
tarantula, and continue her labor with increased, indeed, with unnatural
zeal. Only once during the entire long afternoon did she get up from her
low, hard, wooden stool, and that was when her fellow servants drove
quickly down the castle yard in comfortable rack wagons drawn by fast
horses. But with a loud laugh, as though in self-derision, she sat down
again, and, although she grew so thirsty in all the heat and dust that
her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, she did not even drink the
coffee that old Bridget, who on an occasion like this of today used to
take care of the house for the maids, compassionately brought her toward
four or five o'clock.
When night gradually came on she went into the kitchen, without
smoothing back the locks of hair that hung wildly about her face. Making
no answer to Bridget's friendly invitation to remain there and share
with her a tempting dish of baked potatoes, she took a candle out of the
candle box, and holding her hand over it to protect it against the
draught, went back into the flax-room. It was not long before there was
a knock at the window, and when she had opened the door Frederick
entered hastily, dripping with perspiration.
"I must see what is the matter," he said, almost breathless and tearing
open his waist-coat, "they are whispering all kinds of things."
"You see!" answered Anna quickly, then stopped short and arranged her
bodice, which had been pushed somewhat awry.
"Your master is a scoundrel!" blustered Frederick, gnashing his teeth.
"Yes, yes!" said Anna.
"I should like to meet him up there on the cliff," cried Frederick, "oh,
it's abominable!"
"How hot you are," said Anna, gently taking his hand. "Have you been
dancing already?"
"I have been drinking wine, five or six glasses," rejoined Frederick.
"Come, Anna, dress yourself, you shall go with me in spite of every
devil who tries to interfere."
"No, no, no!" said Anna.
"But I say yes," Frederick flared out in a passion, and put his arm
around her waist, "I say yes!"
"Most certainly not!" Anna answered softly, embracing him
affectionately.
KRIEMHILD ACCUSES HAGEN OF THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED
_From the painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_ [Illustration]
"You shall, I wish it," cried Frederick, releasing her.
Anna, without making any answer, took up the flax-comb and looked down
on the ground before her.
"Will you, or will you not?" persisted
Frederick, and stepped right in front of her.
"How could I?" returned Anna, looking confidingly in his eyes, and
laying her hand on her heart.
"Very well," cried Frederick. "You
will not. God damn me if I ever see you again!" He rushed out like a mad
man.
"Frederick," cried Anna after him, "Do stay, stay a moment, listen how
the wind is howling."
She was starting to hurry after him when her dress brushed against the
candle placed low down on an oak-block; it fell over and set fire to the
flax which burst at once into powerful flames. Frederick, crazed with
wine and anger, forced himself, as usually happens in such moments, to
sing a song as he strode out into the night, which had turned out to be
very stormy. The familiar tones, in wild hilarity, penetrated to where
Anna was. "Oh! oh!" she sighed from the depth of her heart. Then for the
first time she noticed that half of the room was already on fire.
Beating with her hands and stamping with her feet she threw herself upon
the greedy flames which, hot and burning, leaped toward her and scorched
her. Frederick's voice died away in the distance in a last halloo.
"Pshaw, why should I put it out, let it be!" she cried, and slamming the
door behind her with all her might, she hurried out with a horrible
laugh, involuntarily following the same path through the garden that
Frederick had taken.
Soon, however, she sank down, exhausted, almost fainting, in a meadow
which adjoined the garden, and groaning aloud pressed her face into the
cold, wet grass. Thus she lay for a long time.
Then from far and near the fire and alarm bells sounded, hollow and
terrifying. She half raised herself, but did not look around. Above her
the sky was blood-red and full of sparks; an unnatural heat was
spreading, and increasing from minute to minute. The wind howled and
roared, the flames crackled, wails and shouts resounded. She lay down
again at full length on the ground, and it seemed to her as though she
could sleep. But the next moment she was frightened out of this
death-like state by the words of two people hurrying past her, one of
whom cried out, "Lord have mercy on us! the village is already burning!"
She pulled herself together then with a superhuman effort, and hurried,
with flying hair, down to the village, which adjoined the burning side
of the castle. There, in more than one place the inflammable straw roofs
had already burst into flame.
The wind grew stronger and stronger. Most of the inhabitants, with the
exception of the children and decrepit old people, were more than four
miles away at the kermess. Had the necessary men been on the spot the
miserable fire apparatus could have offered only a vain resistance to
the league of the two dread elements. Since the summer had been
unusually dry, even water was lacking.
Distress, danger, confusion, increased every minute. A little boy ran
about crying, "O God, O God, my little sister!" And when he was asked,
"Where is your sister?" he repeated his horrifying cry, as though,
incapable of every intelligent thought, he had not understood the
question.
One old woman had to be forcibly dragged from her house. "My hen," she
moaned, "my poor little hen!" And indeed it was touching to see how the
little creature fluttered terrified from one corner to the other in the
suffocating smoke, and yet, because in better days it was probably
accustomed not to cross the threshold, it would not allow itself to be
driven through the open door into the air, even by its mistress.
Anna, weeping, screaming, beating her breast, and then again laughing,
rushed into every kind of danger with the reckless daring of despair.
She rescued, extinguished, and was an object at once of surprise,
admiration, and uncanny mystery to all the others. At last they
despaired of being able even to arrest the fire, which, continuing to
spread, threatened to reduce the whole village to ashes. It was then
that they saw her sink down on her knees in a burning house and gaze up
to Heaven, wringing her hands.
The pastor called out, "For God's sake, rescue the heroic girl, the
roof is falling in!" Anna, still on her knees, hearing his words,
stuck out her tongue at him with a gesture of violent abhorrence, and
laughed crazily. At this moment Frederick appeared. Hardly had he
perceived the terrible danger in which she was placed than, growing
deathly pale, he rushed toward the house which seemed about to
collapse. She, however, noticing him at once, sprang up terrified and
cried, "Don't, Frederick, don't; I, I am guilty, there--there." She
pointed with her hand to the place where the castle lay, and, in order
to make any rescue impossible, hurried up the already burning ladder,
which led to the garret of the house. The ladder, too far consumed by
the fire, broke under her, and at the same moment the roof fell in,
forming a wall of flame. They heard one more piercing cry; then there
was silence.
Baron Eichenthal arrived. As soon as Frederick caught sight of him he
rushed up to him and before the Baron could defend himself kicked him in
the abdomen, so that he fell over backward to the ground; then Frederick
quietly gave himself up to the peasants, who at the order of the justice
of the peace were trying to overpower him.
When the Baron learned next morning what had happened to Anna, he
ordered them to search for her bones among the ashes and to bury them in
the potter's field. This was done.
ON THEODOR KÖRNER AND HEINRICH VON
KLEIST (1835)
By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL
TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING
Not only in the history of the world but in the history of literature as
well, we meet with strange aberrations on the part of entire epochs in
their estimate of individual men, rightly or wrongly raised above their
environment. Exactly what the age happens to demand, what fits in with
its restless activity, that is what it rewards and values. We cannot
deny, indeed, that every generation has the right to require the poet,
as well as its other sons, to consult its needs so far as possible. But
it is seldom satisfied with this; he must confer his benefits in the
most agreeable way, and whether or not he is weak enough to humor it in
this, determines, as a rule, whether it will take him fondly in its
arms, or will crush him. These reflections were recently aroused in me
when a volume of Heinrich von Kleist's writings came into my possession
together with a volume of Theodor Körner's works, and I trust that the
Scientific Society will not consider them too unimportant to be
developed in some detail.
