Chapter IX: Introduction: To the Propylæa (3)

Men do not give vent to their ill humor in good society; and he must be in a very bad humor, who at this present moment, when almost everybody writes well, denies that Germany has writers of the first order. One does not need to go far to find an agreeable novel, a clever sketch, a clearly written essay on this or that subject. What proof do not our critical papers, journals, and compends furnish of a uniformly good style? The Germans show a more and more thorough mastery of facts, and the arrangement of the material steadily gains in clearness. A dignified philosophy, in spite of all the opposition of wavering opinions, makes them more and more acquainted with their intellectual powers, and facilitates the use of them. The numerous examples of style, the preliminary labors and endeavors of so many men, enable a young man now sooner to present with clearness and grace and in an appropriate manner what he has received from without and developed within himself. Thus a healthy and fair-minded German sees the writers of his nation at a fair stage of development, and is convinced that the public, too, will not let itself be misled by an ill-humored criticaster. Such a one ought to be barred from society, from which every one should be excluded whose destructive work might only make productive writers disheartened, the sympathetic public listless, and the onlookers distrustful and indifferent.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Reply to a critic who complained of “the poverty of the Germans in great classical prose works,” and indiscriminately attacked all the writers of the time.

GOETHE’S THEORY OF A WORLD LITERATURE

I (1827)

Everywhere we hear and read of the progress of the human race, of the broader view of international and human relations. Since it is not my office here to define or qualify these broad generalities, I shall merely acquaint my friends with my conviction that there is being formed a universal world-literature, in which an honorable rôle is reserved for us Germans. All the nations review our work; they praise, censure, accept, and reject, imitate and misrepresent us, open or close their hearts to us. All this we must accept with equanimity, since this attitude, taken as a whole, is of great value to us.

We experience the same thing from our own countrymen, and why should the nations agree among themselves if fellow-citizens do not understand how to unite and coöperate with each other? In a literary sense we have a good start of the other nations; they will always be learning to prize us more, even if they only show it by borrowing from us without thanks, and making use of us without giving recognition of the fact.

As the military and physical strength of a nation develops from its internal unity and cohesion, so must its æsthetic and ethical strength grow gradually from a similar unanimity of feeling and ideas. This, however, can only be accomplished with time. I look back as a coöperator in this work over many years and reflect how a German literature has been brought together out of heterogeneous, if not conflicting, elements,--a literature which for that reason is only peculiarly _one_ in the sense that it is composed in _one_ language,--which, however, out of a variety of wholly different talents and abilities, minds and actions, criticisms and undertakings, gradually draws out to the light of day the true inner soul of a people.

II (1827)

My sanguine suggestion that our present active epoch with its increasing communication between the nations might soon hope for a world-literature has been taken up by chance by our neighbors of the west, who indeed can accomplish great things in this same direction. They express themselves on the subject in the following manner:

_Le Globe_, Tome V., No. 91.

“Every nation indeed, when its turn comes, feels that tension which,
like the attractive power of physical bodies, draws one towards
the other, and eventually will unite in one universal sympathy all
the races of which humanity consists. The endeavor of scholars to
understand one another and compare one another’s work is by no means
new; the Latin language in former times has provided an admirable
vehicle for this purpose. But however they labored and strove, the
barriers by which peoples were separated began to divide them also,
and hurt their intellectual intercourse. The instrument of which they
made use could only satisfy a certain range and course of ideas,
so that they touched each other only through the intellect, instead
of directly through the feelings and through poetry. Travel, the
study of languages, periodical literature, have taken the place of
that universal language, and establish many intimate and harmonious
relations which _it_ could never cultivate. Even the nations that
devote themselves chiefly to trade and industry are most concerned
with this exchange of ideas. England, whose home activity is so
tremendous, whose life is so busy, that it seems as if it would be
able to study nothing but itself, at the present time is showing a
symptom of this need and desire to broaden its connection with the
outside world and widen its horizon. Its Reviews, with which we are
already familiar, are not enough for them; two new periodicals,
devoted especially to foreign literature, and coöperating together
towards that end, are to appear regularly.”

Of the first of these English journals, _The Foreign Quarterly Review_, there are already two volumes in our hands; the third we expect directly, and we shall in the course of these pages often refer to the views of important men who are giving proof, with so much insight and industry, of their interest in foreign literature.

But first of all we must confess that it made us smile to see, at the end of the old year, more than thirty literary almanacs (_Taschenbücher_), already noticed in an English journal,--not indeed reviewed, but at least referred to with some characteristic comments. It is pleasant that our productions of this sort meet with approval and find a market over there, since we are also obliged to buy their similar works for good money. Little by little we shall discover, I suppose, whether the balance of this trade turns out to our advantage.

But these trivial considerations must give place to more serious ones. Left to itself every literature will exhaust its vitality, if it is not refreshed by the interest and contributions of a foreign one. What naturalist does not take pleasure in the wonderful things that he sees produced by reflection in a mirror? Now what a mirror in the field of ideas and morals means, every one has experienced in himself, and once his attention is aroused, he will understand how much of his education he owes to it.

