Chapter 4

In another letter we find an amusing reference to Hegel, which shows us that philosopher in a novel light: "Hegel is playing the beau and general gallant" (Hegel macht den Galanten und allgemeinen Cicisbeo).[8]

Caroline shares enthusiastically in all the efforts of the Romantic School; she revises, reviews anonymously, writes herself, influences other writers directly and indirectly. She is obliged to expend that politico-revolutionary ardour, of which she possesses a far larger share than the men, on literary skirmishes and intrigues. We find her, for instance, writing an anonymous and tolerably sharp review of Schlegel'sIon; Schlegel replies, also anonymously, criticising her criticism; then Caroline calls Schelling to her assistance, and he, acting as her champion, falls upon Schlegel still more heavily in a third anonymous article, written in an extremely polished manner—at the same time writing privately to him that he hopes he will not take it amiss. It is to Caroline that the misunderstanding and final rupture between Schiller and Schlegel is due; she sets the brothers against the poet by her extremely witty but unfair mockery of his style; Schiller, on his side, cannot be acquitted of having treated them with considerable haughtiness at the beginning of their literary career. His name for Caroline is "Dame Lucifer."

Caroline's worst side was displayed in her small-minded hatred of poor Dorothea Veit, whom she positively persecuted. This hatred disturbed the beautiful relation between August Wilhelm and Friedrich, who were intimate friends as well as brothers. At one time it threatened to separate them altogether. Observe the way in which she speaks of Dorothea: "Friedrich was present at the performance ofAlarkos, and immediately afterwards got into a post-chaise and set off for France, where it is his intention to be married in republican fashion. Under Robespierre, drowning in the Loire went by the name ofnoces republicaines; such a wedding for one half of the couple I should not object to."

Her best qualities were called forth by her daughter, that remarkable child, Auguste Böhmer, whose name, although she died at the age of fifteen, has a place in the history of German literature. All who read this child's criticism of Friedrich or of Dorothea, or her rhymed letters to Tieck and Schleiermacher, are astounded by her precociousness. Her death was a turning-point in Caroline's life. Schelling, who very possibly had been first attracted by the daughter, drew nearer to the mother in her sudden and sad bereavement. He was then quite young, labouring ardently at his earliest works, glowing with passion, sparkling with genius, the favourite of Goethe. Caroline and he had a great common sorrow and need of consolation. Their feeling for each other soon assumed the character of passionate love. The publication by the unscrupulous opponents of the Romanticists of a pamphlet in which it was asserted that Schelling, with his crazyNaturphilosophieand the treatment he had recommended, had shortened the child's life, only drew them closer together. The charge was a pure fabrication. It was in his reply to this pamphlet that Schelling made use of the violent language quoted in the introduction to Lassalle'sCapital and Labour. Caroline's relations with Schlegel had long been of the coldest; he and she lived in different towns. Had she been of a jealous disposition, she would have found abundant cause for complaint. After his separation from Caroline, Schlegel formed a connection with Tieck's sister, Sophie Bernhardi, who divorced her husband for his sake. His last attempt at marriage, with the daughter of Paulus, the rationalist, was not a success, and ended in a divorce.

When Schelling and Caroline had become so indispensable to each other that it was necessary to break the tie which bound her to Schlegel, the latter, with perfect chivalry, gave his consent. Writing of the divorce, Caroline says: "We broke a tie which neither of us had ever considered permanently binding."[9]Her new marriage was a perfectly happy one.

The way in which Schlegel takes Caroline's decision enlightens us not only as to the theories of the Romanticists, but as to the manner in which the leaders of the school applied them in their own lives. August Wilhelm not only gives his consent, but continues to keep up a friendly correspondence with Schelling, and in literary matters the two men render each other valuable assistance. Caroline herself maintains the friendliest relations with Schlegel long after he is aware of the relation in which she stands to Schelling. She writes to him in May 1801: "Will you, please, decide a dispute between Schelling and me? Are these hexameters (Schelling's) worth anything? I consider the last lines awkward, but he maintains that they are good." Schlegel actually visited the couple at Munich, in company with Madame de Staël.

Thus even very serious personal disagreements and ruptures could not divide those whom fellowship of ideas and a common endeavour to promote them, united. The Romanticists considered personal liberty an inalienable right, and respected it in others while demanding it for themselves.

But we learn something else besides the fact that the Romanticists were very changeable in their loves, and perfectly regardless of social ties; and that something is, that their women were superior to them in everything but talent, and that what the men did was to drag them down to their own level. We see the strong-minded, energetic Dorothea, who is so keenly sensible of the pettiness of the purely literary endeavours of the Romanticists, slowly change, see her reluctantly admireLucinde, then write novels herself in the prescribed style, and finally follow Friedrich to Vienna and become a Catholic along with him. Or look at the high-spirited, enthusiastic, resolute Caroline, who, as a young widow not much over twenty, attempts to revolutionise the Rhineland. So unflinching is she then, that she compromises herself recklessly, and risks the life and well-being of those dearest to her with absolute regardlessness. Friedrich writes to August Wilhelm: "I shall never forgive her heartlessness in being ready to beguile you, her friend, into that vortex of ignoble dangers and worthless characters." Only a few years later we see this same woman writing anonymous reviews, favourable or unfavourable, of her husband's wretched dramas, and entirely absorbed in literary intrigues. Ever and anon her spirit is momentarily stirred by a breath wafted from the old times. Then we feel how changed she is. Writing to her daughter in October 1799, after giving her a quantity of family news, the last item of which is: "Hofrath Hufeland has returned, with wife and children," she exclaims: "But what sorry trash is all this!Buonaparte is in Paris!Think of that, child! All will go well again. The Russians have been driven out of Switzerland; they and the English will be obliged to capitulate with disgrace in Holland; the French are making way in Swabia; and now comes Buonaparte. Rejoice with me, or I shall think that you are entirely taken up with frivolities and have no serious thoughts at all." Then, almost in the same breath, literary gossip: "Tieck is here and we are much together. You would never believe all that these men take it into their heads to do. I will send you a sonnet on Merkel. He has been running about Berlin, telling that the Schlegels have received a reprimand from the Duke on account of theAthenæum, &c. So Wilhelm and Tieck set to work the other evening and wrote a wicked sonnet in his honour. It was splendid to see the two pairs of brown eyes flashing at each other, and the wild merriment with which the perfectly justifiable squib was concocted. Dorothea and I almost rolled on the floor with laughter. She knows how to laugh, which will recommend her to you. Merkel is done for; he will never recover it. There will be a terrible uproar.... Schelling is attacking theAllgemeine Litteraturzeitungwith all his might.These quarrels, however, are of no importance to you; but Buonaparte and the Russians most certainly are." It is as though she strove to keep the larger interests alive in her daughter, feeling that they were dying in herself. Soon she marries Schelling, and conforms to all the established conventions of that great clerical stronghold, Bavaria.

Many great men have vainly attempted to teach the women they loved to share their interests. To my mind no worse accusation can be brought against gifted men, no surer sign of their weakness adduced than this, that, far from raising the women who have given themselves to them and followed them, they have dragged them down, taken from them their highest interests and noblest sympathies, and given them small and mean ones in exchange. From such a charge the Romanticists cannot free themselves. They treated the great women given them by the gods as they did the great ideas which were their own heritage; they took from them the noble, liberal-minded social and political enthusiasm by which they were naturally characterised, and made them, first Romantic and literary, then remorseful, and finally Catholic.