In the two poets named we see two remarkable examples of the
above-mentioned aberration of an entire epoch. While the first of the
two, Heinrich von Kleist, possesses all the qualities that go to make up
the great poet and at the same time the true German, the other, Theodor
Körner, has only enthusiasm for those qualities; but while Kleist
refuses to forget his own dignity in the interests of the times, and
finally strives to unite these interests with the highest mission of
art, Körner prefers to throw himself submissively into the vortex. For
this reason Kleist was maligned, ignored, and misjudged during his
lifetime, scorned at his death, and forgotten by immediate posterity,
whereas Körner was enthusiastically received and applauded, and when he
descended into his early grave, was mourned by the whole world. I would
gladly pass by his grave in silence, and leave him the laurels which he
purchased with his death; but I see no reason why he should swell the
number of our fathers' sins, and should neglect an act of justice, which
will, in any case, be performed some day by our grandchildren, and then
perhaps with a smile of pity for us.
Before we go farther it will be necessary to establish, so far as
possible, certain conceptions of art in general, and of the branches of
art cultivated by Körner and Kleist. I purposely say "so far as
possible;" for it would not be easy to expound a complete conception of
art before one set forth a complete conception of the human soul, of
which art might be called the most comprehensive phenomenon. We must
therefore infer this conception from the effects of art, so far as they
appear; but as these effects are infinite the conception may be
something very different from a barrier erected for the purpose of a
mere provisional designation, which ceases to exist the moment that it
pleases genius to overstep it. We find this possibility confirmed when
we examine how the conception in question has changed in German
literature alone, during the various epochs of its relatively short
history.
In the day of Gessner, Bodmer, and the like, who saw a muse in every
sheep and every herdsman, the imitation of nature was the gospel in
which every one believed. This, at best, meant nothing at all, and
closely analyzed, it is half nonsensical, in so far as this definition
presupposes art to be something that exists outside the domain of
nature. But man belongs within the domain of nature; he must be
included within this domain, and at most can complete or enlarge it;
and for this reason alone art can never imitate a whole of which it is
a part.
Hereupon men went a step farther, and defined art as "imitation of the
beautiful." We should have less cause to object to this definition if
the question on which everything depends in this case had not been left
unanswered; if they had not left undecided what it was they meant by
"imitation of the beautiful." They were indeed very soon ready with an
explanation, calling that "beautiful" which reveals an agreeable unity
in variety. Unfortunately they could not prevail upon themselves to
grant the proposition: "All is beautiful or nothing," which follows
immediately from the first; for they had overlooked the fact that the
word "agreeable" was superfluous, since every unity, because it gives a
clear impression and permits us to look into the unviolated order of
nature, appeals to us "agreeably"--I must use this word because it
expresses _the least badly_ the feeling which I would describe. Now,
however, in spite of all reluctance, they had to acknowledge that in the
domain of art there were many phenomena in which no such narrow-minded
imitation of the beautiful, as was demanded, could be shown to exist,
but which nevertheless could not be denied recognition. It was truly
remarkable how they tried to find an escape from this dilemma. They
admitted that ugliness could sometimes form an ingredient in a work of
art, by which means it became possible for the artist to arouse certain
mixed sensations in default of purely agreeable sensations. Mark well,
"in default of purely agreeable sensations!" As though the incapacity or
the momentary embarrassment of the artist, and the inadequacy of a
chosen subject, could do away with a law of art once recognized as
supreme. It is just as though the political law-giver should modify the
prohibition of stealing by the clause: "if, namely, thou canst earn
something in an honest manner." Striking it is, that even Lessing should
cling to such definitions and employ all his ingenuity to prove their
tenableness. It goes to show that the taste of a nation never--as may
very well be imagined--precedes the genius, but always limps along
behind him. Still more striking it is that they could feel the
inadequacy of the accepted definition, that they could come so near to
the real remedy, and yet could overlook it. It seems to me, namely, that
everything could have been adjusted, if they had made the same demands
on the artist's work that they made on the subject chosen by him. This
is so plain that it needs no demonstration.
If I should be asked to state my conception of art--it is understood
that here, as elsewhere, that only the art of poetry is in question--I
would base it on the unconditional freedom of the artist, and say: Art
should seize upon life in all its various forms, and represent it. It is
obvious that this cannot be accomplished by mere copying. The artist
must afford life something more than a morgue, where it is prepared for
burial. We wish to see the point from which life starts and the one
where it loses itself, as a single wave, in the great sea of infinite,
effect. That this effect is a twofold one, and that it can turn inward
as well as outward, is of course self-evident. For the rest--be it said
incidentally--here is the point from which a parallel can be drawn
between the phenomena of real life and those of life embodied in art.
I will now review the separate branches of art at which Körner and
Kleist have tried their hand. We find that they are lyric poetry, drama,
and narrative. All three have to do with the representation of life, and
if a division can be made it can only be based upon the various ways in
which life is wont to manifest itself. Life manifests itself either as a
reaction upon outward impressions, or lacking these, directly from
within. When it works directly from within, we usually designate the
form under which it appears as feeling. Feeling is the element of lyric
poetry; the art of limiting and representing it makes the lyric poet.
Let no one object that there are feelings enough which arise in
consequence of outward impressions, and that these too have been
expressed sufficiently often by the poets; I am very much inclined to
distinguish between the results of these impressions and the feelings
which well up from the depths of the soul in consecrated moments; and in
any case, these alone are a worthy subject for the lyric poet; for only
in them does the whole man actually live, they only are the product of
his whole being. I hate examples because they are either make-shifts or
will-o'-the-wisps, but here I must add that in Uhland's song, "A short
while hence I dreamed," I find such a feeling expressed.
The drama represents the thought which seeks to become a deed through
action or suffering. The narrative is really not a pure form, but a
combination of the lyric and dramatic elements,--a combination which
differs from the drama in that it develops the outer life from the
inner, whereas in the drama the inner proceeds from the outer.
Let us now examine what Theodor Körner and Heinrich von Kleist have
accomplished, in the first place, as lyric poets. Kleist (unhappily) has
left us very little in this field, Körner (again unhappily) all the
more. Körner's war-songs have, in this stage of our investigation, the
precedence over his other lyric productions, for two reasons: in the
first place, they found the largest public and earned for their author,
beside the royalties, the title of a German Tyrtaeus; and in the second
place, Theodor Körner's soul was most ardently engrossed with the
supposed and the real sufferings of his time, with the dignity and the
misfortune of his people, and with the necessity and sacredness of the
war. Let no one scent any bombast in all this, but, on the contrary, let
him admire my cleverness in condensing into three lines, everything that
Theodor Körner expressed in a whole volume, in _Lyre and Sword_! If,
therefore, his war-songs are bad, we shall be justified in concluding
that we need expect still less from his other poems, in which he is
concerned with sentiments which certainly affected him more slightly
than those which placed the sword in his hand. I turn over the index of
his war-songs, and find _Call to the German Nation, Before the Battle,
Germany_,--in short, titles that all point to material very often
handled, and therefore grown trivial. I do not, indeed, immediately
conclude therefrom that the poems are trivial, but I have the right to
conclude that the man who attempts such worn out subjects must be either
a very great or a very small poet. May I be permitted to analyze one of
these poems? I will choose, as the most significant, the well known
_Battle Song of the Confederation_. In this poem the poet has striven
to collect everything that could serve to make the soldiers who were to
take part in the battle of Danneberg more indifferent to the bullets. I
should not, however, have liked to advise the commanding general
actually to use it for this purpose. Mr. Körner quite forgets with what
sort of people he is dealing when, in the third strophe, he expects the
soldiers to let themselves be slaughtered for German art and German
song. This is more than a joke, for I have the right to demand that a
_Battle-Song_ of the Confederation shall be comprehensible and
intelligible to all who are to take part in the battle; and art and song
are, in any case, not important enough to be named together with the
causes that made the fighting of a battle necessary, together with the
enslavement of a people; quite apart from the fact that both, art and
song, belong to those national treasures which are most secure in the
time of hostile invasion. But in order not to give my logic a bad
reputation, I will begin at the beginning. Mr. Körner not only began
there but even ended there--this in parenthesis. The first strophe aims
to give the picture of a battle; but it is fortunate that we already
know, from the superscription, with what battle we are concerned; we
should scarcely find it out from this first strophe, which finishes, but
does not complete the picture. In the second strophe we learn rather
more; we learn that the beloved German oak is broken, that the
language--thank God, not the women--has been violated, and we find it
quite natural that revenge should blaze up at last, even though we
cannot escape a slight feeling of surprise that dishonor, shame and such
like, already lay _behind_ those heroes, and therefore had been endured.