III (1828)

The _Edinburgh Review_, as well as the current _Foreign_ and _Foreign Quarterly Reviews_, we can only mention briefly here.

These journals, as they win an ever wider public, will contribute in the most effective way towards that universal world-literature for which we are hoping. Only, we repeat, the idea is not that the nations shall think alike, but that they shall learn how to understand each other, and, if they do not care to love one another, at least that they will learn to tolerate one another. Several societies now exist for the purpose of making the British Isles acquainted with the continent, and are working effectively and with a practical unanimity of opinion. We continentals can learn from them the intellectual background of the time across the channel, what they are thinking and what their judgments about things are. On the whole, we acknowledge gladly that they go about the work with intense seriousness, with industry and tolerance and general good-will. The result for us will be that we shall be compelled to think again of our own recent literature, which we have in some measure already put to one side, and to consider and examine it anew. Especially worthy of notice is their profitable method of starting with any considerable author, and going over the whole field in which he worked.

The methods and manner of these critics deserve our consideration in many ways. Although varying on many points, yet there is an agreement in criticism upon the main issues, which seems to indicate, if not a coterie, yet a number of contemporary critics who have come to a similar attitude and point of view. Worthy of our admiration are the honest and sincere application, the careful labors, which they devote to surveying our complex artistic and literary world, and to looking over it with a just and fair attitude and vision. We shall hope often to be able to return to them and their work.

IV (1829)

MORE ABOUT A WORLD LITERATURE

_The Difficulties_

If a world-literature, such as is inevitable with the ever-increasing facility of communication, is to be formed in the near future, we must expect from it nothing more and nothing different from what it can and does accomplish.

The wide world, extensive as it is, is only an expanded fatherland, and will, if looked at aright, be able to give us no more than what our home soil can endow us with also. What pleases the crowd spreads itself over a limitless field, and, as we already see, meets approval in all countries and regions. The serious and intellectual meets with less success, but those who are devoted to higher and more profitable things will learn to know each other more quickly and more intimately. For there are everywhere in the world such men, to whom the truth and the progress of humanity are of interest and concern. But the road which they pursue, the pace which they keep, is not to everybody’s liking; the particularly aggressive wish to advance faster, and so turn aside, and prevent the furthering of that which they could promote. The serious-minded must therefore form a quiet, almost secret, company, since it would be futile to set themselves against the current of the day; rather must they manfully strive to maintain their position till the flood has past. Their principal consolation, and indeed encouragement, such men must find in the fact that truth is serviceable. If they can discover this relation, and exhibit its meaning and influence in a vital way, they will not fail to produce a powerful effect, indeed one that will extend over a range of years.

_The Encouragements_

Since it is often profitable to present to the reader not one’s bald thought, but rather to awaken and stimulate his own thinking, it may be useful to recall the above observation which I had occasion to write down some time ago.

The question whether this or that occupation to which a man devotes himself is useful recurs often enough in the course of time, and must come before us especially at this time when it is no longer permitted to any one to live quietly according to his tastes, satisfied, moderate, and without demands upon him. The external world is so importunate and exciting that each one of us is threatened with being carried away in the whirlpool. In order to satisfy his own needs, each one sees himself compelled to attend almost instantaneously to the requirements of others; and the question naturally arises whether he has any skill or readiness to satisfy these pressing duties. There seems to be nothing left to us to say than that only the purest and strictest egoism can save us; but this must be a self-conscious resolution, thoroughly felt and calmly expressed.

Let each one ask himself for what he is best fitted, and let him cultivate this most ardently and wisely in himself and for himself; let him consider himself successively as apprentice, as journeyman, as older journeyman, and finally, but with the greatest of circumspection, as master.

If he can, with discriminating modesty, increase his demands on the external world only with the growth of his own capabilities, thus insinuating himself into the world’s good graces by being useful, then he will attain his purpose step by step, and if he succeeds in reaching the highest level, will be able to influence men and things with ease.

Life, if he studies it closely, will teach him the opportunities and the hindrances which present or intrude themselves upon him; but this much the man of practical wisdom will always have before his eyes:--To tire oneself out for the sake of the favor of to-day brings no profit for to-morrow or after.

_Other Considerations_

Every nation has peculiarities by which it is distinguished from the others, and it is by these distinguishing traits that nations are also attracted to and repelled from one another. The external expressions of these inner idiosyncrasies appear to the others in most cases strikingly disagreeable, or, if endurable, merely amusing. This is why, too, we always respect a nation less than it deserves. The inner traits, on the other hand, are not known or recognized, by foreigners or even by the nation itself; for the inner nature of a whole nation, as well as the individual man, works all unconsciously. At the end we wonder, we are astounded, at what appears.

These secrets I do not pretend to know, much less to have the cleverness to express them if I did. Only this much will I say,--that, so far as my insight goes, the characteristic intellectual and spiritual activity of the French is now at its height again, and for that reason will exercise soon again a great influence on the civilized world. I would gladly say more, but it leads too far; one has to be so detailed in order to be understood, and to make acceptable what one has to say.