[1]Plitt:Aus Schelling's Leben, i. 282. "I can bear it no longer; I must live once more, must let my senses have free play—these senses of which I have well-nigh been robbed by the grand transcendental theories to which they have done their utmost to convert me. But I too will now confess how my heart leaps and the hot blood rushes through my veins; my word is as good as any man's; and of good cheer have I been, in fair weather and in foul, since I became persuaded that there is nothing real but matter. I care not for the invisible; I keep to the tangible, to what I can taste and smell, and feel, and satisfy all my senses with. I have no religion but this, that I love a well-shaped knee, a fair, plump bosom, a slender waist, flowers with the sweetest odours, full satisfaction of all desires, the granting of all sweet love can ask. If I am obliged to have a religion (though I can live most happily without it), then it must be the Catholic, such as it was in the olden days, when there was no scolding and quarrelling, when all were kneaded of one dough. They did not trouble about the far-off, did not look longingly up to heaven; they had a living image of God. The earth they held to be the centre of the universe, and the centre of the earth was Rome. There the great vicegerent sat enthroned, and wielded the sceptre of the world; and priests and laity lived together as they live in the land of Cocagne; and in the house of God itself high revelry was held."

[2]Köpke:Tieck's Leben, i. 193.

[3]Florentin, pp. 65, 80, 170, 195, 230, 310.

[4]Haym,Die romantische Schule, 509, 525, 663, &c.

[5]Caroline, i. 254, 259, 261.

[6]Caroline, i. 393.

[7]Caroline, i. 347, 348.

[8]Caroline, ii. 2.

[9]Caroline, ii. 237.

The Romanticists themselves were by no means satisfied withLucinde. Novalis has most to say in its favour. He is of opinion that there are few such personal books; it seems to him that in it all the workings of the author's mind may be observed as distinctly as the play of chemical forces during the dissolution of a lump of sugar in a glass of water. He is somewhat disturbed by the species of delusion prevailing throughout the work, which makes man, the thinking being, a mere natural force, and which takes such possession of the reader that he finds himself deeply interested in what is simply sensual instinct. Moreover, the whole is not simple enough, not sufficiently free from pedantry. Yet "Romantic chords" are not lacking, and it is not so much the matter as the form to which he objects.

He writes at once to Caroline Schlegel: "There is nothing to object to in the ideas, but in the manner of expressing them there is a good deal which strikes me as being borrowed from Krates [the cynic]. The cry, 'Be cynical!' is not yet heard among us, and even really advanced women will blame the beautiful Athenian for having made the market-place her bridal chamber."

Quite true; only it was not the luckless Dorothea who was to blame for the profanation, even though she did not feel incensed by the public exhibition, as we do on her behalf; her lord and master was alone to blame.

We have seen that Caroline soon allowed her satirical wit free play in writing ofLucinde; and A. W. Schlegel, Schelling, Steffens, and the others privately regarded it as anenfant terrible, whatever their public utterances may have been. A. W. Schlegel indeed wrote, in a sonnet to Friedrich:—

"Dich führt zur Dichtung Andacht brünst'ger Liebe,Du willst zum Tempel dir das Leben bilden,Wo Götterrecht die Freiheit lös' und binde.Und dass ohn' Opfer der Altar nicht bliebe,Entführtest Du den himmlischen Gefilden,Die hohe Gluth der leuchtenden Lucinde."[1]

And when Kotzebue published the comedy,Der hyperboräische Esel, which satirises Friedrich and his book, August Wilhelm responded with the witty satire,Ehrenpforte für den Präsidenten von Kotzebue; but privately he called the book a "foolish rhapsody." Tieck called it "eine wunderliche Chimäre," and even Schleiermacher attempted to disavow his authorship of theLetters on the Subject of Lucinde, after his inclination to a species of sensual mysticism had given place to a Protestant-rationalistic tendency. Nevertheless, or rather, for this very reason, it is of importance that we should inquire into the nature of these letters, which were written with the aim of provingLucindeto be, not merely an innocent, but a good and holy book, the worth of which is testified to by the delight which high-minded women take in it. On the letters of two such women, his sister, Ernestine, and his friend, Eleonore Grunow, Schleiermacher's own are based.

There is little of general interest for us nowadays in these letters, so we shall only notice their salient points. AsLucindeis the solitary contribution of Romanticism towards the solution of a social problem, and as marriage is almost the only social question grappled with by literature generally at the beginning of the century (Goethe'sWanderjahrealone, in the manner of Rousseau's romances, occupying itself with a wider range of such questions), it will be of interest to compare the utterances of the different European literatures on this subject.

Schleiermacher's book is an attack upon prudery. At the very beginning he writes: "I was almost inclined to believe that you had become a prude; if you had, I should have entreated you to go and settle in England, to which country I should like to banish the whole genus." And one division of the book is entirely devoted to an analysis of that false modesty which precludes true modesty, and causes so much unnecessary misery.

"The anxious and narrow-minded modesty by which society at the present day is characterised, has its root in the consciousness of a great and general wrongheadedness and depravity. But where is it to end? It is bound to spread farther and farther. If people are perpetually on the lookout for what is immodest, they will end by discovering it in every domain of thought, and all conversation and social intercourse must cease.... utter depravation and the perfect education by which man returns to innocence, both do away with modesty; in the first case true modesty, as well as false, is destroyed; in the second, it ceases to be a thing to which much attention is paid or much importance attached.[2]

"Is it not the case, dear child, that everything spiritual in man has its beginning in an instinctive, vague, inward impulse, which only the action of the individual, frequently repeated, develops into definite, conscious will and a perfected faculty. Not until they have developed so far can there be any question of a lasting connection between these inward impulses and definite objects. Why should love be different from everything else? Is it reasonable to expect the highest faculty of man to be perfect from the first? Should it be easier to love than to eat and drink? Surely in love too there must be preparatory attempts, from which nothing permanent results, but which all tend to make the feeling more distinct and more noble. The connection of these attempts with any definite object is merely accidental, at first often purely imaginary, and always ephemeral—as ephemeral as the feeling itself, which soon gives place to one more clearly defined and intense. Inquire of the most mature and highly cultivated men and women; you will find that they smile at the thought of their first love as at any other laughable childish performance, and often live in complete indifference side by side with the object of it. According to the nature of things it must be so, and to insist upon faithfulness and a lasting connection is as dangerous as it is foolish."

Schleiermacher naturally warns his correspondent against what he calls the chimera of the holiness of first love: "Do not believe that everything depends upon something coming of it. The novels which support this idea, and make love between the same two beings develop uninterruptedly from its first raw beginning to its highest perfection, are as hurtful as they are silly; and their authors, as a rule, have as little understanding of love as they have of art.... When the more or less indefinite love longing settles upon a definite object, there necessarily arises a definite connection, and a point of closest approach. When this point has been reached and you feel that it is not the right one, not one that can be held, what is there left for you to do but to part again? Only after such an attempt has been completed as an attempt, that is to say, after the connection has been broken off, can the memory of it and reflection upon it produce a truer understanding of the longing and feeling, and thus prepare for another and better attempt. Is there any obligation to make the next with the same person? Upon what can such an obligation be founded?I, for my part, consider this more unnatural than love between brother and sister. Allow yourself perfect liberty, then; endeavouring only to preserve a pure-minded, clear feeling that it is merely an experiment, so that you may be prevented from sanctioning and perpetuating that which is not intended to be more, by that self-surrender which, from its nature, ought to mark the end of experiments and the beginning of a true and lasting love. Such a mistake, which is both the consequence and the cause of the most miserable delusions, you must regard as the most terrible thing that can happen to you; I would have you understand that this is in reality allowing one's self to be seduced. When you have found true love, and feel yourself to have reached the point at which you can perfect your character and make your life beautiful and worthy, diffidence and fear of the last and most precious seal of union will seem to you pure affectation. The only danger lies in the fact that every attempt, from its very nature, aims at reaching this point. The point of sufficiency can only be discovered by satiety. But if you are healthy in mind and heart, you will, as often as one of these attempts to love approaches this point, feel an aversion which is something far higher and holier than any law, or than what generally goes by the name of modesty and chastity."

