The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Ix Part 68

"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. G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 gra.s.s. 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 G.o.d, O G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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 KoRNER 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 Korner'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 Korner, 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, Korner 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 Korner was enthusiastically received and applauded, and when he descended into his early grave, was mourned by the whole world. I would gladly pa.s.s 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 Korner 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 a.n.a.lyzed, 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 embarra.s.sment 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 Korner 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 Korner and Heinrich von Kleist have accomplished, in the first place, as lyric poets. Kleist (unhappily) has left us very little in this field, Korner (again unhappily) all the more. Korner'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 t.i.tle of a German Tyrtaeus; and in the second place, Theodor Korner'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 Korner 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, t.i.tles 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 a.n.a.lyze 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. Korner 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. Korner 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 G.o.d, 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 bl.u.s.tering in the fourth strophe, but that the fighting is really going to begin: at the same time it contains the princ.i.p.al 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 Korner'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 a.s.sociated with the simplest and most familiar objects, and the figures chosen are not only beautiful, but at the same time inevitable.

I will pa.s.s on to consider the achievements of Korner 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 a.n.a.lysis of a piece by Kleist, choosing first a tragedy, his _Prince of Homburg_ which, to be sure, is ent.i.tled simply "a drama" by its author. I do not know whether he did this because of the circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.ds, says an old proverb, well then, acts of the G.o.ds--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 circ.u.mstance, 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 const.i.tuted 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?