* * * * *

It was not merely permissible but highly admirable that a society of Germans was formed for the special purpose of studying German poetry; since these persons, as cultured men acquainted with the other fields of German literature and politics both generally and in detail, were well qualified to select and judge works of belles-lettres and use them as a basis for intellectual, as well as pleasurable and stimulating, conversation.

Some one may say that the best literature of a nation cannot be discovered or recognized, unless one brings home to one’s mind the whole complex of its circumstances and social conditions. Something of all this can be obtained from the papers, which give us enough detailed information of public affairs. But this is not enough; we must add to it what foreigners in their critical journals and reviews are accustomed to say about themselves and about other nations, particularly the Germans,--their ideas and opinions, their interest in and reception of our productions. If one wishes, for instance, to acquaint oneself with modern French literature, one should study the lectures which have been given for the last two years and are now appearing in print,--lectures such as Guizot’s _Cours d’histoire moderne_, Villemain’s _Cours de littérature française_, and Cousin’s _Cours de l’histoire de la philosophie_. The significance they have both at home and for us comes out thus in the clearest fashion. Still more effective and interesting are perhaps the frequent numbers and volumes of _Le Globe_, _La Revue française_, and the daily, _Le Temps_. None of these can be spared, if we are to keep vividly before our eyes both sides of these great movements in France and all the subsidiary currents that spring from them.

* * * * *

French poetry, like French literature, is not distinct in spirit from the life and passions of the nation as a whole. In recent times it appears naturally always as the “Opposition,” and summons every genius to make the most of his talent in resisting the “powers that be,” which since they are endowed with force do not need to be intellectual or spiritual.

If we follow this verse, which reveals so much, we see deep down into the soul of the nation, and from the way in which they judge us, more or less favorably, we can at the same time learn to judge ourselves. And it can do no harm to have some one make us think about ourselves.

Whoever follows the course proposed above will very quickly become completely informed of all public affairs and semi-public affairs. In our present admirably managed book-trade it is possible to obtain books speedily, instead of waiting, as has often been my experience, until the author takes occasion to send his work as a gift, so that I have often read the book long before I received it from him.

From all this it is evident that it is no light task to keep in touch with all the literature of the present day. Of the English, as well as the Italian, I shall have to speak again more particularly, for there is much more to be said.

V

(1830)

There has been talk for some time of a general world-literature, and indeed not without justice. For the nations, after they had been shaken into confusion and mutual conflict by the terrible wars, could not return to their settled and independent life again without noticing that they had learned many foreign ideas and ways, which they had unconsciously adopted, and had come to feel here and there previously unrecognized spiritual and intellectual needs. Out of this arose the feeling of neighborly relations, and, instead of shutting themselves up as before, they gradually came to desire the adoption of some sort of more or less free spiritual intercourse.

This movement, it is true, has lasted only a short time, but still long enough to start considerable speculation, and to acquire from it, as one must always from any kind of foreign trade, both profit and enjoyment.

ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY[6]

(1797)

The epic and the dramatic writer are both subject to the universal poetic laws, especially the law of unity and the law of progressive development. Furthermore they both deal with similar subjects and both can use a great variety of motives. The essential difference consists in this, that an epic poet narrates an event as completely past, while the dramatist presents it as completely present. If one wished to develop in detail from the nature of man these laws which both have to follow, one would continually have to keep before his mind a rhapsodist and an actor, each in the character of a poet, the former surrounded by a circle of listeners quietly following with rapt attention, the latter by an impatient throng who have come simply to see and to hear. It would then not be difficult to deduce what is most advantageous to either of these two forms of poetry, what subjects either will choose preëminently, nor what motives either will make use of most frequently; as I remarked in the beginning, neither can lay claim to any one thing exclusively.

The subject of the epic as well as of tragedy should be based on the purely human, it should be vital, and it should make an appeal to one’s feelings. The best effect is produced when the characters stand upon a certain plane of cultural advancement, so that their actions are purely the expression of their personality and are not influenced by moral, political or mechanical considerations. The myths of the heroic times were especially useful to the poets on these grounds.

The epic poem represents more especially action restricted to individuals; tragedy, suffering restricted to individuals. The epic poem represents man as an external agent, engaged in battles, journeys, in fact in every possible kind of undertaking, and so demands a certain elaborateness of treatment. Tragedy, on the other hand, represents man as an internal agent, and the action, therefore, requires but little space in a genuine tragedy.

There are five kinds of motives:

(1) Progressive, which advance the action. These the drama uses preëminently.

(2) Retrogressive, which draw the action away from its goal. These the epic poem uses almost exclusively.

(3) Retarding, which delay the progress of the action or lengthen its course. Both epic and tragic poetry use these to very great advantage.

(4) Retrospective, which introduce into the poem events which happened before the time of the poem.

(5) Prospective, which anticipate what will happen after the time of the poem. The epic as well as the dramatic poet uses the last two kinds of motives to make his poem complete.

The worlds which are to be represented are common to both, namely:--

(1) The physical world, which consists first of all of the immediate world to which the persons represented belong and which surrounds them. In it the dramatist limits himself mostly to one locality, while the epic poet moves about with greater freedom and in a larger sphere. Secondly, the physical world, containing the more remote world in which all of nature is included. This world the epic poet, who appeals exclusively to the imagination, makes more intelligible through the use of similes and metaphors, which figures of speech are employed more sparingly by the dramatist.