We have already tasted of the sweets of the third strophe; in spite of
this, we see there is a great deal still remaining in this strophe, a
happy hope, a golden future, a whole heaven, etc., etc.--it must be the
fault of my eyes that, notwithstanding, I can see nothing at all in it.
In the fourth strophe courage comes along on regular seven league boots,
and I wish the critic had as much reason to be satisfied with its
contents, as had the Fatherland, to which a splendid vow is sworn
therein. The fifth strophe contains a real human sentiment; it might
exclaim with Falstaff, "Heaven send me better company!" In the sixth
strophe we learn that the poet was not blustering in the fourth strophe,
but that the fighting is really going to begin: at the same time it
contains the principal beauty of the song, namely the end. Now, I ask,
apart from the school-boyish, crude composition of the poem, which
throws suspicion merely on the taste, not precisely on the power, of a
poet--where is even the faintest tinge of poetry? And the muse was a
battle!
We have finished, then, with the poetic part of this poem; it now
remains to investigate in how far it is a real German product, that is
to say, such an one as could have been produced only on German soil by a
German. Every one will find that it might very easily have been written
by some person from the Sultan's seraglio, and used by any people who
found themselves in a like situation. Even the French, although it is
directed against them, could gain inspiration from it, if their good
taste did not preserve them from doing so. Let no one throw the German
oaks (strophe four) in my way; I must stumble along over whole oak
trees.
Let us now compare with Körner's _Battle-Song of the Confederation_,
Kleist's poem _To Germany_, as I believe it is called. I am glad that I
am not able to characterize the separate strophes of _this_ poem; they
are, what the divisions of a poem should be, nothing, when they are
detached from the whole. "Germans," exclaims the poet--"Your forests
have long been cleared, serpents and foxes ye have destroyed, only the
Frenchman I still see slinking!" This is a folk song; the vast, the
great, is associated with the simplest and most familiar objects, and
the figures chosen are not only beautiful, but at the same time
inevitable.
I will pass on to consider the achievements of Körner and Heinrich von
Kleist in the field of the drama. In this both have been very active,
but in order to avoid boredom for a time at least, I shall begin with
the analysis of a piece by Kleist, choosing first a tragedy, his _Prince
of Homburg_ which, to be sure, is entitled simply "a drama" by its
author. I do not know whether he did this because of the circumstances
that the Prince, as the hero of the piece, happily escapes with his
life, or, what is more likely, in order to humor the public, who think
the tragic can only exist where there are rivers of blood; neither will
I censure it, but only call attention to the fact that in my opinion
that which makes a tragedy lies only in the _struggle_ of the
individual, never in the outcome of this struggle. The outcome is in the
hands of the gods, says an old proverb, well then, acts of the gods--as
events may very well be called which are the effects of fate--can never
be anything else for the dramatic poet than what curtain and wings are
for the stage; they limit without completing. I defined drama, above, as
a representation of the thought which seeks to become a deed through
action or suffering. What this thought may be like--upon that very
little depends; but that it really should be there, that it should fill
the entire man, so much, of a surety, is necessary. What is, then, the
thought that, in the play under discussion, fills the soul of the Prince
o£ Homburg, the chief hero? We find it expressed in scene two of the
second act, in the place where the Prince says to Kottwitz, who reminds
him, the man thirsting for deeds, of the Elector's orders:
"Orders? Eh, Kottwitz, do you ride so slow?
Have you not heard the orders of your heart?"
The thought is this: strength stands above the law, and courage
recognizes no other barrier but itself. Kleist, in the fifth scene of
the first act, with which the fifth scene of the fifth act corresponds,
_appears_ to have taken pains to set up as the lever of the piece, not
so much this thought as rather a mere accident, namely the inattention
of the Prince when the plan of battle was being dictated, but it is
really only in appearance. For though he makes Hohenzollern, properly
enough, lay great stress on this circumstance, that signifies little;
only if the Prince himself--a thing which never happens--had laid stress
upon it, could it have had an influence on the economy of the piece. Let
us proceed to a more detailed development of the tragedy.
The historical part of it is based on the famous battle which the
Elector Frederick William of Brandenburg fought against the Swedes at
Fehrbellin. The story of the play is briefly as follows: The Prince of
Homburg, to whom has been confided the commandment of the cavalry of the
Mark of Brandenburg, arbitrarily disobeys the orders given him, and
advances too soon. He wins the battle, but is placed on trial before a
court martial by Frederick William and condemned to death for
insubordination.
And truly--I should add, if I did not know that poetic enthusiasm is
very ridiculous in a criticism--the action is brought before us with
such power that this tragedy may very well be compared to a German oak,
on which every branch flourishes luxuriantly, and whose summit is nearer
to heaven than to earth. The whole play contains nothing but characters,
not a single puppet--which can seldom be said of the work of even the
greatest master--and I regret that I can develop in detail only the
character of the Prince of Homburg, and, for the others, can merely
touch upon those sides which come into contact with him.
I am not inclined, like Zimmermann, to see in the first scene simply an
endeavor on the part of the poet to provide a mystic background for his
picture. I do not see why a young man, who happens to be afflicted with
the sleep-walking malady, should not walk in his sleep even on the night
before a battle, and why a young hero who has long been nursing the most
high-flown thoughts concerning glory and immortality, should not, on
such a night, make himself an oak-wreath. In the day time, to be sure,
an occupation of that sort would not look very well, but night is the
realm of phantasy and the wreath is the emblem of glory. Then, too, I
find that this first scene--the naturalness of which I hope I have
proved--is of deep significance for the play. In order to explain
psychologically the Prince's headstrong disobedience of the Elector's
express order, a great excitement of mind was needed. Now I really do
not know where Kleist could better have derived this than precisely from
a half-waking dream, in which the Prince supposedly received in advance
all that constituted the highest goal of his hopes, and which should
have been the most valued fruit of his endeavors--the making of the
wreath points to this, and the fourth scene of the first act confirms
it. The absent-mindedness which this dream causes in the Prince in the
fifth scene, and particularly the monologue with which the first act
closes, prove that I am not mistaken in my opinion concerning the
significance which the poet placed upon the scene in question.
In the second act we must first notice the second scene. In this the
real action begins and ends. That which precedes and that which follows
are connected with it like cause and effect. The Prince wrests the
victory from the enemy, and earns for himself death. Then the eighth
scene of this act is of the greatest importance; in it the Prince
declares his love to Princess Nathalie of Orange. I am minded to count
this scene among the most important dramatic achievements ever
accomplished by the greatest poets of Germany. Let us picture the
exposition that introduces it. A rumor has been spread abroad that the
Elector has fallen in the battle. The Electress, with her ladies, is a
prey to the greatest anxiety. Homburg arrives and confirms the rumor.
Nathalie says:[6]
"Who now will lead us in this terrible war
And keep these Swedes in subjugation?--
THE PRINCE of HOMBURG (_taking her hand_).
I, lady, take upon myself your cause!
The Elector hoped, before the year turned tide,
To see the Marches free. So be it! I
Executor will be on that last will.
NATHALIE.
My cousin, dearest cousin!
PRINCE.
Nathalie!
What holds the future now in store for you?
NATHALIE.
Oh, I am orphaned now a second time.
PRINCE.
Oh, friend, sweet friend, were this dark hour not given
To grief, to be its own, thus would I speak:
Oh, twine your branches here about this breast!
NATHALIE.
My dear, good cousin!