SCHLEIERMACHER

Sound and sensible reflections, one and all, but neither exhaustive nor applicable to what are the real difficulties of the case. Schleiermacher warns against mistakes, but cannot remedy them, without infringing upon the sanctity of marriage, which he never calls in question. For what is to be done when the mistake has already been made? And what when it has been on one side only, when only the love of the one has grown cold, while that of the other still endures? And he does not give a word or a thought to the fact that marriage, as a social institution, does not exist for the sake of the lovers, that its original intention was to secure the father's property for the children, and that it has continued to exist because it seemed to society the only means of protecting the rising generation. Schleiermacher, the idealist, would fain discover a new moral foundation, and entirely overlooks the real, the practical difficulties. How characteristic of the nation to which the author belongs is all this pondering over feeling! An Italian once said to me: "What astonishes us most in the emotional life of the Teutonic nations is their conception and cult of love. With them love is positively a religion, something in which a good man is bound to believe. And this religion has its theology, and its philosophy, and what not. We simply love, and no more about it." I thought of this speech when reading Schleiermacher. How much ingenuity he exhibits in proving that men should not allow themselves to be disturbed by false theories when they love, and what a steadfast belief in the love which is to "complete and perfect the character," lies at the foundation of it all! It is instructive to compare with Schleiermacher's some utterances by great authors of other nations on the same subject; they throw what is peculiarly national in his into more marked relief.

George Sand, whose first novels are the expression of the same movement in France whichLucindeinaugurates in Germany, says, by the mouth of the principal characters inJacquesandLucrezia Floriani: "Paul and Virginia were able to love each other steadily and undisturbedly; for they were children brought up by the same mother. Our surroundings have been too utterly unlike.... If two beings are to understand each other always, and to be united by an unchangeable love, their characters as children must have been formed by a similar education, they must have the same beliefs, the same turn of mind, even the same manners and habits. But we, the distressed offspring of a turbulent and corrupt society, which behaves to her disunited children like a stepmother, and is more cruel in her periods of savagery than actual savages are, how can we wonder, after such great outward divisions, at the perpetual divisions of hearts and the impossibility of inward harmony."

Obviously George Sand is considerably less persuaded than Schleiermacher of the probability or possibility of the individual's meeting with that "right one," love for whom perfects. Jacques says: "I am still persuaded that marriage is one of the most barbarous institutions of society. I doubt not that it will be abolished when the human race makes further progress towards justice and reason; a more human and not less sacred tie will take its place and will ensure the well-being of the children without fettering the freedom of the parents. But as yet men are too barbarous and women too cowardly to demand a nobler law than the iron one by which they are now ruled. Beings destitute of conscience and virtue need heavy chains. The improvements of which some generous spirits dream, cannot be realised in such an age as ours; these spirits forget that they are a hundred years in advance of their contemporaries, and that before they change the law, they must change mankind." Jacques says to his bride on their wedding day: "Society is about to dictate an oath to you. You are about to swear to be faithful and obedient to me, that is to say, never to love any one but me, and to obey me in all things. One of these vows is an absurdity, the other a disgrace."

The idea expressed by George Sand in all these books is, that to preserve the outward semblance of love, by caresses, &c., after it has ceased to exist, is what constitutes real immorality in love. Jacques says: "I have never forced my imagination to rekindle or reanimate a feeling in my soul which I no longer found there. I have never looked upon love as a duty, constancy as a rôle. When I have felt that love was extinguished in my soul I have said so, without being either ashamed or conscience-stricken." AndLucrezia Florianisays, still more emphatically: "Not one of all the passions to which I have yielded naively and blindly, seemed to me so guilty as the one which I was endeavouring, contrary to my feeling, to make lasting."

The French authoress looks upon unchangeable love for one and the same person as a possibility only, dependent upon certain conditions; and her idea of love is not, like Schleiermacher's, that it is the highest educational force, but that, as an irresistible natural force, a possessing passion, it is beautiful, the most beautiful thing in life. Institutions must adapt themselves to it, since it cannot change its nature to suit institutions. A disciple of Rousseau, she champions the cause of nature.

Let us now glance at one of the works of a contemporary English writer of the same tendencies, at Shelley'sQueen Mab. In the notes he has appended to this poem we come upon a third variation of the opposition to prevailing opinions. Shelley says: "Love is inevitably consequent upon the perception of loveliness. Love withers under constraint: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear: it is there most pure, perfect, and unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, equality, and unreserve.... A husband and wife ought to continue so long united as they love each other: any law which should bind them to cohabitation for one moment after the decay of their affection would be a most intolerable tyranny, and the most unworthy of toleration. How odious an usurpation of the right of private judgment should that law be considered which should make the ties of friendship indissoluble, in spite of the caprices, the inconstancy, the fallibility, and capacity for improvement of the human mind. And by so much would the fetters of love be heavier and more unendurable than those of friendship, as love is more vehement and capricious, more dependent on those delicate peculiarities of imagination, and less capable of reduction to the ostensible merits of the object.... Love is free: to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed.... The present system of constraint does no more, in the majority of instances, than make hypocrites or open enemies. Persons of delicacy and virtue, unhappily united to one whom they find it impossible to love, spend the loveliest season of their life in unproductive efforts to appear otherwise than they are, for the sake of the feelings of their partner or the welfare of their mutual offspring: those of less generosity and refinement openly avow their disappointment, and linger out the remnant of that union, which only death can dissolve, in a state of incurable bickering and hostility. The early education of their children takes its colour from the squabbles of the parents; they are nursed in a systematic school of ill-humour, violence, and falsehood.... The conviction that wedlock is indissoluble holds out the strongest of all temptations to the perverse: they indulge without restraint in acrimony, and all the little tyrannies of domestic life, when they know that their victim is without appeal.... Prostitution is the legitimate offspring of marriage and its accompanying errors. Women, for no other crime than having followed the dictates of a natural appetite, are driven with fury from the comforts and sympathies of society. It is less venial than murder.... Has a woman obeyed the instincts of unerring nature (sic!), society declares war against her, pitiless and eternal war: she must be the tame slave, she must make no reprisals; theirs is the right of persecution, hers the duty of endurance. She lives a life of infamy: the loud and bitter laugh of scorn scares her from all return. She dies of long and lingering disease: yetsheis in fault, she is the criminal, and society the pure and virtuous matron, who casts her as an abortion from her undefiled bosom!... Young men, excluded by the fanatical idea of chastity from the society of modest and accomplished women, associate with these vicious and miserable beings.... Chastity is a monkish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even than unintellectual sensuality; it strikes at the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than half of the human race to misery, that some few may monopolise according to law. A system could not well have been devised more studiously hostile to human happiness than marriage. I conceive that from the abolition of marriage the fit and natural arrangement of sexual intercourse would result. I by no means assert that the intercourse would be promiscuous: on the contrary, it appears, from the relation of parent to child, that this union is generally of long duration, and marked above all others with generosity and self-devotion.... In fact, religion and morality, as they now stand, compose a practical code of misery and servitude: the genius of human happiness must tear every leaf from the accursed book of God ere man can read the inscription on his heart. How would morality, dressed up in stiff stays and finery, start from her own disgusting image, should she look in the mirror of nature!"

Here again we have appeals to nature; but the standpoint is an entirely different one. Shelley, the enthusiastic atheist, attributes the principal miseries of social humanity to traditional religion. "Unerring" nature is the divinity he substitutes for the God of the Bible. He considers that man has the right to demand happiness, and, like a true Englishman, contends, without troubling much about the psychology of the matter, for the freedom of the individual from the compulsion of external law. Schleiermacher warns against what isfoolish, because, once the foolish step is taken, it is binding; but he, the Protestant pastor, only indirectly incites to revolt. George Sand rebels against what isdishonourable. In the ethical creed of the French authoress honour plays the same part that wisdom does in Schleiermacher's; it is by the mouth of Jacques, her ideal of manly honour, that she protests in the name of the honour of humanity. Shelley stands forth as the champion of personal liberty; it isthraldomthat he desires to abolish. The English apostle of liberty, soon to be an exile, unhesitatingly attacks the institutions of society. George Sand never directly attacked marriage. She actually says in the introduction toMauprat: "It is husbands I have attacked, and if I am asked what I propose to substitute for them, I answer —marriage." But Shelley, who takes cognisance of all evils from the social and political standpoint, proposes to improve humanity by legislation, being persuaded that the state is bound to secure as much liberty of action as possible to the individual as citizen.