(2) The moral world, which is absolutely common to both, and, whether normal or pathological, is best represented in its simplicity.

(3) The world of fancies, forebodings, apparitions, chance and fate. This is available to both, only it must of course be approximated to the world of the senses. In this world there arises a special difficulty for us moderns, because we cannot easily find substitutes for the fabulous creatures, gods, soothsayers and oracles of the ancients, however much we may desire to.

If we consider the manner of treatment as a whole, we shall find the rhapsodist, who recites what is completely past, appearing as a wise man, with calm deliberation surveying the events. It will be the purpose of his recital to get his hearers into an even frame of mind, so that they will listen to him long and willingly. He will divide the interest evenly, because it is impossible for him to counteract quickly a too vivid impression. He will, according to his pleasure, go back in point of time or anticipate what is to come. We may follow him everywhere, for he makes his appeal only to the imagination, which originates its own images and which is to a certain extent indifferent as to which images are called up. The rhapsodist as a higher being ought not to appear himself in his poem; he would read best of all behind a curtain, so that we may separate everything personal from his work, and may believe we are hearing only the voice of the Muses.

The actor represents the very reverse of this. He presents himself as a definite individuality. It is his desire to have us take interest exclusively in him and in his immediate surroundings, so that we may feel with him the sufferings of his soul and of his body, may share his embarrassments and forget ourselves in him. To be sure he, too, will proceed by degrees, but he can risk far more vivid effects, because by his actual presence before the eyes of the audience he can neutralize a stronger impression even by a weaker one. The senses of spectators and listeners must be constantly stimulated. They must not rise to a contemplative frame of mind, but must follow eagerly; their imagination must be completely suppressed; no demands must be made upon it; and even what is narrated must be vividly brought before their vision, as it were, in terms of action.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] By Goethe and Schiller.

SUPPLEMENT TO ARISTOTLE’S _POETICS_[7]

(1827)

Every one who has concerned himself at all about the theory of poetic art--and of tragedy in particular--will remember a passage in Aristotle which has caused the commentators much difficulty, without their ever having been able to convince themselves wholly of its meaning. In his definition of tragedy this great writer seems to demand of it that, through the representation of stirring deeds and events, which should arouse pity and fear, the soul of the spectator should be purified of these passions.

My thoughts and convictions in regard to this passage I can best impart by a translation of it:--

“Tragedy is the imitation of a significant and complete action, which has a certain extension in time and is portrayed in beautiful language by separate individuals, each of whom plays a rôle, instead of having all represented by one person as in the narration of a story or epic. After a course of events arousing pity and fear, the action closes with the equilibration of these passions.”

In the foregoing translation, I believe I have made this hitherto dubious passage clear; it will only be necessary to add the following remarks: Could Aristotle, notwithstanding his always objective manner,--as, for instance, here, where he seems to be speaking exclusively of the technique of tragedy,--be really thinking of the effect, indeed the distant effect, upon the _spectator_? By no means! He speaks clearly and definitely: When the course of action is one arousing pity and fear, the tragedy must close _on the stage_ with an equilibration, a reconciliation, of these emotions.

By “catharsis,” he understands this reconciling culmination, which is demanded of all drama, indeed of all poetical works.

This occurs in the tragedy through a kind of human sacrifice, whether it be rigidly worked out with the death of the victim, or, under the influence of a favoring divinity, be satisfied by a substitute, as in the case of Abraham and Agamemnon. But this reconciliation, this release, is necessary at the end if the tragedy is to be a perfect work of art. This release, on the other hand, when effected through a favorable or desirable outcome, rather makes the work resemble an intermediate species of art, as in the return of Alcestis. In comedy, on the contrary, for the clearing up of all complications, which in themselves are of little significance from the point of view of arousing fear and hope, a marriage is usually introduced; and this, even if it does not end life completely, does make in it an important and serious break. Nobody wants to die, everybody to marry; and in this lies the half-jocose, half-serious difference between tragedy and comedy in practical æsthetics.

We shall perceive further that the Greeks did make use of their “trilogy” for such a purpose; for there is no loftier “catharsis” than the _Œdipus of Kolonus_, where a half-guilty delinquent,--a man who, through a demonic strain in his nature, through the sombre vehemence as well as greatness of his character, and through a headstrong course of action, puts himself at the mercy of the ever-inscrutable, unalterable powers,--plunges himself and his family into the deepest, irreparable misery, and yet finally, after having made atonement and reparation, is raised to the company of the gods, as the auspicious protecting spirit of a region, revered with special sacrifices and services.

Here we find the principle of the great master, that the hero of a tragedy must be regarded and represented neither as wholly guilty nor as wholly innocent. In the first case the catharsis would merely result from the nature of the story, and the murdered wretch would appear only to have escaped the common justice which would have fallen upon him anyway by law. In the second case, it is not feasible either; for then there would seem to fall on human power or fate the weight of an all too heavy burden of injustice.