PRINCE.
Will you, will you?"
I believe that during this love-scene, lovers will not be the only ones
to find amusement, though this is the case as a rule. The tenth scene of
this act is the turning point of the play. The Prince hastens to the
Elector with the conquered flags, rejoicing in the victory and in the
certitude that the latter still lives. The Elector commands that his
sword be taken from him and orders a court martial to be convoked. Let
us not overlook what this scene is in itself, through the contrasts
presented. It is moreover the chief argument for the correctness of the
opinion I have already expressed concerning the idea of the play. For
the Prince is far from being sensible of the fault committed, and when
Hohenzollern says to him,
"The ordinance demands obedience," he replies bitterly: "So--so,
so, so!"
And later:
"My cousin Frederick hopes to play the Brutus--
By God, in me he shall not find a son
Who shall revere him 'neath the hangman's axe!" etc.
He cannot as yet be just to the Elector, because he is still too
indulgent to himself.
In the first scene of the third act he has come a step nearer the truth.
He calls himself a plant which has burst into bloom too swiftly and
opulently. But he still says,
"Come, was it such a capital offense,
Two little seconds ere the order said,
To have laid low the stoutness of the Swede?"
The dignity of the code of war, upon which the Elector's mode of action
is based, still lies too remote from his comprehension; therefore he is
persuaded that:
"Ere, at a kerchief's fall, he yields this heart,
That loves him truly, to the muskets' fire,
Ere that, I say, he'll lay his own breast bare
And spill his own blood, drop by drop, in dust."
And when Hohenzollern lets fall a word about the mission of the Swedish
ambassador to ask for the hand of the Princess of Orange, the Prince is
even inclined to think _unworthily_ of the Elector. He is capable of
believing that the Elector will let him die because the Princess has be
trothed herself to him. This is genuinely psychological, and here, where
Homburg's character begins to appear in a dubious light, is actually the
real touch-stone of it. That he loves and admires the Elector, he has
already proved, that he has taken great trouble to find a reason for the
latter's conduct that is not unworthy of him, is self-evident; for the
human heart knows no greater pain than to have given admiration where it
should have bestowed contempt. When, therefore, the Prince nevertheless
believes that his betrothal to Nathalie has provoked the Elector's
severity, he shows thereby that he has absolutely no comprehension of
the dignity and necessity of the code of war, that consequently his
violation of the ordinance could not have been caused by boyish
petulancy, but by a grievous error, which, as an error, could be
forgiven in a man. But for that very reason it is not inconsistent with
his heroic character for him to exclaim "Oh, friend! Then help me! Save
me! I am lost!" For a man shows himself as such when he gives up for
lost a possession which is lost, not when he, like a madman, renounces
everything for the sake of making fine phrases: and the Prince only does
his duty when he tries in whatever way he can, to rescue his life from
the despotic will of an individual. In the fifth scene, where he
implores the Electress to intercede for him, he says:
"You would not speak thus, mother mine, if death
Had ever terribly encompassed you
As it doth me. With potencies of heaven,
You and my lady, these who serve you, all
The world that rings me round, seem blest to save
The very stable-boy, the meanest, least,
That tends your horses, pleading I could hang
About his neck crying: Oh, save me, thou!"
Even that is, in my opinion, fine and human, for it is the first
ebullition of emotion; and when is the feeling of painful loss ever
separated from the lively desire to preserve the endangered possession?
I do not make this statement because I believe I am saying something
new, but because I think it is something old which has not been
sufficiently taken to heart. For the rest, this fifth scene is very
beautiful and produces a deep effect. Who does not feel annihilated
with the Prince when he exclaims:
"Since I beheld my grave, life, life, I want,
And do not ask if it be kept with honor."
And farther on,
"And tell him this, forget it not, that I
Desire Nathalie no more, for her
All tenderness within my heart is quenched."
And how wonderful, how splendid does Nathalie appear in her calm
nobility! How absolutely true to nature it is that her strength first
begins gently and noiselessly to unfold its wings when the man, whom she
had looked upon as her ideal, from whom she had expected all things, has
succumbed. And how genuinely womanly are the words with which she
attempts to raise him up once more:
"Return, young hero, to your prison walls,
And, on your passage, imperturbably
Regard once more the grave they dug for you.
It is not gloomier, nor more wide at all
Than those the battle showed a thousand times!"
But poetic beauty is like the fragrance of flowers--it cannot be
described, but only perceived.
Nathalie's character is rounded off in the first scene of the fourth act
when she begs the Elector to liberate Homburg. She could have borne the
death of the Prince, but this timorous misrepresentation of himself she
cannot bear:
"I never guessed a man could sink so low
Whom history applauded as her hero.
For look--I am a woman and I shrink
From the mere worm that draws too near my foot;
But so undone, so void of all control,
So unheroic quite, though lion-like
Death fiercely came, he should not find me thus!
Oh, what is human greatness, human fame!"
It is then that the Elector decides to make the Prince himself the judge
of his offense, and writes him the following letter:
"My Prince of Homburg, when I made you prisoner
Because of your too premature attack,
I thought that I was doing what was right--
No more; and reckoned on your acquiescence.
If you believe that I have been unjust,
Tell me I beg you in a word or two,
And forthwith I will send you back your sword."
He gives this letter to Nathalie for her to deliver to the Prince. I
must set down the words with which she receives the letter:
"I do not know and do not seek to know
What woke your favor, liege, so suddenly.
But truly this, I feel this in my heart,
You would not make ignoble sport of me.
The letter hold whate'er it may--I trust
That it hold pardon--and I thank you for it!"
Many another writer would have believed it was not enough for Nathalie
to prove herself a heroine, but that she must stride onward with seven
league boots and become an Amazon as well. Kleist, however, had looked
deeply into feminine nature, he knew that woman's greatness only blooms
above the abyss, and that she loses her wings the moment that earth
again offers her a spot where she can safely and firmly tread. Nathalie
sighs only once: "Oh what is human greatness, human fame!" But she
rejoices when she has the saving letter of the Elector in her
possession, and, without troubling herself further about its contents,
she hastens, enraptured, to the Prince of Homburg.
The Prince receives the letter. He reads it aloud while Nathalie
listens. She grows pale; for she feels what a man must do who is called
upon to be his own judge. Nevertheless she urges the Prince to write the
words which the Elector requires; she snatches the letter from the
Prince's hand; when he hesitates, she reminds him of the open grave he
has already seen. But neither is the Prince any longer in doubt
concerning the significance of the moment, concerning the Elector,
concerning his own guilt. He says,
"I will not face the man who faces me
So nobly, with a knave's ignoble front!
Guilt, heavy guilt, upon my conscience weighs,
I fully do confess--"
He writes this to the Elector, and Nathalie embraces him exclaiming:
"And though twelve bullets made
You dust this instant, I could not resist
Caroling, sobbing, crying: 'Thus you please me!'"
I would gladly follow the great poet through the fifth act also, but it
is not indispensable for the analysis of the play, as the _dénouement_
is easy to foresee--namely that the Prince, after already suffering one
death through the relinquishment of that idea which has been the guiding
principle of his life hitherto, is spared a second death. Finally I must
add that I have not chosen the _Prince of Homburg_ as the subject of my
criticism because this tragedy is the most successful of all Kleist's
plays, but merely because it offers the best opportunity for drawing a
comparison between the dramatic achievements of Kleist and those of
Körner. And now, courage. We must start in with Körner and we will
choose that one of his products which is universally declared the
greatest, his _Zriny_.
In discussing the _Prince of Homburg_ I could limit myself to a general
outline, as it is not possible that any one who reads the play could
ever have the least doubt whether the characters are correctly drawn. We
have not such an easy task with Körner's _Zriny_, but rather must take
the opposite way. In order not to overpass the limits of this essay,
however, we will pay less attention to the play as a totality, which,
indeed, can occupy our attention only if the first investigation prove
favorable to the author.