It is obvious that, of these three representatives of the same idea, Schleiermacher is the most profound thinker and the most reserved. In his estimation character is of the first importance, in George Sand's, the heart, and in Shelley's, happiness. These three great writers are the spokesmen of three great nations, and by comparing them we are better able to understand the character of the whole movement which begins at the beginning of the century, but which can neither settle into shape nor produce good and tranquillising results until the intellectual and social emancipation of woman has advanced so far that she is independent of social prejudices, knows her own needs, and is in a position to supply them.

[1]It is the sacred ardour of love that makes of thee a poet; thou aimest at transforming life into a temple, where divine right binds and looses. And that the altar may not lack a victim, thou hast stolen from heaven the noble ardour of the glorious Lucinde.

[2]Briefe über die Lucinde, pp. 64, 83.

In hisLetters on Lucinde, Schleiermacher, the high-minded and honourable, brought all his intelligence to bear upon the task of finding something complete, something sensible, in the book. He read his personal opinions into it. But his position was a false one. He was trying, by means of the discussion of an unreal book, to settle a real question, trying to base a freer, higher moral code upon a work which, instead of doing what it professed to do, namely, proving the possibility of transforming life into poetry, simply retailed the fantastic performances of a few talented individuals, interspersing reflections on the poetry in a wild, extravagant reality.

Lucindewas hollow at the core. And this hollow, empty idealism is a feature common to all the many ramifications of Romanticism. Goethe's Prometheus cries to Zeus: "Didst thou imagine that I would loathe life, that I would flee into the wilderness, because all my dream-blossoms did not mature?" Thus speaks a Prometheus, thus a Goethe. But it was only natural that this emotional, inactive young generation should produce a group of authors who, just because "all their dream-blossoms did not mature," in desperate dissatisfaction with reality grasped at empty air and pursued shadows, which they obstinately persisted in trying to endow with corporeal existence, maintaining that art and poetry and their element and organ, imagination, are alone essential and living, but that all else (in other words, real life) is, as vulgar prose, meaningless, nay evil, in the eyes of genius.[1]

And yet the earliest preachers of this new doctrine were far from being wild or defiant. The first countenance which meets our gaze is, on the contrary, peculiarly gentle, one of the purest and mildest in all modern literature—the pale, noble face of Wackenroder.

The Romantic enthusiasm for art first found expression in a delicate little work from the pen of an ardent youth, whose life was shortened by the conflict between his burning desire to live for art, and the obligation laid upon him by his father to pursue a practical calling. He died, his powers entirely exhausted, in his twenty-fifth year. His life was like the mild, gentle breeze, which on a day in the early spring warms the air, and tempts forth the first flowers. His letters to Tieck, who was his intimate friend, and for whom he had an unbounded admiration, reveal an almost girlish affection for that more virile and notable man.

In every library of any importance one is sure to find a small, beautifully printed and bound book, published in 1797, entitledHerzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden Klosterbruders("Heart Outpourings of an Art-Loving Friar"). The author's name is not given. As vignette there is a head of Raphael, who, with the great eyes, full lips, and slender neck given him in this portrait, looks like some highly intellectual Christian devotee of Venus, far advanced in consumption. The inscription below the picture is not simply Raphael, but "the divine Raphael," i.e. the Raphael of the Romanticists. This dainty little book is, as it were, the primary cell of the whole Romantic structure; round it the later productions group themselves. Though not the offspring of a vigorous creative power, its germinative force proved wonderfully great. It is a book which contains nothing but ivy-like, twining ideas, nothing but passive impressions; but the wax upon which these impressions are stamped is so pure that the impressions are firm and clear. The title does not mislead; the author pours out his heart in a stream of fervent and religious enthusiasm for art, giving expression to a few simple ideas in a simple, untheoretical manner. The book is not the product of a great or epoch-making mind; but it has one great virtue, it is original. To the Friar the only allowable attitude towards art is that of devotion; great artists are in his eyes blessed, holy saints. His admiration for them is that of an adoring child.

More than once in the course of the book Tieck has collaborated with Wackenroder; but the simple autobiography of the young musician, Joseph Berglinger, is entirely Wackenroder's work. The delicate refinement of Berglinger's character reminds us of Joseph Delorme, the fictitious personage in whom the young, Romantic, Sainte-Beuve described himself. Berglinger is Wackenroder. Like Wackenroder he opposes the determination of his father that he is not to become an artist, and simultaneously carries on an even harder struggle with himself in the matter of his position towards art. What troubles him is a fear, which curiously enough meets young Romanticism here on the very threshold, like the shadow of its fate, the fear of being incapacitated for real life by too entire absorption in art. Rückert has given masterly expression to the idea in the following lines:—

"Die Kinder, lieber Sohn, der GaukelschwertverschluckerIn Madras üben sich nicht an Confekt und Zucker,Von Bambus lernen sie die Spitzen zu verschlingen,Um wachsend in der Kunst es his zum Schwert zu bringen.Willst Du als Mann das Schwert der Wissenschaft verdaun,Musst Du als Jüngling nicht Kunstzuckerbrödchen kaun."[2]

Joseph expresses it thus: Art is a tempting, forbidden fruit; he who has once tasted its sweet, innermost juice is irrevocably lost to the acting, living world. The soul which art has enervated is perplexed and helpless face to face with reality. Joseph himself is only delivered from this distressing mental condition when glorious music raises him high above the troubles of this earth. But he is at the mercy of his moods, and fittingly likens his soul to the "Æolian harp, whose strings vibrate to a breath that comes one knows not whence, and on which the changing breezes play at will." Music was the art Wackenroder loved and understood best; in his posthumousFancies on the Subject of Arthe places it above all the others.

Wackenroder resembled Novalis in constitution, but had even less capacity for resistance to the storms of life. He was good-natured and credulous to a degree, with a genuine Romantic credulity, which saw mysteries and miracles everywhere. This inclination of his led to practical jokes being played upon him by his comrades—though they too were all more or less liable to hallucinations and disposed to put faith in miracles. An account of one such trick has been preserved, such an anecdote as only the biography of a Romanticist could supply. Indeed, to understand the theories of the Romanticists, it is necessary to see the men themselves in their everyday life and at their desks.—Wackenroder was a diligent student, and never willingly missed a lecture. Two of his less conscientious friends went to his room during the hour of a certain lecture, knowing that he would be absent, and tied a dog, in a sitting posture, to the chair in front of the writing-table. Both paws were carefully placed on a huge folio which lay open on the table. The clever animal, accustomed to such performances, sat quietly in this ludicrous position while the two friends hid in an adjoining room to watch the development of their plot. Returning earlier than usual to fetch some papers he had forgotten, Wackenroder stood motionless with astonishment, gazing at the dog and its learned occupation. Fearful of neglecting his duty, and unwilling to put an end to the marvellous apparition, he gently lifted his papers from the table and left the room. In the evening, no one else seeming inclined to talk, he suddenly broke the silence by saying impressively: "Friends, I must tell you a most marvellous thing. Our Stallmeister (the dog) can read."[3]Does not this read like a scene from Tieck'sPuss in Bootsor Hoffmann's story of the dog Berganza? Do not these books, grotesquely unreal as they are, seem actual transcripts from the private lives of the Romanticists? InKater Murr, the cat says: "Nothing in my master's room attracted me more than the writing-table, which was strewn with books, manuscripts, and all manner of remarkable instruments. I might call this table the magic circle into which I was irresistibly drawn, all the time feeling a kind of holy awe, which prevented me from at once yielding to my inclination. At last, one day, when my master was absent, I overcame my fear and sprang upon the table. What joy to sit in the midst of the papers and books and rummage about amongst them!" Then the cat dexterously opens a large book with its paws and endeavours to comprehend the printed signs. At the very moment, however, when it seems to feel a wonderful spirit taking possession of it, it is surprised by its master who, with the cry: "Confounded animal!" rushes at it with uplifted stick. But he immediately starts back, exclaiming: "Cat! cat! you are reading! Nay, that I may not and will not forbid. What a marvellous desire for knowledge you have been born with!"