But on this subject I do not wish to wax polemical, any more than on any other; I have only to point out here how up to the present time people have been inclined to put up with a dubious interpretation of this passage. Aristotle had said in the _Politics_ that music could be made use of in education for ethical purposes, since by means of the sacred melodies the minds of those raised to frenzy by the orgies were quieted and soothed again; thus he thought other emotions and passions could be calmed and equilibrated. That the argument here is from analogous cases we cannot deny; yet we think they are not identical. The effect of music depends on its particular character, as Handel has worked out in his “Alexander’s Feast,” and as we can see evidenced at every ball, where perhaps after a chaste and dignified polonaise, a waltz is played and whirls the whole company of young people away in a bacchic frenzy.

For music, like all the arts, has little power directly to influence morality, and it is always wrong to demand such results from them. Philosophy and Religion alone can accomplish this. If piety and duty must be stimulated, the arts can only casually effect this stimulation. What they can accomplish, however, is a softening of crude manners and morals; yet even this may, on the other hand, soon degenerate into effeminacy.

Whoever is on the path of a truly moral and spiritual self-cultivation, will feel and acknowledge that tragedy and tragic romance do not quiet and satisfy the mind, but rather tend to unsettle the emotions and what we call the heart, and induce a vague, unquiet mood. Youth is apt to love this mood and is for that reason passionately devoted to such productions.

We now return to our original point, and repeat: Aristotle speaks of the _technique_ of tragedy, in the sense that the poet, making it the object of his attention, contrives to create something pleasing to eye and ear in a course of a completed action.

If the poet has fulfilled this purpose and his duty on his side, tying together his knots of meaning and unraveling them again, the same process will pass before the mind of the spectator; the complications will perplex him, the solution enlighten him, but he will not go home any the better for it all. He will be inclined perhaps, if he is given to reflection, to be amazed at the state of mind in which he finds himself at home again--just as frivolous, as obstinate, as zealous, as weak, as tender or as cynical as he was when he went out. On this point we believe we have said all we can until a further working out of the whole subject makes it possible to understand it more clearly.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] “I have just re-read the _Poetics_ of Aristotle with the greatest pleasure; intelligence in its highest manifestation is a fine thing. It is really remarkable how Aristotle limits himself entirely to experience, and so appears, if perhaps somewhat material, for the most part all the more solid. It was also stimulating to me to see with what liberality he always shields the poet against the fault-finders and the hypercritical, how he always insists on essentials, and in everything else is so lax that in more than one place I was simply amazed. It is this that makes his whole view of poetry, and especially of his favorite forms, so vivifying that I shall soon take up the book again, especially in regard to some important passages which are not quite clear and the meaning of which I wish to investigate further.”--Goethe to Schiller, April 28, 1797.

ON THE GERMAN THEATRE

(1815)

Now that the German stage, as one of our best national institutions, is emerging from an unfortunate narrowness and seclusion into freedom and vitality, wise directors are exerting themselves to produce an effect on a wide public, and not to confine themselves, however earnestly, to any single institution. Poets, actors, managers, and public will come to a better and better’ mutual understanding, but in the gratification of the moment they must not forget what their predecessors accomplished. Only upon a repertory which includes older plays can a national theatre be founded. I hope that the following words will have a favorable reception, so that the author’s courage will be stimulated and he will come forward from time to time with similar suggestions.

_A Plan of Schiller’s, and What Came of It_

When the lamented Schiller, through the influence of the court, the solicitations of society, and the inclinations of his friends, was moved to change his place of residence from Jena to Weimar, and to renounce that seclusion in which until then he had wrapt himself, he had the theatre at Weimar particularly in his mind, and he decided to devote his attention carefully and closely to the productions there.

And such a narrowing of his field the poet needed, for his extraordinary genius from his youth up had sought the heights and the depths. The power of his imagination, his poetical activity, had led him over a great range; but in spite of the ardor with which his mind traversed this broad range, with further experience it could not escape his clear insight that these qualities must necessarily lead him astray in the field of the theatre.

At Jena his friends had been witness to the perseverance and resolute determination with which he occupied himself with “Wallenstein.” This subject, which kept expanding at the hands of his genius, was worked out, knit together, revised, in numerous ways, until he saw at last that it would be necessary to divide the piece into three parts, as was thereupon done. And afterwards he did not cease to make alterations, in order that the principal scenes might acquire all the effect that was possible. The result was, however, that the _Death of Wallenstein_ was given oftener on all stages than the _Camp_ and the _Piccolomini_.

_Don Carlos_ had been condensed still earlier for the stage; and whoever will compare this play, as it is produced, with the earlier printed edition, will recognize the same laborious changes. For though Schiller in sketching out the plan of his work felt bound by no limitations, in a later revision for theatrical purposes he had the courage, as a result of his convictions, to adapt it stringently, yes even mercilessly, to the practical exigencies of the situation. These meant a definite limitation of time; all the principal scenes had to pass before the eyes of the audience in a certain period of time. All the other scenes he omitted, and yet he could never really confine himself to the space of three hours.