The idea which kindles Zriny's enthusiasm is unconditional obedience to
Emperor and Fatherland. It must be admitted that it is an idea which may
have arisen in many a human breast in the year 1566, and which certainly
animated the heroic Zriny. It is not sufficient, however, for the
dramatic poet to give utterance to what fills the soul of his hero, for
that falls to the lot of history to perform. While the historian looks
upon every individual as a bomb, whose course and effect he must
calculate, but with whose origin he is but slightly concerned, it is the
affair of the dramatic poet--who, if he recognizes his high mission,
strives to complete history--to show how the character whom he has
chosen as a subject for treatment has become what he is. We find this,
for example, in Shakespeare, to go back to the Bible of the playwright.
Every passion which he describes we see as roots and tree at one and the
same time. Theodor Körner simplified the matter, he only shows us the
flame; whence it comes he leaves in doubt, and therefore has himself to
thank if we are undecided whether his heroes are pursuing
will-o'-the-wisps, or--to use his favorite metaphor--stars. I need not
call attention to the fact that this way is by far the easier.
The plot of this play is sufficiently well known. I will
therefore turn immediately to a closer examination of the
several characters. Honor to whom honor is due; let Sultan
Soliman advance. I will not pause at the first scene in
which he appears, although even there he reveals damnable
weaknesses. After all a Turk may be forgiven for losing
his temper because his physician-in-ordinary does not know
how long he will live. In the second scene Körner has tried
to outline the hero who demands Vienna for his funeral
torch. He has not succeeded as well as he might.
"Karl, Karl!"--cries Soliman in his beard--"If only thou
Thy Europe now would lie here at my feet"
[Illustration: THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE HUNS AND THE NIBELUNGS _From the
Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_]
Every other hero would have considered that in which Soliman beheld the
curse of his life to be the greatest favor fortune could have shown him.
I do not expect much from the hound--this parable is very well suited to
the Turks--who only fights with little yelping dogs. How far Mr. Körner
has succeeded in spreading the oriental coloring over his picture is
shown very plainly in the fourth scene, where Soliman receives his
generals with the words:
"I greet you all, supporters of my throne,
Most welcome comrades of my victories,
I greet you all."
Seldom has the sun shone upon a politer Turk than this Soliman, who, to
be sure, afterward throws around not only his oaths but his dagger. That
it is no merit of Körner if we behold in his Soliman a hero and a Turk,
must be evident to every one; but let us now examine whether he has
succeeded any better in representing the commander-in-chief and the
tyrant. We find both in the third scene of the third act. Mehmed reports
to the Sultan that the assault has been repulsed.
"A curse upon thee!"
answers the latter; then he inquires who gave the order for the retreat;
Mehmed answers that he did; the Janizaries had been slaughtered by the
thousands, but in vain, the army was exhausted, and it had been
impossible to wrest the victory from the enemy; he intended, however, to
bombard the castle the next night and was persuaded that the walls must
give way. Soliman flies into a passion:
"But I from them will wrest it (the victory namely), must
wrest it!"
In very truth an excellent commander-in-chief, who is not to be
persuaded by reasons such as Mehmed advanced, and who differs from a
child who is denied his will only in that he bellows where the child
screams. But--perhaps we have the tyrant before us where I thought I
perceived the nullity of the commander-in-chief. Let us read on:
ALI.
"Remember Malta!
SOLIMAN.
Death and Hell! Ali!
Remind me not of Malta, if thy head
Is dear to thee. More I endure from thee
Than does befit the great lord Soliman!"
Really the beginning promises well.
ALI.
"My life is in thy hands, my Emperor!
SOLIMAN.
Since thou dost know that, yet didst freely speak
Thy heart's thought to me, I'll forgive thee.
For I love truth which knows no fear of death.
In token then of my imperial grace,
Thy council shall prevail; I'll not attack!"
I think we do not need to tremble before a tyrant whose fury could be
appeased by Ali's paltry words. "My life is in thy hands, my Emperor!"
which must have been said to him often enough before. Let no one
reproach me if, henceforth, I keep silence on the subject of Soliman.
Offenses of this kind are not mere blunders, they are the sign of
complete incompetency on the part of the poet, and solely out of
curiosity, not because it is necessary to demonstrate my argument, I
shall continue to analyze Zriny, Helena, and the other marionettes.
Zriny is an abortive copy of Wallenstein; his originality consists in
doing _for_ the Emperor, what the latter does _against_ him. Juranitsch
is Max Piccolomini the second, but has the misfortune to stand as far
_below_ the first as other people who also happened to be seconds, as
for example, Frederick the Second, Joseph the Second, etc., stood
_above_ their namesakes. In general, _Zriny_ has made it clear to me
that Körner, had he lived, would, without any doubt, have become a
second Schiller, namely, by completely absorbing the first. The
plagiarisms which the noble young man has indulged in, in this tragedy,
as regards the disposition of the scenes as well as in whole individual
speeches and sentences, surpass all belief. I shall perhaps point out
some of these in the course of my investigation of the characters.
But before I investigate the claims to heroism of Körner's Zriny may I
be allowed to determine what are the qualities absolutely indispensable
for a hero. I will not place my demands very high, but circumspection
and firmness I may at least be allowed to require, besides mere courage.
Also a certain amount of modesty would not become him ill, perhaps we
may even demand this of the hero of a drama; for the dramatic poet must
not indeed in any sense idealize, but he should render only the
genuinely human, not the purely accidental, which, because accidental,
is rare. For an individual to be at the same time a hero and a braggart
is, however, quite accidental, and the result merely of a deficient or a
perverted education. If one wishes to find firmness in the fact that a
man knows in advance what he wants, that he forms his decision before he
is acquainted with the controlling circumstances, then certainly this
quality cannot be denied our Zriny.
"His loyalty no nobler guerdon asks
Than to seek death, a joyful sacrifice,
For his own folk and his undying faith."
But it seems to me that a desperate resolution is only justifiable when
it can no longer be avoided; whoever takes one before that, is cowardly
rather than brave; for he has not the strength to make the sacrifice at
the proper moment; therefore he tries, beforehand, to reason himself
into being courageous. When Zriny, however, speaks the words quoted, he
has already in his possession the letter of the Emperor, informing him
that he need hope for no relief; but he cannot know yet how long Soliman
will continue to assault Szigeth, and there is likewise no need to
inspire his companions with courage by these words, in which he boasts
of his own courage, for they were every one of them heroes. I fail,
therefore, to find in his braggadocio the firmness that is worthy of a
great man, and this is a fault which I may be permitted to charge to Mr.
Körner's account; for he intended it to form part of his Zriny's
character. The dear man has an even smaller share of circumspection:
read but the sixth scene of the second act where he ponders the
question, what he shall do with his wife and child. Truly, when he
decides to leave them in the fortress, so that the garrison shall not
lose courage, I cannot suppress the thought that the daughter has
already had an illegitimate child and the wife has been a heroine in the
wrong place; for if he had considered them worth a straw, he could not,
for such a reason, have exposed them to such a danger. And is that a
courageous garrison which is calm because it believes itself to be still
safe? And shall its eyes never be opened simply because it sees that the
danger is shared for a while by the wife and child of the
commander--for whom, as Zriny himself remarks, there are secret passages
which can be used in case of necessity. Mr. Zriny did not consider all
this; his circumspection, therefore, is surely not very great. Just one
sample of the noble simplicity and modesty of this hero:
"Thou knowest me, Maximilian,
I thank thee for thy high imperial trust,
Thou knowest Zriny, thou dost not mistake."
It is nauseating to continue, I have the impression at this moment that
I am trying to prove that a soap-bubble is really only a soap-bubble.