Such a scene cannot strike us as unnatural in a purely fanciful tale, when we have learned what could happen in real life. We seem to see the rainbow of fantastic imagination stretching its arch over the whole Romantic movement, from its first mild, though earnest, herald to its last weird, mannered exponent, from Wackenroder to Hoffmann. When, in the Life of Tieck, we find innumerable records of similar hallucinations, we begin to suspect that there is nothing, however fantastic, to be found in the Romanticists' writings which their fevered vision did not persuade them that they saw in real life.

It is exceedingly interesting to observe, not only the influence which Wackenroder's moods and emotions exercise upon Tieck, but also the part which the latter, thus influenced, takes in Wackenroder's work. The first thing which strikes one is, that Tieck, hitherto able only during the emancipating moments of production to rouse himself out of dark, William Lovell-like moods and give his rich talent free play, learns from Wackenroder to believe in imagination and art as mighty powers in human life, thereby arriving at the only firm basis for a philosophy of life to which he ever attained. The second is, that he, the less independent spirit of the two, following in Wackenroder's footsteps, accentuates all his tendencies, carrying them to wildly fantastic, yet natural conclusions.

It is in those portions of theHerzensergiessungenin which Tieck collaborated, that the Roman Catholic tendency appears undisguisedly. It was Tieck who made the painter Antonio worship, not art alone, but also "the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Apostles"; and Tieck's is the dictum, that true love of art must be a "religious love or a beloved religion." But most remarkable of all as a biographical document is a letter, which, though repudiated by Tieck, was certainly written by him, the letter in which a young man, a disciple of Albert Dürer, who has come to Rome to study art, describes his conversion to Catholicism. It takes place in St. Peter's. "The sonorous Latin chants, which, rising and falling, penetrated the swelling waves of music like ships making their way through the waves of the sea, raised my soul higher and ever higher. When the music had pervaded my entire being and was flowing through all my veins, I roused myself from inward contemplation and looked around me, and the whole temple seemed to me to be alive, so intoxicated was I with the music. At this moment it ceased; a priest advanced to the high-altar, and with impressive gesture lifted high the Host in view of the assembled multitude. All sank upon their knees, and trumpets and I know not what mighty instruments crashed and boomed the spirit of adoration into my very soul. Then all at once it seemed to me as though that whole kneeling multitude were praying for the salvation of my soul, and I mingled my prayer with theirs."

This passage is of peculiar importance because it contains a conclusive proof (one overlooked by that most thorough of observers and critics, Hettner) that the tendency to Catholicism had its root in the very first principle of the Romantic movement. Both Hettner and Julian Schmidt attach too much importance to the fact that Schlegel, as an old man, in his well-known letter to a French lady, ascribes this Catholic tendency simply to aprédilection d'artiste. For the reason, the origin, of the artistic predilection is to be found in the original revulsion from the rational.

But the tendency in the direction of Catholicism was not the only one of Wackenroder's tendencies which was immediately seized upon and exaggerated by Tieck and his school. In theFantasien über die KunstWackenroder praises music as the art of arts, the art which above all others is capable of condensing and preserving the emotions of the human heart, of teaching us "to feel feeling." What else, what more, did the Romanticists feel? This exactly suited Tieck. Wackenroder proclaims the superiority of music over poetry, and affirms that the language of music is the richer of the two. To whom could this appeal as much as to the man whose poems are rather an expression of the moods in which poetry is written than poetry itself, rather moods of art than works of art?

Tieck goes further than Wackenroder, and from music selects instrumental music as that in which alone art is really free, emancipated from all the restraints of the outer world. Hoffman too, musician as well as poet, calls instrumental music the most romantic of all the arts; and it may be mentioned as a striking instance of the coherence which invariably exists between the great intellectual phenomena of an age, as a proof of the fact that the Romanticists, with all their supposed and all their real independence and spontaneity, were unconsciously yielding to and following an inevitable general tendency, that it is just at this time that Beethoven emancipates instrumental music, and raises it to its highest development.

Enthusiasm for musical intensity and fervour having thus found its way into literature, Tieck soon arrives at the point of regarding emotional, melodious sound as the only true, the only pure poetry. HisLove Story of Fair Mageloneis a good example of this. Even in the prose portions of the tale everything rings and resounds—the hero's emotions and the landscape which serves as a background for them. The Count hears none of the sounds around him; for "the music within him drowned the rustling of the trees and the splashing of the fountains." But this inward music in its turn is drowned by the sweet strains of real instruments. "The music flowed like a murmuring brook, and he saw the charm of the Princess come floating upon the silver stream, saw its waves kiss the hem of her garment.... Music was now the only movement, the only life in nature." Then the music dies away. "Like a stream of blue light" it disappears into the void; and forthwith the knight himself begins to sing.

In the "Garden of Poesy," of which we read inZerbino, roses and tulips, birds and the azure of the skies, fountains and storms, streams and spirits, all sing. We read inBluebeardthat "the flowers kissed each other melodiously." In this literature everything has its music—the moonlight, scents, painting; and then on the other hand we read of the beams, the fragrance, and the shapes of music: "They sang with melodious throats, keeping time with the music of the moonbeams." The Romanticists had turned their backs upon material reality. Definite, corporeal form, nay, even a distinct representation of mental conditions was impossible to them. This was not what they aimed at. In their eyes tangibility was coarse and vulgar. Every distinct feature melts away in a sort of dissolving view. They are afraid of losing in profundity and infinity what they might possibly gain in restraint and plastic power.

All the masters of the school agree on this point. First and foremost we have Novalis. HisHymns to Night, and indeed all his lyrics, are night and twilight poetry, in the dusk of which no distinct outlines are possible. His psychological aim was, as he himself says, to fathom the nameless, unconscious powers of the soul. Therefore his æsthetic theory is, that language ought to become musical, to become song again; and he also maintains that in a poetical work there need be no unity except that of spirit, that unity of idea or action is unnecessary. "One can imagine," he says, "tales without more coherence than the different stages of a dream, poems which are melodious and full of beautiful words, but destitute of meaning or connection; at most, comprehensible stanzas here and there, like fragments of perfectly unrelated things. This true poetry can of course only have a general allegorical significance and an indirect effect, like music."

How entirely this harmonises with the theories of Friedrich Schlegel! Schlegel, whose nature was a series of moods, who had not strength of will to carry out any plan, whose own career resembles an arabesque beginning with a thyrsus and ending with a cross composed of a knife and fork, says: "The arabesque, the simple musical swaying of the line itself, is the oldest, the original form in which human imagination takes shape. Its contours are no more definite than those of the clouds in the evening sky."

The saying is apt when applied, not to imagination in general, but to the imagination of the Romanticists. Tieck's lyrics resemble Goethe's as the clouds on the horizon resemble snow-clad mountains. Our attitude to the lyric poetry of the Romanticists resembles that of Polonius to the cloud: "Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?—By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed.—Methinks it is like a weasel.—It is backed like a weasel.—Or like a whale?—Very like a whale." In Novalis, in the poems at any rate, we have still tangible, distinct artistic form, in Tieck's writings everything floats in a sort of mist or vapour of form supposed to correspond to the mysterious, expectant fervour of the theme. The work of art is stayed and fixed in its first, embryonic, vapour-ball stage. This elementary product of the imagination is designated primitive poetry. In order to reduce clearly defined poetic art once more to primeval poetry, all definite forms must be dissolved and kneaded together. Tieck preferred those works of the great poets which they wrote before their style was developed, or which they chose to leave tolerably formless (he confesses that not one of Shakespeare's plays produced such an impression on him asPericles, only part of which is genuine), and he himself, following in the track ofPericles, produced such works asGenovevaandOctavian, in which the epic, lyric, and dramatic styles are all minced up together.