_The Robbers_, _Intrigue and Love_, _Fiesco_, productions of an aggressive youthful impatience and indignation at a severe and confining training, had to undergo many alterations for the stage-production which was eagerly demanded by the public and especially the young men. About them all he would speculate whether it was not possible to assimilate them to a more refined taste, a taste such as he had trained himself since to feel. On this point he was accustomed to take long and detailed counsel with himself, in long sleepless nights, and sometimes on pleasant evenings in talks with his friends.

Could these discussions and suggestions have been preserved by a shorthand writer, we should have possessed a noteworthy contribution to productive criticism. But even more valuable will discerning readers find Schiller’s own remarks about the projected and indeed commenced “Demetrius,” which fine example of penetrating and critical creative ability is preserved for us in the supplement to his works. The three plays mentioned above, however, we decided not to touch, for what is offensive in them is too closely bound up with their contents and form; and we had to trust to fortune in transmitting them to posterity just as they had sprung from a powerful and bizarre genius.

Schiller, finely matured, had not attended many performances, when his active mind, considering the situation and taking a comprehensive view of things, got the idea that what had been done to his own works could be done in the case of other men’s. So he drew up a plan whereby the work of earlier playwrights might be preserved for the German theatre, without prejudice to contemporary writers,--the accepted material, the contents of the works chosen, to be adapted to a form which should be partly determined by the requirements of the stage and partly by the ideas and spirit of the present time. For these reasons he decided to devote the hours which were left him from his own work to constructing plans, in company with congenial friends, whereby plays which had a significance for our age might be revised, and a true German Theatre founded,--not only for the benefit of the reader, who would come to know famous plays from a new standpoint, but also for the benefit of the numerous theatres of Germany, which would be given the opportunity of strengthening their repertories by laying a solid foundation of older works under the ephemeral productions of the day.

In order then to found the German Theatre on true German soil, it was Schiller’s intention to revise Klopstock’s _Hermanns Schlacht_. The play was taken up, but the first consideration of it produced much doubt in his mind. Schiller’s judgment was in general very liberal, but at the same time independent and critical. The ideal demands which Schiller according to his nature was obliged to make were not satisfied, and the piece was soon laid aside. Present-day criticism requires no hints in order to discover the grounds for the decision.

Towards Lessing’s work Schiller had a singular attitude. He did not care particularly for it,--indeed, _Emilia Galotti_ was repugnant to him. Yet this tragedy as well as _Minna von Barnhelm_ was accepted in the repertory. He then devoted himself to _Nathan der Weise_, and in this revision, in which he was glad to have the coöperation of discerning friends, the piece is played to this day, and it will be retained on the boards, because able actors will always be found who feel themselves equal to the rôle of Nathan. And may the German public remember always that it is called not only to witness this well-known piece, so excellently staged, but also to hear it and to understand it! May there never come a time when the divine spirit of toleration and forbearance contained in it will cease to be sacred to the nation.

The presence of the distinguished Iffland in 1796 gave occasion for the shortening of _Egmont_ to the form in which it is now given here and in several places at present. That Schiller rather mutilated it in his revision is indicated by a comparison of the following scenes with the printed play itself. The public was annoyed at the omission of the Princess, for instance; yet there is in Schiller’s work such a consistency that no one has dared to attempt to alter the piece for fear that other errors and misadjustments might creep into its present form.

_Egmont_

(_First Act_)

In an open square, cross-bow shooters. One of Egmont’s men is being elevated to the post of captain, through his skill in shooting, and his health and that of the lord are being drunk; public affairs are discussed, and the characters of distinguished persons. The disposition of the people begins to show itself. Other citizens come in; unrest is revealed. A lawyer joins them, and begins to discuss the liberties of the people. Dissent and quarrels follow. Egmont enters, quiets his men, and threatens the trouble-maker. He exhibits himself as an honored and popular prince.

(_Second Act_)

Egmont and his private secretary, through whose discourse one catches a glimpse of the liberal, independent, audacious spirit of the hero. Orange attempts to inculcate caution into his friend, and since word has come of the arrival of the Duke of Alva, tries to persuade him to flee; but all in vain.

(_Third Act_)

The citizens in fear of the impending danger; the lawyer foretells Egmont’s fate; the Spanish watch enters, and the people scatter.

In a room in one of the houses we find Klaerchen thinking of her love for Egmont. She seeks to spurn the affection of her lover Brackenburg, then proceeds with mingled pleasure and dread to think of her relations with Egmont; he enters, and all is joy and happiness.

(_Fourth Act_)

The Palace. Alva’s character becomes evident through his measures; Ferdinand, his natural son, who is attracted by the personality of Egmont, is ordered to take him prisoner, in order that he himself may become accustomed to tyranny. Egmont and Alva in conversation; the former frank and open, the latter reserved and at the same time tries to irritate Egmont. The latter is arrested.

Brackenburg on the street; twilight. Klaerchen wishes to incite the citizens to liberate Egmont, but they withdraw in alarm; Brackenburg, alone with Klaerchen, attempts to calm her, but in vain.

(_Fifth Act_)

Klaerchen alone in a room. Brackenburg brings the news of preparations for Egmont’s execution. Klaerchen takes poison, Brackenburg rushes away, the lamp goes out, signifying that Klaerchen has passed away.