Just one word more about Helena. The tender child, who faints away at
the end of the first act when Juranitsch takes leave of her to go into
battle, has made such progress in bravery in the seventh scene of the
second act, that she exclaims:
"Yes, father, father, send us not from thee!"
and at the conclusion of the fourth (indeed it is time, for in the next
act the piece comes to an end) she even says:
"Yes, let us die! What care we for the sun!"
Spare your sympathy, reader or spectator; you must not think that you
have to do with men who care anything for their lives, and who therefore
are making a sacrifice--no indeed! They have nothing in common with such
a weakling as you.
I hope I shall not be accused of hastiness--I must hurry on to the end,
for there are just as many absurdities in _Zriny_ as there are
verses--if from all this I draw the conclusion that Theodor Körner had
not the slightest talent for the drama. I promised, a while ago, to
specify some plagiarisms from Schiller, but I may safely refer to the
whole book. Instead I will make a few more remarks on the death-scene of
Helena, scene six, act five.
This scene is not badly constructed. I will not, indeed, examine too
closely how far love made it justifiable for a girl to ask of her lover
to kill her. For once we will take Helena's word for it that under
similar circumstances she would have done the like had Juranitsch
demanded it, and then she, as well as the poet, is held excused. We will
only listen to what Juranitsch answers when she has made her wish clear
to him. He says:
"Thee, I must kill? Thee? no, I cannot kill thee!"
This would be human, but listen to what follows:
"--When the storm wind
O'erthrows the oak and rages 'mongst the pines,
It leaves unharmed the tender floweret,
Its thunders change to gentle whisp'ring zephyrs
And shall I wilder be than the wild storm?
Shall I destroy life's loveliest vernal wreath?
In cruelty the boisterous elements
Surpassing, shall I break this floweret
To touch which destiny's hand has yet not dared?"
I ask you is it possible to surpass such trivial nonsense?
I shall say no more concerning Körner's individual scenes. This is not
committing an injustice; for it is absolutely unimportant, so far as our
investigation is concerned, whether and in how far Körner had the
ability to construct a tragedy, since this faculty--as Goethe's example
shows us--has nothing to do with poetry in itself. There is no need for
us to draw the parallel between the _Prince of Homburg_ and _Zriny_; it
is quite evident. One reproach, however, which might be made by an
attentive reader, I must anticipate: namely, I might be asked why I have
subjected the two principal characters of Körner's tragedy to a regular
police examination, and, instead of accepting them in their totality,
have required them to render account in how far they were heroes,
commanders, tyrants, etc. But since they are, like all creations of mere
talent, nothing but arrows which are shot from a certain bow-string
toward a certain target, it follows that they can only be judged by the
deflections from their course. Herein--be it remarked incidentally--lies
the difference, often perceived but seldom explained, between the
characters portrayed by Schiller and those portrayed by Goethe.
Schiller's characters--to use a play on words which for once expresses
the truth--are beautiful because they are self-contained; Goethe's
characters because they are unrestrained. Schiller delineates the man
who is complete in his own strength, and, a man of iron, is tried by
circumstances; for this reason Schiller was great only in the historical
drama. Goethe delineates the endless creations of the moment, the
eternal modifications of the man caused by every step that he takes;
this is the token by which we may recognize genius, and it seems to me
that I have discovered it also in Heinrich von Kleist.
At this moment, when I would pass on to review the achievements of
Körner and Kleist in the field of comedy, I remember that I was not
sufficiently definite, above, when developing my conception of the
drama. I should have added that I cannot, strictly speaking, count
comedy as a form of drama, but must include it in the category of
dialogue narrative. If one recalls to mind the purpose of high-class
comedy--"to describe individual ages and classes," one must admit that I
am entitled to do so. I must remark in advance that neither Körner nor
Kleist has done anything for high-class comedy. But Kleist in his
_Broken Pitcher_ has drawn a comic character-picture which is so full of
life that it reminds us of Shakespeare, if of any one, while Körner in
his _Nightwatchman_ has drawn nothing but a funny caricature; with the
former the character shapes the situations, whereas with the latter the
situations shape the characters, if I may use this expression. I should
be giving myself a great deal of unnecessary trouble if I should engage
in a further analysis of the two comedies which I have mentioned, since
at all events I could only adduce sundry details, and such details in
this case prove absolutely nothing; for the only safe criterion of the
truly comic is that the picture as a whole, apart from what wit has done
for it, should arouse interest as an organic adaptation of nature. With
the rascally, lustful, country judge, Adam, in the _Broken Pitcher_,
this is certainly the case; one can safely take away from him the few
witty sallies which he indulges in: but what the nightwatchman Schwalbe
would become if one attempted the same procedure with him, I should not
like to decide; probably a clown, who has been deprived of his wooden
sword and cap and bells, and whose plain, honest features show that he
has only executed such droll antics for the sake of his bread and
butter. Schwalbe is merely ridiculous, but Adam is comic; the
difference, to define it more clearly, consists in this; every
caricature, because it diverges from laws which are eternal and
necessary, without standing in eternity as a peculiarly constructed
whole, has a tinge of incongruity, consequently of ridiculousness; while
only that caricature of nature can be comic of which the divergences are
self-consistent, which shows therefore that it is founded _in itself_.
The poet should take only the comic as a subject of treatment; for he
can never lay stress upon detached separate phenomena, if he cannot
prove the connection between them and the general whole, if they do not
constitute for him a window through which he looks down into Nature's
breast. It is easy to calculate, accordingly, how high Theodor Körner's
services to the comedy should be rated, provided he has actually
succeeded with his smaller things, _The Nightwatchman, The Green
Domino_, etc., in furnishing amusing farces. To accomplish this, nothing
was required but natural gaiety combined with a talent for
representation, and many men who were anything but poets have been
equipped with both.
It still remains for us to estimate what Körner and Kleist have achieved
in narrative. In this field Körner has produced such mere trifles that
it would be unjust for one to infer from them the least thing touching
his characteristics, as it probably never occurred to him to consider
himself a story-writer. Heinrich von Kleist's novels and stories, on the
other hand, belong among the best that German literature possesses.
Almost all the narratives of our writers, with the exception of a few
productions by Hoffmann and Tieck, suffer, if I may say so, from the
monstrousness of the subjects chosen, if they do indeed rise at all
above mediocrity. There is, however, no very deep psychological insight
needed in order to know how the whole man will be affected by an event
which sweeps down upon him like a stormwind, and very ordinary talents
may safely attempt tasks of this kind; just as, for example, every
painter with some technical skill can represent despair, fear, terror,
all those emotions, in short, which only permit of one expression;
whereas a Rembrandt is required, if a gipsy encampment is to be
pictured. Kleist, therefore, set himself other tasks; he knew and had
perhaps experienced in his own person, that life's process of
destruction is not a deluge but a shower, and that man is superior to
every great fatality, but subject to every pettiness. He proceeded from
this theory of life, when he delineated his _Michael Kohlhaas_, and I
maintain that in no German novel have the hideous depths of life been
projected upon the surface in such vivid fashion as in this, when the
theft by a squire, of two miserable horses, forms the first link in a
chain, which extends upward from the horse-dealer Kohlhaas to the ruler
of the Holy Roman Empire, and crushes a world by coiling round it. I
should like to analyze the novel more in detail, but am glad that the
limits of my essay, or rather the patience of my readers and auditors,
do not permit me to do so; for the members of the society will thus feel
prompted the sooner to acquaint and familiarize themselves with the
works of Heinrich von Kleist, if they have not already done so.