This medley of styles was adopted in Denmark. It was well suited to the subject of Oehlenschläger'sSt. Hans Aßen Spiland fairly so to that of hisAladdin; sometimes it produced very unsuccessful results, as in the case of Hauch'sHamadryaden.

So great is Tieck's formlessness, so impossible is it to him (in his Romantic period) to condense, that he is inefficient even in pure lyric poetry. He may talk much of music and of the music of words, but he is wanting in the gift of rhythm; he does not seem to have had a correct ear. A. W. Schlegel was infinitely Tieck's superior in this respect, as is proved by his admirable translations of the songs inAs You Like It. But of Tieck and most of the Romanticists it is true that, in spite of all their talk of melodious style, they themselves were only melodious when they reverted to those southern measures, to the exact rules of which they were obliged to conform. They filled in the framework of sonnet and canzonet as ladies fill in with embroidery an outline designed upon canvas, crowding in rhymes in such superabundance that the meaning was often swamped by them. Tieck writes inMagelone:—

"Errungen,BezwungenVon Lieb ist das Glück,VerschwundenDie Stunden,Sie fliehen zurück;Und selige LustSie stillet,ErfülletDie trunkene, wonneklopfende Brust."

In Baggesen'sFaustwe find the following rather overdone parody of this Romantic jingle:—

"Mit Ahnsinn Wahnsinn, lächelndweinend,Einend—Mit Schiefe, Tiefe, dunkelmeinend,Scheinend—Der Enge Läng' entflammt in weiten Breiten,Muss licht der Dichter durch die Zeiten gleiten."

And it was not only metres that the Romanticists borrowed from the Spaniards and Italians, but all kinds of technical tricks. They naively set to work to produce a lyrical picture with the assistance of assonances and tragic vowel sounds. Every vowel and consonant in the alphabet was pressed into the service in turn. Forty sonorous as in succession are supposed to induce a cheerful frame of mind in the reader, and a score or so of sombre, mournful us make his flesh creep. Take as an example Tieck's melancholy U-Romance of old Sir Wulf, who is carried off by the devil. In it he goes the length of usingbegunnteinstead ofbegannfor the sake of tragic effect. When the reader's nerves have been narcotised for half-an-hour by such terminations as Unke—Sturme—hinunter—begunnte—verdunkeln —verschlungen—Wulfen—Münze gulden—grossen Kluften-rucke, Drucke—thuen, Zünften—lugen—bedunken—tiefen Brünsten—vielen Unken, die heulten und wunken—zu dem Requiem des todten Wulfen, den der dunkle Satan mit vielen Wunden—erschlüge—when nothing but u-tu-tu is sounding in his ears, he has reached the climax, language has become music, and he floats off on the stream of an emotional mood. It is in drama that this vowel-music is most comical. In Friedrich Schlegel'sAlarkos, that arsenal of assonances and alliterations, the hero sometimes for two or three pages in succession ends every line with the same vowel:—

"Ihr Männer all', Pilaster dieser alten Burg,Genossen, Tapfre! die umkränzt mein Ritterthum,Dess Glorie wir oft neu gefärbt mit hoher LustIn unsres kühnen Herzens eignem heissen Blut—Die alte Ehr' in tiefer Brust, der lichte Ruhm,Dem festen Aug' in Nacht der einzig helle Punkt,So folgten Einem Stern wir all' vereint im Bund;Der Bund ist nun zerschlagen durch den herben Fluch,Der mich im Strudel fortreisst fremd' und eigner Schuld.—Mich zwingt, von hier zu eilen, ein geheimer Ruf,Nach fernen Orten muss ich in drei Tagen, mussEin gross Geschäft vollenden, und die Frist ist kurz."

And on it goes—Burg, Lust, Muth, Schutz, Kund, Brust, Furcht, und, Ruhms, thun, Bund, uns, &c., &c. One derives quite as much satisfaction from the assonances alone as from the complete lines. WhenAlarkoswas performed in Weimar and the audience burst into uproarious laughter, Goethe rose from his place in the stalls, cried in a voice of thunder: "Man lache nicht!" and signalled to the police that all who continued to laugh were to be turned out. We who readAlarkosnow, are thankful that no one has the right to turn us out.

The reason why the Romanticists subjected themselves to all this metrical restraint is not far to seek. These compulsory, cold metres exactly suit writers in whom metrical skill is combined with a complete lack of inventive power. Butterza rima, ottava rima, and sonnets are an insufficient disguise for the formlessness of their matter. When the mist is so thick that it can be cut with a knife, the Romanticists cut it into fourteen pieces and call it a sonnet.

In the unrestricted metres, formlessness and prosiness reach a climax. What, for instance, can be said for such lines as the following, from Tieck'sRömische Reise?—

"Weit hinter uns liegt Rom,Auch mein Freund ist ernst,Der mit mir nach Deutschland kehrt,Der mit allen Lebens KräftenSich in alte und neue Kunst gesenkt,Der edle Rumohr,Dess Freundschaft ich in mancher kranken StundeTrost und Erheiterung danke."[4]

That well-known drastic critic of the Romanticists, Arnold Ruge, supplied an appendix to this, which runs:—

"Hochgeehrter Herr Hofrath!Dieser unmittelbaren Lyrik,Das verzeihn Sie gütigst, weiss ichMit dem besten Willen,Sowohl in alter als in neuer Poesie,Nichts zur Seite zu stellen,Als etwa diesenSchwachen Versuch einer freien Nachbildung."[5]

But the attempt to make away with language in favour of music reaches a climax when Tieck goes so far as to endow music itself, or musical instruments, with the power of speech. Occasionally the result is comical, as inSternbald(first edition), where the instruments all talk, the flute saying:—

"Unser Geist ist himmelblau,Führt Dich in die blaue Ferne.Zarte Klänge locken Dich,Ein Gemisch von andern Tönen.Lieblich sprechen wir hinein,Wenn die ändern munter singen,Deuten blaue Berge, Wolken,Lieben Himmel sänftlich an,Wie der letzte leise GrundHinter grünen frischen Baümen."[6]

This train of thought received its most classic expression in the poem with whichPhantasusends, the theme of which is, in the manner of Calderon, repeated with innumerable variations:—

"Liebe denkt in süssen Tönen,Denn Gedanken stehn zu fern,Nur in Tönen mag sie gernAlles, was sie will, verschönen.Drum ist ewig uns zugegen,Wenn Musik mit Klängen spricht,Ihr die sprache nicht gebricht,Holde Lieb' auf allen Wegen;Liebe kann sich nicht bewegen,Leihet sie den Odem nicht."[7]

This superhuman love, which differs from ordinary human love in being unable to employ language as an organ, finds absolutely appropriate expression in music; language is only employed to condemn itself and to declare that it cedes its place to music. To such a degree of subtlety and ultrarefinement does the Romantic spirit gradually lead.

The next step is that which Tieck takes in his comedy,Die verkehrte Welt("The Topsy-Turvy World"), namely, the employing of language exclusively on account of its musical qualities. To this comedy there is prefixed as overture a symphony, which, in its essentially musical vagueness, displays really classic originality. Music had never been paraphrased into words in this manner before; hence the experiment is to this day regarded as distinctly typical. The man who has the courage to carry his madness to its final consequence, by doing so endows this madness, in which there is method, with living vigour.