The prison, Egmont alone. The sentence of death is announced to him. Scene with Ferdinand, his young friend. Egmont, alone, falls asleep. Vision of Klaerchen in the background. He is waked by drums, and follows the watch, almost with the air of the commander himself.

Concerning the last appearance of Klaerchen, opinions are divided; Schiller was opposed to it, the author in favor of it; the public will not allow it to be omitted.

* * * * *

Since the present discussion does not attempt to deal with plays chronologically but with reference to other considerations, and particularly from the standpoint of author and adapter, I shall turn next to _Stella_, which also owes its appearance in the theatre to Schiller.

Since the action of the piece is unimpassioned and smooth, he left it substantially unchanged, only shortening the dialogue here and there, especially when it seemed to be passing from the dramatic to the idyllic and elegiac. For just as there may be too many incidents in a piece, so there may be too great an expression of feeling. So Schiller resisted the enticements of many charming passages and struck them relentlessly out. Well-staged, the piece was presented on January 15, 1806, for the first time, and repeated. It soon became evident that, according to our customs, which are founded strictly on monogamy, the relation of a man to two wives, especially as it appeared in this play, was not to be reconciled, and for that reason was only fit material for tragedy. For that reason the attempt of the intelligent Cecilie to harmonize the incongruities proved futile. The piece took a tragic turn, and ended in a way that satisfied the emotions and elevated the feelings. At present the piece is quite competently acted, and consequently receives the most unqualified applause. But a sweeping assurance of this kind can hardly be of practical utility to the playhouses which intend to put on the piece; and I therefore add in detail some further and necessary considerations.

The rôle of Fernando every actor, not too young, will be glad to undertake, actors, that is, who are fitted to heroic or lovers’ rôles, and they will try to express with all the emotion and effect possible, the impassioned dilemma in which they are placed.

The allotment of the feminine rôles is more difficult. There are five of them,--carefully differentiated and contrasted characters. The actress who undertakes the rôle of Stella must depict to us not only her indestructible affection, her passionate love, her glowing enthusiasm, but must also make us share her feeling, and carry us along with her.

Cecilie, who at first appears weak and repressed, must soon leave this all behind her, and appear before us as a high-spirited heroine of courage and intelligence.

Lucia represents a person who in the midst of an easy and comfortable life has cultivated her talents independently, does not feel the outer pressures which force themselves upon her, but rather casts them off. Not a trace of priggishness or conceit should appear.

The postmistress is no quarrelsome old woman, but a young, cheerful, active widow, who would like to marry again only in order to be better obeyed.

Ann, if possible, should be acted by a little child. In the mouth of a child, if she speaks clearly, the decisiveness of what she has to say sounds extremely well. If the proper contrasts and shading are given to all these characters, this tragedy will not miss its effect.

The first act, which portrays external life, should be mastered with extraordinary care and thoroughness, and even the unimportant incidents ought to betray a certain artistic fitness. The sounding of the posthorn twice, for instance, produces an agreeable and even artistic effect. The steward also should not be impersonated by a mediocre but by an excellent actor, who will play the rôle of the kindly old man called to a lover’s aid.

If one considers the incredible advantage which the composer has in being able to indicate in his score all his wishes and intentions by a thousand words and signs, one will pardon the dramatic poet also if he seeks to enjoin upon the directors and managers what he holds indispensable for the success of his work.

_Die Laune des Verliebten_ was produced at the theatre in March, 1805, just when this little piece was forty years old. In it everything depends on the rôle of Egle. If a versatile actress can be found who expresses the character perfectly, then the piece is safe, and is witnessed with pleasure. One of our most agreeable and charming actresses, who was going to Breslau, took it to the theatre there. An ingenious writer made use of the idea of the character and composed several pieces with this motive for the actress. _Stella_ is also at present well received in Berlin.

Here I venture to make an observation which seems to me worth careful consideration on the part of stage-managers. If one tries to discover just why certain pieces, to which some worth is not to be denied, either are never produced or else, even when they make a good impression for a time, yet little by little disappear from the boards, one will find that the cause lies neither with the piece nor with the public, but that the necessary actors are lacking. For this reason it is advisable that pieces should not be laid entirely aside or dropped from the repertory. Rather let them be kept constantly in mind, even if there is no opportunity to give them for years. Then when the time comes that the rôles can be adequately filled again, one does not lose the chance of making an excellent impression.

Thus, for instance, the German theatre would experience a great change if a figure like the famous Seylerin should appear, with a genuine dramatic talent trained according to our modern requirements. Speedily would Medea, Semiramis, Agrippina and other heroines, which we think of as so colossal, be resurrected from the grave; other rôles besides would be transformed. Think only of such a figure as Orsina, and _Emilia Galotti_ is quite another play; the Prince is exonerated as soon as one realizes that so powerful and imperious a person is the encumbrance upon his shoulders.