While hastening on to the close, I must, in accordance with the
introduction to this essay, call attention to the fact that Kleist, no
less than Körner, did not leave unheeded the claims that his country
properly made upon him in the portentous age in which he lived. In his
breast, as in that of his contemporaries, there glowed the flame of
enthusiasm for the honor and freedom of his people; and the oppression
that they endured, the internal and external slavery in which he beheld
them sunk, placed the pistol in his hand. I mention this because it has
been imputed to the poet Körner as a great merit that he was at the same
time a martyr. But Kleist could behold his country unworthily treated
without for that reason having unworthy thoughts of the man who was
treading it in the dust; he was great enough to be able to forgive
Napoleon the pain which he could not endure. He wrote no war-songs for
patriotic journeymen-tailors and high-minded counter-jumpers, but he
described Hermann's Battle and the battle of Fehrbellin; he called the
dead to life in order to arouse the living.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: The extracts from _The Prince of Homburg_ are taken from
Mr. Hagedorn's translation, Volume IV of THE GERMAN CLASSICS.]
LUDOLF WIENBARG'S "THE DRAMATISTS OF
THE PRESENT DAY"
A REVIEW (1839)
By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL
TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING
It is probable that no German who is able to appreciate the power of the
theatre, its silent influence on the people, and the consequent reaction
on the development of dramatic talent, has looked on indifferently at
the decay and complete ruin of our stage. The drama of a nation,
conceived in a worthy sense, represents that nation in its
self-consciousness; it is the burning-mirror which receives the separate
rays of the nation's innermost being while passing history is enticing
them out of the depths, which condenses and concentrates them and thus
kindles one century by means of another, and calls to life one glorious
deed by means of another. Tragedy represents a people in its relation to
the most important problems, its own as well as those of humanity in
general. Comedy paints it in its natural aberrations and abnormalities,
in its tendencies and endeavors which are directed earthward. Both must
subsist together, in common development, and on an equal elevation, if
we are to sum up the entire life of a nation, and give a true, eternal
picture of its will-power and capacity, of its vacillations and defeats.
This is the object which dramatic literature must always keep in view if
it would be effectual. To be sure, it is possible to conceive a still
higher species of drama, a tragedy which deals with man only in the
abstract, with man in himself, in his mysterious relation to God and
Nature; a comedy which lays nationalities themselves in their coffin and
gaudily dresses up the corpse. But it is still an open question whether,
under such a general domination of the idea of humanity as is
presupposed in that case, art can continue to exist at all; and at any
rate the time of this spirit-like domination is still far off, although
literature has witnessed the production of many dramatic poems which
seem to be designed for it.
It was many years ago that Tieck, on the subject of some wretched stuff
by Clauren, made the remark that we had at last reached the cellar and
must begin to ascend again. He was right in his remark, but, unhappily,
not in the hope with which he accompanied it. Very far from hastening to
leave the cellar, we have found it very comfortable down there; we have
made ourselves at home as well as we could, and are hideously satisfied!
Instead of the heroic spirit of our past ages, Jack Pudding now staggers
out of the wings in a torn jacket and shows us what kind of humor is
engendered by stupidity and brandy, when they have a rendezvous in the
head of a porter. If Schiller and Goethe dare once to come out of their
exile, then Nestroy's plum-pudding jinnee steps in their path, and they
of course modestly give way to him. The magic worlds of Shakespeare and
Calderon are already suffocated in their birth by the head-shaking of
the stage-manager who must keep his machinery together for Raimund's
bedlam hocus-pocus. Let us be just, however, let us remember that our
theatre, in spite of the great talents which have been dedicated to it,
was not what it should have been, even in its most brilliant period, and
this perhaps not quite through its own fault. We have never had a real
comedy; farces and absurdities take its place, and the critics
themselves, if we except Schlegel, never seemed to divine that tragedy
and comedy sprout from one and the same root, and that the former
absolutely cannot unfold in all its greatness if the latter remains
behind it. Confining the conception of comedy to the narrow etymological
meaning of its name, and inferring the intrinsic impossibility of the
poem from the accidental lack of a poet, we have imagined that we could
not have a comedy, when on the contrary we, precisely, should and ought
to have the very best, for reasons which cannot be developed thus in
passing. Our tragedy, on the other hand, wished to take the second step
before the first; it was not satisfied to start out to conquer the world
from our own territory; it preferred to wander about as a homeless
vagabond among all the peoples of the earth; and only when it had fully
persuaded itself that one cannot grow fat off begged bread did it return
in shame to its mother's breast. But, in Germany, in the meantime, the
enthusiasm which can seldom or never be re-awakened had evaporated, and
when _Wallenstein_ and _William Tell_, when _Hermann's Battle_ and the
_Prince of Homburg_ appeared, the fusion of the theatre with life, which
might perhaps have still been possible at the time of _Iphigenia_, was
no longer to be thought of. People had become used to looking upon the
stage as a source of amusement, and, as a rule, whatever sinks to the
level of a pastime is forever degraded. This was the cause of all the
evil; this was the reason why for a long time dogs and monkeys,
prestidigitators and modern athletes, celebrated their triumphs where
art should have proclaimed her most profound oracles, and where a people
should have found refreshment and elevation in quiet self-enjoyment, in
the mild exertion of all their powers, and in the sensation of arousing
their most secret sympathies and antipathies.
Wienbarg believes that a turning point has now been reached. To this
belief we owe his present literary contribution "which consists in
seeking critically to elucidate, in irregularly appearing pamphlets,
modern dramatic literature--especially book-dramas, which are rarely or
not at all seen on the stage. He is guided in his selection each time by
some dramatic-educational purpose for author and public, and continually
bears in mind an ideal centre of taste in the historic-poetic
consciousness of the nation." Such an undertaking, carried out by a man
who combines insight into the subject with the gift of presenting it as
the times require, deserves full recognition. Only that criticism which
knows how to make itself respected, can regain for the muse of the drama
her temple, the stage; this cannot be done by the muse herself, who,
every time she seeks to enter, is, with the politest of bows, shoved
into the corner again by her noble priesthood. Criticism must, in view
of the voluntary poverty of our repertory, draw attention to the
neglected riches of our dramatic literature; it must, by
characterization and analysis, act as mediator between the genius of the
poet and the talent of the actor, and it sins heavily against the
present when it turns its attention chiefly to the recent past which has
not yet been canonized. It can, as a general rule, never look back often
enough.
Wienbarg begins with Uhland. From the point of view he has chosen he was
quite right to leave unnoticed for the present Heinrich von Kleist's
magnificent _Hermann's Battle_ and _Prince of Homburg._ Of all our poets
Uhland has unearthed in the purest form the treasure of German
nationality: all the dreaming and longing, the hoping and enduring, but
also all the courage, all the strength which steps into the first rank
only in battle, not on the parade ground. One cannot blame Uhland
without blaming Germany at the same time, but one can praise Uhland
without at the same time praising Germany; for all poetry idealizes
because it frames as in a mirror, but on account of its limits it
compresses scattered details into a seemingly well ordered whole, which,
however, does not by any means exist so harmoniously in nature. Uhland's
poetry is a tear, forced from the flashing dark eye by the intolerable
pain which dilates the heart and finds no more room there; but how much
more beautiful is the pain than the wound, and how much more beautiful
is the tear than the pain! Such tears are suffocated deeds. If our
supineness and sentimentality only did not so often degrade holy water
to the base uses of ablution!
Wienbarg introduces his characterization of Uhland with some excellent
remarks. We cannot take enough to heart what he says on page 17: "Our
literature is a ghost, most of the species of poetry are spectres, and
faith or unbelief in them is called esthetics. Fresh young life is
sucked out, architectonic powers are misused in order to spiritualize
and propagate lifeless forms and satisfy the vanity of literature by
means of so-called works of art." If philosophy is destroyed by
systematizing how much more so is poetry, which can exist only so long
as it is free. The instinct to make an end of everything, and wilfully
and arbitrarily to pen up what is not confined to time and space, is the
ugliest trait in human nature. Life, in whatever phase it may be, always
has a form, though sometimes one not to be seized with hands; it is
always in fermentation, never in putrefaction; but its form is lost when
we try to bring it into harmony with the tyrannical generalities which
are bequeathed from grandfather to grandchild; then it congeals, and the
stream that might have afforded us the most delicious bath can, at the
most, be transformed into a sledge-road. Protect yourself against the
sea but do not strive to hamper and dam up its movement; if this ever
succeeded, the sea would become a swamp, and all of you--not only the
sailors--would die a miserable death. To begin with, it is a misfortune
that human society requires the form of the State, which cannot be
traced back to any primitive foundation; for the individual tendencies
and developments that are most full of genius are thus nipped in the
bud, and it is an open question whether those that remain, which to be
sure are better protected against wind and weather inside the ramparts
and walls than elsewhere, can, even when yielding their most abundant
profits, make compensation for those that are held back and crushed.