SYMPHONYAndante in D Major."If we desire to enjoy ourselves, it is not of so much consequence how we do it, as that we really do it. From gravity we turn to gaiety; then, weary of gaiety, return to gravity; but let us observe ourselves too closely, in either case have our aim too constantly in view, and there's an end as well to real seriousness as to unaffected gaiety."Piano."But are reflections such as these appropriate in a symphony? Why begin so sedately? No! no indeed! I will rather at once set all the instruments to play together."Crescendo."I have only to will, but to will with intelligence; for the storm does not rise all at once, in a moment; it announces itself, it grows, thus awaking sympathy, awe, fear, and joy; otherwise it would but occasion empty amazement and fright. It is difficult to read at sight, how much more difficult, then, to hear at sight. But now we are right in the midst of the tumult. Bang, ye kettle-drums! Trumpets, crash!"Fortissimo."Ha! the turmoil, the onslaughts, the desperate strife of sounds! Whither are ye rushing? Whence do ye come? They plunge like heroes into the thickest of the fray; these fall, and expire; those return, wounded and faint, seeking consolation and friendship. Hark, the galloping, snorting horses! The organ rolls, like thunder among the mountains. There is a rush and a roar as when a cataract, despairingly seeking its own destruction, flings itself over the naked ledge and rages down, deeper and ever deeper down, into the bottomless abyss."* * * * * * * * * *Violino Primo Solo."What! It is not permissible, not possible, to think in sounds, and to make music in words and thoughts? Were it so, how hard would be the fate of us artists! What poor language, and still poorer music! Do ye not think many thoughts so delicate, so spiritual, that in despair they take refuge in music, there at last to find rest? How often does a whole day spent in racking thought leave nought behind but a buzz and a hum, which time alone changes into melody?"* * * * * * * * * *Forte.All is in order, the stage is arranged, the prompter in his place, the audience has arrived. Expectation is aroused, curiosity stirred; but few think of the end of the piece, and how they will then say, "Was it anything out of the ordinary?" Give good heed! You must, or 'twill all be confusion. Yet be not too eager, lest you should see and hear more than is meant! Hear and give heed! But give heed as you ought! O hark! Hark! Hark!! Hark!!![8]

SYMPHONY

Andante in D Major.

"If we desire to enjoy ourselves, it is not of so much consequence how we do it, as that we really do it. From gravity we turn to gaiety; then, weary of gaiety, return to gravity; but let us observe ourselves too closely, in either case have our aim too constantly in view, and there's an end as well to real seriousness as to unaffected gaiety."

Piano.

"But are reflections such as these appropriate in a symphony? Why begin so sedately? No! no indeed! I will rather at once set all the instruments to play together."

Crescendo.

"I have only to will, but to will with intelligence; for the storm does not rise all at once, in a moment; it announces itself, it grows, thus awaking sympathy, awe, fear, and joy; otherwise it would but occasion empty amazement and fright. It is difficult to read at sight, how much more difficult, then, to hear at sight. But now we are right in the midst of the tumult. Bang, ye kettle-drums! Trumpets, crash!"

Fortissimo.

"Ha! the turmoil, the onslaughts, the desperate strife of sounds! Whither are ye rushing? Whence do ye come? They plunge like heroes into the thickest of the fray; these fall, and expire; those return, wounded and faint, seeking consolation and friendship. Hark, the galloping, snorting horses! The organ rolls, like thunder among the mountains. There is a rush and a roar as when a cataract, despairingly seeking its own destruction, flings itself over the naked ledge and rages down, deeper and ever deeper down, into the bottomless abyss."

* * * * * * * * * *

Violino Primo Solo.

"What! It is not permissible, not possible, to think in sounds, and to make music in words and thoughts? Were it so, how hard would be the fate of us artists! What poor language, and still poorer music! Do ye not think many thoughts so delicate, so spiritual, that in despair they take refuge in music, there at last to find rest? How often does a whole day spent in racking thought leave nought behind but a buzz and a hum, which time alone changes into melody?"

* * * * * * * * * *

Forte.

All is in order, the stage is arranged, the prompter in his place, the audience has arrived. Expectation is aroused, curiosity stirred; but few think of the end of the piece, and how they will then say, "Was it anything out of the ordinary?" Give good heed! You must, or 'twill all be confusion. Yet be not too eager, lest you should see and hear more than is meant! Hear and give heed! But give heed as you ought! O hark! Hark! Hark!! Hark!!![8]

One sees that Kierkegaard, in his well-known essay onDon Juan(in the concluding chorus of which we seem to hear the footsteps of the Commandant—"Hör, hör, hör Mozart's Don Juan!"), is merely going a little farther in the direction indicated by Tieck; and it is very evident how close the relation is between Tieck's first conception of the romantic ideal and Hoffmann's transformations of music into the emotional outbursts and weird visions ofKreisleriana.

But Hoffmann, who possessed such great and original musical gifts that he can hardly be considered an author pure and simple, but must be treated as a poet-musician, was far more in earnest than Tieck in this matter of making music in words. He lived and moved and had his being in music; he was as fertile a composer as he was an author, and many of his writings are fantasies on the subject of music or of the great composers. When ill he was wont, in his feverish wanderings, to confuse his attendants with musical instruments. Of one who had a soft, languishing voice, he said: "I have been tormented to-day by the flute." Of another, with a deep bass voice: "That insufferable bassoon has been plaguing me the whole afternoon."

When he introduces Gluck into hisFantasiestücke, he makes him speak of the intervals as if they were living beings. "Once again it was night. Two giants in shining cuirasses rushed upon me—the Keynote and the Fifth! They seized me, but their eyes beamed mildly on me: 'I know what fills thy breast with longing; that gentle, winning youth, the Third, will soon appear among the giants.'" Kreisler too is made to talk of stabbing himself with a gigantic Fifth. What in the other Romanticists is fantastic sentimentality, in Hoffmann becomes weird burlesque.

In the sketch entitledKreisler's musikalisch poetischer Klub, he gives to the characteristic qualities of certain notes the names of colours, and thereby produces a picture of a connected series of mental impressions. He had the keen perception peculiar to certain delicately organised, nervous temperaments, of the relationship which undoubtedly exists between sounds and colours.

As an example of Hoffmann's advance on Tieck's attempts to express pure music in words, note the passage which describes how, after Kreisler has played, a marvellous rush of magnificent chords and runs is heard within the pianoforte itself. There is a genuinely Romantic blending of the impressions of the different senses in the attempt made to give some idea of this music: "Its fragrance shimmered in flaming, mysteriously interwoven circles." On this follows a representation, in emotional language, of the various keys and chords, a thing hitherto unattempted.

Chord of A Flat Minor(mezzo forte)."Ah!—they bear me away to the land of eternal longing; but as they lay hold of me, anguish awakes and rends my breast."E Major Sixth(ancora piu forte)."Stand steadfast, my heart! Break not, struck by the scorching ray that has pierced my breast. Be of good courage, my soul! Mount high into the element which gave thee birth and is thy home!"E Major Third(forte)."They have crowned me with a glorious crown, but the sparkles and flashes of its diamonds are the thousand tears I have shed, and in its gold gleam the flames that have consumed me. Courage and power, confidence and strength befit him who is called to reign in the spiritual realm."A Minor(harpeggiando dolce)."Why wouldst thou flee, lovely maiden? Thou canst not, for thou art held fast by invisible bands. Nor canst thou tell what it is that has taken up its abode in thy breast. 'Tis like a gnawing pain, yet it makes thee tremble with joy. But thou wilt know all when I talk to thee fondly in that spirit language which I can speak and thou canst understand...."E Flat Major(forte)."Follow him! follow him! His raiment is green like the green of the forest; the sweet tones of the horn echo in his wistful words! List to the rustling in the bushes, list to the horn blasts, full of rapture and pain! It is he! Let us hasten to meet him!"

Chord of A Flat Minor(mezzo forte).

"Ah!—they bear me away to the land of eternal longing; but as they lay hold of me, anguish awakes and rends my breast."

E Major Sixth(ancora piu forte).

"Stand steadfast, my heart! Break not, struck by the scorching ray that has pierced my breast. Be of good courage, my soul! Mount high into the element which gave thee birth and is thy home!"

E Major Third(forte).

"They have crowned me with a glorious crown, but the sparkles and flashes of its diamonds are the thousand tears I have shed, and in its gold gleam the flames that have consumed me. Courage and power, confidence and strength befit him who is called to reign in the spiritual realm."

A Minor(harpeggiando dolce).

"Why wouldst thou flee, lovely maiden? Thou canst not, for thou art held fast by invisible bands. Nor canst thou tell what it is that has taken up its abode in thy breast. 'Tis like a gnawing pain, yet it makes thee tremble with joy. But thou wilt know all when I talk to thee fondly in that spirit language which I can speak and thou canst understand...."

E Flat Major(forte).

"Follow him! follow him! His raiment is green like the green of the forest; the sweet tones of the horn echo in his wistful words! List to the rustling in the bushes, list to the horn blasts, full of rapture and pain! It is he! Let us hasten to meet him!"

Then finally we have the parody of all this inKater Murr, where Hoffmann reproduces caterwauling in verse, a glossary of the different sounds being provided.

It is in this entirely musical poetry that Wackenroder's idea of art attains to its truest and highest expression. The vigorous pantheism which in Goethe's case is plastic, and finds expression in the creation of theDiana der Epheser, here becomes musical. In all Tieck's early works, with their piety, their sensuality, their reminiscences of Wackenroder and of Goethe, we feel the rush of a strong, broad wave of Romantic pantheism. InSternbald, for example, he writes: "We often listen intently and peer into the future, in eager expectation of the new phenomena that will soon pass before us in motley, magic garb. At such times we feel as if the mountain stream were trying to sing its melody more clearly, as if the tongues of the trees were loosened, that their rustling might be to us intelligible song. Soon the flute-like notes of love are heard in the distance; our hearts beat high at his coming; time stands still as if arrested by a magic word; the shining moments dare not flee. We are enclosed, as it were, in a magic circle of melody, and rays of a new, transfigured existence penetrate like mysterious moonlight into our actual life." And again: "O impotent Art! how stammering and childish are thine accents compared with the full swelling organ tones that well forth from the inmost depths, from mountain and valley, forest and stream! I hear, I feel how the eternal World Spirit sweeps all the strings of the terrible harp with constraining fingers, how all the most diverse forms are born of his playing and speed throughout nature upon spirit wings. My little human heart in wild enthusiasm takes up the contest and fights itself weary and faint in its rivalry with the highest.... The eternal melody, jubilant and exultant, storms past me."

Both life and poetry are here resolved into music.

In all ages, and in every domain of art, the artist has at times been tempted to display his mastery over his material by defying it while using it. In the history of sculpture came a period when, irritated by the heaviness of stone, sculptors endeavoured to compel it to express lightness and airiness; or else, like the mannerists of the rococo period, imitated the art of the painter. In like manner the Romanticists would fain have language regarded only as a thing akin to music; their endeavour is to use words more for their sound than their meaning. They tried to make word-music, much as the prose authors of our own day try, with more or less success, to make word-pictures. It is not difficult to see what led to this particular crotchet. Their antipathy to purpose, their devotion to irony, naturally induced the desire not to be bound by, not to be responsible for, their words. They use them ironically, in such a manner that they can retract them. They will not have them standing solidly before them, indicating an aim, a purpose. Just as, by conceiving of liberty as licence, they succeeded in returning to a point where it was possible for them to do this, or to do that, as the fancy took them, so they succeeded, by conceiving of language simply as sound, in making it the vehicle of emotion without tendency, that is, without relation to life and action. They did not really escape tendency; that is an impossibility; but, as theirs was not the tendency upwards and onwards, they gravitated downwards and backwards. And, since they were perpetually compelling words to declare themselves incompetent and to abdicate in favour of music, it was only natural that the musical composers also, influenced by the spirit of the times, should endeavour to express the Romantic ideal in their art, with those means to which the poets in their impotence had constantly attempted to recur.

Tieck's dramatised fairy-tales, of whichBluebeardmay be taken as a specimen, have a great resemblance to opera libretti. The fantastic, legend-like productions of the Romanticists are, indeed, precisely the sort of thing demanded by opera. There would have been a future for Tieck as a writer of opera libretti. As a matter of fact, he only wrote one, and that one was never set to music. The theories of Romanticism nevertheless found due expression in music. E. T. A. Hoffmann represents the transition from Romantic authorship to Romantic musical composition. As an operatic composer, he is not only the musical interpreter of Calderon, the poet of past days most admired by the Romanticists, but also collaborates fraternally with contemporary Romanticists. He writes music for Brentano'sDie lustige Musikantenand Zacharias Werner'sDas Kreuz an der Ostsee, and bases an excellent three-act opera on Fouqué'sUndine.

As an operatic writer he is, however, less the musical genius than the gifted translator of poetry into the language of music. In the opinion of the most competent judges, he was only thoroughly successful with subjects which harmonised with his own literary leaning to the terrible and the supernatural. We have him at his best, for instance, in the songs of the wild, inhuman Teutons inDas Kreuz an der Ostsee, with their expression of untamable passions, and in the fairy tale-like, supernatural scenes ofUndine, which produce a feeling of agreeable eeriness.

No less an authority than Karl Maria von Weber bestowed hearty praise upon the last-mentioned opera. And Weber himself is, beyond comparison, the greatest of the composers who succeeded in giving expression in music to the Romantic theory of art. In his choice of themes he follows closely in the track of the Romanticists. InPreciosathe joys of a free, vagabond life are extolled, just as they are in Tieck'sFranz Sternbaldand Eichendorff'sLeben eines Taugenichts("Life of a Ne'er-Do-Well"). InOberonwe are transported into the fairy world of Shakespeare'sMidsummer Night's Dream, the play which served as the point of departure for all Tieck's fantastic comedies. And inDer Freischütz, Weber, like the Romanticists in their later periods, has recourse to the popular in his art, makes use of national, popular melodies, just as the Romanticists of Germany and Denmark made use of national, popular songs, and, like them, introduces popular traditions and superstitions. No one witnessing a performance ofDer Freischützin a German theatre could be for a moment in doubt, even though he were deaf, of its being a Romantic opera. He sees the gloomy ravine where the spirits of nature dwell, the weird moonlight dance (scenes that remind one of the temptations of St. Anthony in old Dutch paintings), and, finally, the wild chase in which, with a marvellously illusive effect, shadows projected by a species of magic lantern pursue each other through the air. But to the listening connoisseur the real interest lies in the attitude of the composer to all these external conditions. He feels that Weber treats his subject much as the Romanticists do theirs, only with greater genius. He too drives his art to one of its extremes. Just as the Romanticists are inclined to conceive of speech as only sound and rhythm, he is inclined to treat music as if it were simply rhythm. Samiel'sMotiv, for example, is more rhythmic than melodic, and consequently produces a coarser, more realistic, but also more picturesque effect. The Romanticists write musical poetry; Weber composes pictorial music. While Beethoven presents us with a purely psychological picture, represents nothing tangible, nothing but his own soul, Weber gives us physical characterisation. He always relies upon unmistakable outward phenomena, on something of which his audience already have a preconceived idea, as, for instance, fairies. Except in the Pastoral Symphony, Beethoven only paints the impression; Weber paints the thing itself. He imitates the sounds of nature. He makes the violins moan to represent the moaning of the trees; the rising of the moon is announced and depicted by a chord. When he gives us a rhythmic succession of non-resonant beats instead of waves of sound, i.e. makes a perfectly arbitrary abstract use of the vehicle of his art; when he confines himself to song and the simplest of harmonies, i.e. elects to be naïve and popular; or when, in order to obtain a grotesque, wild, or spectral effect, he gives instruments parts which lie outside their natural province and compass (for instance deep tones to the clarinets), i.e. employs the mediums of his art in a more strange and eccentric manner than they had ever been employed before—in all these cases he is a thorough-going Romanticist, one who, with his greater genius and far more suitable medium, supplies the shortcomings of which we are invariably conscious in the works of the Romantic poets.[9]

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