We turn now to the _Mitschuldigen_. That it has a certain dramatic value may be inferred from the fact that, at a time when all German actors seemed afraid of rhythm and rhyme, it was turned into prose and produced at the theatre, where it could not maintain itself because a principal feature, the poetic rhythm and the rhyme, was lacking. But now, when the actors are more skilled in both, this attempt could be made. Some of its crudities were removed, some archaic touches modernized, and thus it continues to hold the boards still if the cast is good. It was put on at the same time as _Die Laune des Verliebten_, in March, 1805. Schiller made many suggestions for the production, but he did not live to see the _Raetsel_ produced in September of the same year. This had a great success, but the author desired to remain anonymous for a long time. Afterwards, however, he published a sequel, and the two pieces help to support each other.

Let us not hesitate in the German theatre, where there appears so much variety besides, to place side by side pieces of similar motive and atmosphere, in order that we may at least give a certain breadth to the different departments of dramatic production.

_Iphigenia_, not without some abbreviation, was put on the Weimar stage as early as 1802; _Tasso_ first in 1807 after a long and quiet preparation. Both plays continue to hold the boards, with the support of actors and actresses who are exceptionally excellent and well adapted to the rôles.

Finally we shall mention _Goetz von Berlichingen_, which was produced for the first time in September, 1804. Although Schiller himself would not undertake this new revision, he coöperated in every possible way, and was able by his bold resolution to facilitate for the author many a point of revision; from the beginning to the final production he was most influential and effective both in word and deed. Since it is produced at few theatres, it may be worth while to relate here briefly the action of the piece, and to point out in general the principles according to which this revision was made.

_Goetz von Berlichingen_

(_First Act_)

By the insults which are accorded his servants by some peasants in the inn at Bamberg, we learn of the hostility between Goetz and the Bishop. Some horsemen in the service of this knight enter and relate that Weislingen, the Bishop’s right-hand man, is in the neighborhood. They hurry away to notify their master.

Goetz appears in front of a hut in the woods, alert and listening. A stable-boy, George, declares himself a future hero. Brother Martin expresses envy of the soldiers, husband, and father. The servants come in with the news, Goetz hastens away, and the boy is quieted by the present of a saint’s picture.

At Jaxthausen, Goetz’s castle, we find his wife, sister and son. The former exhibits herself as a capable noblewoman, the latter as a tender-hearted woman, the son as rather effeminate. Faud brings word that Weislingen is captured and Goetz is bringing him in. The women go out; the two knights enter; by Goetz’s frank demeanor and the narration of old stories, Weislingen’s heart is touched. Maria and Karl come in; the child invites them to sit down at table, Maria asks them to be friends. The knights give each other their hands, Maria stands between them.

(_Second Act_)

Maria and Weislingen enter. They have become lovers. Goetz and Elizabeth appear; they are all busy with hopes and plans. Weislingen is happy in his new situation. Franz, Weislingen’s lad, comes from Bamberg and awakes old memories; he also draws a picture of the dangerous Adelaide of Walldorf. His passion for this lady is not to be mistaken, and we begin to fear that he will carry away his master with him.

Hans von Selbitz comes in, representing himself to the Lady Elizabeth as a merry knight-errant. Goetz gives him welcome. The news that merchants from Nuremberg are passing by to the fair is brought in; they go out. In the forest we find the merchants from Nuremberg; they are fallen upon and robbed. Through George, Goetz learns that Weislingen has left him. Goetz is inclined to work off his chagrin on the captured merchants, but he is moved to give back a jewel-box which a lover is taking to his mistress; for Goetz thinks with sadness how he must break the news to his sister of the loss of her betrothed.

(_Third Act_)

Two merchants appear in the pleasure-gardens at Augsburg. Maximilian, vexed, refuses to see them. Weislingen encourages them, and makes use of the opportunity to influence the Emperor against Goetz and other unruly knights.

Here the relations between Weislingen and his wife Adelaide develop; she compels him unconditionally to promote her ambitions. The growing passion of Franz for her, the wanton arts used to seduce him, become apparent.

We now return to Jaxthausen. Sickingen woos Maria. Selbitz brings the news that Goetz is declared an outlaw. They seize weapons. Lerse is announced; Goetz receives him joyfully.

We are now on a mountain; wide view, ruined tower, castle and rocks. A gipsy family is here seeking protection from the dangers of the military campaign and the unrest of the country. They serve to give coherence to the following scenes. The captain of the Imperial troops enters, gives his orders, makes himself comfortable. The gipsies cajole him. George comes suddenly upon the summit; Selbitz is brought in wounded, having been attacked by servants of the Emperor, and rescued by Lerse. He is visited by Goetz.

(_Fourth Act_)

Jaxthausen. Maria and Sickingen, with them the victorious Goetz. He is afraid that he will be surrounded. Maria and Sickingen are married; Goetz persuades them to leave the castle. Summons, a siege, brave resistance, the family table once more; Lerse brings news of a capitulation; treachery.

Weislingen’s and Adelaide’s dwelling in Augsburg. Night. Adelaide’s masked ball. It is noticeable that the Archduke is her centre of interest at this occasion; but she is able to silence the jealous Franz and use him for her purposes.

Tavern at Heilbronn. The Town Hall there. Goetz’s daring and boldness. Sickingen releases him. The familiar scenes are left in.

(_Fifth Act_)