Will you go even further than necessity forces you; will you compel the
spirit, even in its most peculiar sphere, to accept a constitution under
the lamblike innocent name of esthetics? Of what advantage will it be to
you? You can then, to be sure, lawfully scold and punish; today you can
lock up a sentiment in the guardhouse for drunkenness: tomorrow you can
drag off a thought to imprisonment for offense against your sovereign
majesty; and the day after you can send a phantasy to the mad house on
account of its all too bold flight. Life is its own law and its own
rule, but you never want to adore the god until after you have crucified
him. As long as the tree is green you cut off its branches, and out of
the dried hewn-down one you make, not an axle for your mill-wheel, but
an idol.
What Wienbarg says of Uhland, the ballad-writer, is very pretty, but it
was refuted before it was even written. Uhland, the ballad-writer, is
not the dramatic poet, "broken into a thousand pieces;" the poems
appeared in 1815, the first drama in 1818. I would not advance this
superficial argument if it were not connected with an essential one. All
these full, flowing songs and romances were finished before the nobly
calm power that called them into being concentrated itself for the
creation of a dramatic work; and in truth they do not bear on their
forehead the red fever spot of aspiration groping in the dark, which
does not find what it seeks and therefore clasps in its arms the object
over which it stumbles; they breathe that smiling, lovely, self-absorbed
contentment, without which there may be intoxication, but no joy, no
life. It is true that through the songs as well as through the ballads,
the dramatic genius which was later to produce _Duke Ernest_ and _Louis
the Bavarian_ already treads softly like a sleep-walker; this it is
which gives them the firm form, the deeper meaning which is so
scandalously lacking in those good people who now and then innocently
versify a legend or some trifling emotion. But the dramatic element is,
strange as this assertion may sound, just as much an essential in
poetry--one without which poetry would crumble away into dust--as the
lyrical; from the former, poetry receives its body; from the latter, its
soul, and both are mutually dependent upon one another. Is not suffering
itself, only action turned inward!
On page twenty-one we read: "Do you know what it is that I love in
Uhland's imperfect dramas? It is the pure, vital, German-dramatic
poetry, which, piercing the tawdry veneer of culture and the
prevailingly wretched appearances of our life, strikes fire from the
bed-rock of spiritual life itself, and with its divining rod points to
the golden veins in the foundations of the national character.
German-dramatic! that is the right word! and this is saying a great
deal, for German and dramatic are contradictory terms. Just because
Uhland is so German-dramatic he might give our theatre the national
consecration which it lacks, and which alone can assure it intrinsic
worth and dignity, efficacy and stability. Goethe's _Goetz_ is not
adapted to the stage, and it will be difficult for the scissors to make
it so. Schiller's _Wallenstein_, in spite of its extensiveness, is only
a character picture; the Thirty Years' War merely peeps through shyly
now and again when the Duke's eloquence fails him, and when Max and
Thekla take a rest from their love-making. With all due respect for the
great dead, from whose laurel tree I do not intend to pluck a single
leaf, be it said that the piece has something ridiculous about it when
it is played; it is a thunderstorm during which two turtle-doves are
billing and cooing. There is some difference in _William Tell_, Bertha
and Rudenz are more modest and more sparing with their sighs, tears, and
premonitions. But the depicted situation is accidental, and under
similar circumstances is repeated everywhere, therefore one cannot judge
the Germanic nature by it--even if we include Switzerland as a
representative of this nature--any more than one can judge of a man by
the portrait which has been made of him during his illness. Neither am I
able to find the spectacle of the strength that breaks external fetters
so edifying as many others do: Why did it allow itself to be enchained?
Kleist's _Hermann's Battle_ and his _Prince of Homburg_ carry us, the
one too far back and the other too far forward. Uhland chose historic
events better than Kleist, he treated them more worthily and more nobly
than Schiller. For this reason, if for no other, he stands in the
foreground of this discussion."
In the same place the question is raised: What is the conception of
religion or fate from which our tragic drama has emanated? Wienbarg
skips over the question, or at least takes the answers to it too
lightly. Nevertheless here is the root of the whole tree. Human nature
and human destiny, these are the two riddles that the drama strives to
solve. The difference between the drama of the ancients and the drama of
the moderns lies in this: the ancients sought to illumine the labyrinths
of fate by means of the torch of poetry; we moderns try to refer human
nature, in whatever form or contortion it presents itself before us, to
certain eternal and changeless principles, as to an immovable
foundation. What to us is the means, was to them the end, and _vice
versa._
With the ancients the suffering results from the action; their tragedy
was really a triumph of instinct. The first bold lightning flash of
half-awakened consciousness illuminated the empty Olympus, and because
man found the halls of the gods deserted, he sought in his own breast a
centre for the circle of his existence. But when, revolving around
himself and thereby denying the pole of the world, he stood, in his
stubborn isolation, in the way of the great whole, the invisible
fly-wheel which drives the universe seized him with tremendous power and
flung him mockingly into an abyss. He felt that he had sinned, and
did not know in what way. He found himself justified in his earthly
relations and yet could not shake off the oppressive nightmare of a
secret monstrous guilt. Then he shudderingly divined that sin can go
further than knowledge, that in things and in events, as well as in
human thought and feeling, there lies a mysterious final something,
which, of whatever nature it may be and whatever its effect, must be
regarded as holy. Let us remember Oedipus and the way in which in this
drama one riddle is always solved by another riddle.
In the modern drama, on the contrary, the suffering as a rule first
begets action. The hero gets into the whirlpool, he does not himself
know how, but when near destruction he shows himself to be a brave,
fearless swimmer. This comes from the attempt, not so much to reconcile,
as to compare the idea of Freedom with the idea of Necessity. Modern
tragedy has, therefore, when placed beside the ancient, a sickly hue,
which is still further intensified by the circumstance that its point of
departure is the individual. I should like to have time to indicate all
the consequences of these opposite conceptions.
If I should be asked to express in brief the fundamental idea of modern
tragedy I should find it in the harsh fetters that bind the highest
nobility of human nature, in suffering and death, and in the resistance
of the world--occasioned thereby, nay presupposed as a necessity--which
the world offers to all greatness as it strives for self-realization.
Wienbarg, after his general preliminary remarks, proceeds to make an
analysis of Uhland's drama, _Louis the Bavarian._ It is excellent and
accomplishes everything that it should accomplish, by combining the
characterization of the poet with the characterization of the German
drama in its totality, of which totality the individual drama is an
organic part. Of course every reader will wish that Wienbarg had
rendered the tragedy, _Duke Ernest_, the same friendly service, of which
Uhland's dramas, in their unostentatious simplicity, stand so much in
need, if they are ever to receive the appreciation which they deserve.
Were it fitting to prolong the criticism of a criticism to such an
extent, I should myself attempt to elucidate this most German of
tragedies in all its ramifications; perhaps this will be done in another
place. We are rich and consider ourselves poor; we have the diamonds,
and there shall not be wanting people who know how to cut them. May the
second part of Wienbarg's treatise very soon appear! Many a one is now
pushing forward the hand on the horologe of time and hastening nothing
thereby but the hour of his own execution. Wienbarg is not one of these.
REVIEW OF HEINRICH VON KLEIST'S PLAY
THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG, OR THE BATTLE OF
FEHRBELLIN (1850)
By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL
TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING