Salvator Rosa Quits Rome For Florence.The End Of This Story.
All things here below under the sun are subject to constant change and fluctuation, but there is nothing that more deserves to be called fickle and fleeting than mankind's opinions, which keep rotating in an eternal circle, like Fortune's wheel. Bitter censure falls to-day upon him who yesterday gathered a grand harvest of praise; he who walks to-day a-foot may to-morrow ride in a gilded chariot.
Who was there in all Rome who did not scorn and mock at old Capuzzi, with his mean avarice, his silly amorousness, his crazy jealousy?--or who did not wish the poor tormented Marianna her freedom? Yet now that Antonio had succeeded in carrying her off, all the scorn and mockery suddenly turned to pity for the poor old fellow who was seen creeping about the streets of Rome, with bowed head, inconsolable.
Misfortunes rarely come singly. Soon after Marianna had been carried off, Pasquale lost his dearest bosom friends. Little Pitichinaccio choked himself with an almond, which he incautiously tried to swallow as he was in the middle of acadenza; and a slip of the pen (of his own making) put a sudden period to the life of the renowned Pyramid-Doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni. Michele's cudgelling had such an effect on him that he fell into a fever. He determined to cure himself by a remedy which he believed he had discovered. He demanded pen and ink, and wrote a recipe, in which, by putting down a wrong fever, he enormously increased the quantity of a very powerful ingredient; so that as soon as he swallowed the medicine he fell back upon his pillow and was gone; proving, by his own death, the effect of this final tincture of his prescribing in the most striking and heroic manner.
As we have said, all who had previously laughed the most heartily at Capuzzi, and the most sincerely wished success to the brave Antonio in his undertaking, were now all compassion for the old man; and the bitterest blame was laid, not upon Antonio so much as upon Salvator Rosa, whom they all, with very good reason, held to have been at the bottom of the whole affair.
Salvator's enemies (of whom there were a goodly band) were not slow to stir up the fire to the best of their ability. "See!" they said; "this is Masaniello's worthy comrade, always ready to lay his hand to any evil trick, any robberish undertaking; if his dangerous stay in Rome is prolonged, we shall soon feel the effects of it heavily."
And, in fact, the ignoble herd of those who conspired against Salvator succeeded in stemming the bold flight which his fame would otherwise have taken. One picture after another came from his hand, bold of conception, magnificent of execution, but the so-called "connoisseurs" always shrugged the shoulder; said, now that the mountains were too blue; now, that the trees were too green, the figures too tall, or too stumpy; found fault with everything where there was no fault to be found, and made it their business to detract from Salvator's well-merited renown in every possible way. His chief persecutors were the members of the Academia di San Luca, who could never get over the affair of the surgeon, and went out of their own province to depreciate the pretty verses which Salvator wrote about that time, even trying to make out that he did not live upon the fruit of his own land, but pilfered the property of other people. And this, too, led to Salvator's being by no means in a position to surround himself with the splendour and luxury which he had formerly displayed in Rome. Instead of the grand, spacious studio, where all the celebrities of Rome used to visit him, he went on living at Dame Caterina's, beside his green figtree. And in this very restrictedness he, doubtless, soon found comfort and ease of heart.
But he laid the malignant conduct of his enemies more to heart than there was any occasion for; nay, he felt as though some creeping malady, engendered by annoyance and vexation, was gnawing at his inmost marrow. In this evil mood, he conceived and executed the great pictures which set all Rome in uproar. One of them represented the transitoriness of all earthly things; and in the principal female figure (which bore all the marks of a disreputable calling) it was easy to recognize the lady-love of one of the Cardinals. In the other was shown the Goddess of Fortune distributing her precious gifts. But Cardinal's hats, Bishop's mitres, and decorations were falling down upon bleating sheep, braying asses, and other despised creatures; whilst well-favoured men, in tattered garments, looked up in vain for the slightest favour. Salvator had given the rein to his bitter mood, and those beasts' heads had very striking resemblances to sundry well-known characters. It may be imagined how the hatred of him increased, and how much more bitterly he was persecuted than before.
Dame Caterina cautioned him with tears in her eyes. She had noticed that as soon as it was dark, birds of evil omen--suspicious-looking characters--came slinking about the house, watching Salvator's every step. He saw that it was time to be gone; and Dame Caterina and her dear daughters were the only people he felt any pain in parting from. Remembering the Duke of Tuscany's repeated invitations, he went to Florence; and there his mortification was richly compensated for, and the annoyances of tome lost sight of in the honour and fame--so richly merited--which were bestowed upon him in fullest measure. The Duke's presents, and the large prices which he got for his pictures, soon enabled him to occupy a large mansion, and furnish it in the most magnificent style. There he collected round him all the most famous poets and literati of the day; it is sufficient to mention amongst them Evangelista Torricelli, Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea Cavalcanti, Pietro Salviati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli, Francesco Rovai. Art and science were joined together in a charming fusion, and Salvator Rosa had a manner of endowing the meetings with an element of the fanciful, which in a peculiar manner gave a stimulus to the thoughts and ideas of the company. Thus, the dining-hall had the appearance of a beautiful shrubbery, containing sweet-smelling bushes and flowers and gurgling springs; and the very dishes, served by singularly-attired pages, had a wonderful appearance, as if they came from some far-off enchanted land. These assemblages of poets andsavantsin Salvator Rosa's house were at the time known as the Academia de' Percossi.
But although Salvator occupied his mind in this manner with art and science, his inmost heart was cheered by his friend Antonio Scacciati, who was living a happy artistic life, free from care, with the beautiful Marianna. They used to think, sometimes, of the old deceived Signor Pasquale, and all that took place in Nicolo Musso's theatre. And Antonio asked Salvator how he had managed to interest not only Musso, but the wonderful Formica and Agli, in his affairs, to employ their talents on his behalf as they had done. Salvator said it had been an easy matter, inasmuch as Formica had been his most intimate friend in Rome, and always delighted to carry out upon the stage anything that he had suggested to him. Antonio declared that, much as he was unable still to help laughing when he thought of the occurrence which had made no happiness, he wished, from his heart, for a reconciliation with the old man, even although he should never touch a farthing of Marianna's fortune (which the old man had taken possession of), seeing that his art brought him money enough. Marianna, too, could often not restrain her tears at the thought that her father's brother would never till his dying day forgive the trick that had been played upon him; and thus Pasquale's hatred cast a sorrowful shadow upon her happy life. Salvator comforted them both with the thought that time cures much harder matters, and that chance might perhaps bring the old man to them in a much less dangerous manner than if they had remained in Rome, or were to go back there now.
We shall find that a spirit of prophecy dwelt in Salvator. A considerable time had elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into Salvator's studio, breathless, and pale as death. "Salvator!" he cried; "my friend! my protector!--I am lost unless you help me! Pasquale Capuzzi is here, and has got a warrant to arrest me for carrying off his niece."
"But what can Pasquale do to you now?" asked Salvator. Has not the Church united Marianna and you?"
"Alas!" answered Antonio, in despair, "even the Church cannot save me here. Heaven knows how he has accomplished it, but the old man has managed to get the ear of the Pope's nephew; and it is this nephew who has taken him under his protection, and given him hope that the Holy Father will declare our marriage void; and not only that, but give him a dispensation to enablehimto marry his niece."
"Stop!" cried Salvator. "Now--nowI understand the whole matter. It is that nephew's hatred forme, Antonio, which threatens to ruin everything. This nephew--this conceited, raw, boorish fellow--is one of those beasts which the Goddess of Fortune is overwhelming with her gifts in that picture of mine. That it was I who helped you to your Marianna--more or less indirectly, of course--is known not only to this nephew, but to every one in Rome. Season enough to persecute you, since they cannot specify anything againstme. Even were it not for my affection for you, Antonio, as my best and dearest friend, I could not but stand by you if it were for nothing else than that it is I who have brought this mischance upon you. But, by all the saints, I do not see how I am to set about spoiling the game of your enemies."
As he said this Salvator, who up to this point had been working away at a picture without interrupting himself, laid his brushes, palette and mahlstick down, got up from his easel, and, folding his arms across his breast, strode 'several times up and down, whilst Antonio, in deepest thought, contemplated the floor with fixed glance.
Presently Salvator halted before him, and cried, laughing: "Antonio, there is nothing thatIcan accomplish as against your powerful enemies; but there isonewho can, and will, help you; and that is Signor Formica."
"Alas!" cried Antonio; "do not jest with an unfortunate, for whom there is no further salvation."
"Still determined to despair?" cried Salvator, who had suddenly risen into the highest spirits. He laughed aloud: "I tell you, Antonio, friend Formica will help in Florence quite as well as he did in Rome. Go quietly home. Comfort your Marianna, and await the course of events quite tranquilly. All I expect of you is that you will be ready and prepared to do whatever Signor Formica--who happens to be here at this moment--may require of you." Antonio promised obedience with all his heart, hope and confidence at once beginning to glimmer up within him.
Signor Pasquale was not a little astonished to receive a formal invitation from the Academia de' Percossi. "Ha!--indeed!" he cried. "One sees that Florence is the place where they know how to esteem merit; where a man endowed with such gifts as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegalia chances to possess, is properly appreciated."
Thus the thought of the amount of artistic knowledge which he possessed, and of the honours which were being paid to him in consequence, overcame the repugnance which he would otherwise have entertained to an assemblage which had Salvator Rosa, at its head. The Spanish state costume was brushed more carefully than usual; the steeple-crowned hat adorned with a new feather; the shoes set off with fresh bows of ribbon; and Signor Pasquale made his appearance in Salvator's house glittering like a golden beetle, with a countenance of radiant sunshine. The splendour around him--Salvator himself (who was much more finely dressed than he had been wont to be)--inspired him with reverence; and--as is usually the case with shallow souls, which are puffed-up at first, but at once fall down into the dust when they perceive any distinct superiority over them--Pasquale was all deference and humility towards that Salvator whom he was for ever lording over in Rome.
So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale on all hands; his opinions were so unconditionally appealed to; so much was said as to his artistic merits, that he felt himself a new man; nay, it seemed to him that a special spirit came to life within him, so that he really spoke much more sensibly on many subjects than might have been expected. As, in addition to all this, he had never in all his life partaken of such a splendid dinner, or tasted such inspiring wine, his enjoyment necessarily mounted higher and higher, and he forgot all about the wrongs done him in Rome, and the unpleasant business which had brought him to Florence.
In a short time the bushes at the bottom of the hall began to get in motion, the leafy branches opened out apart, and a little theatre came into view, with its stage, and some seats for an audience.
"All ye saints!" cried Pasquale Capuzzi, in much alarm. "Where am I? That is Nicolo Mussos's theatre!"
Without paying attention to his outcry, two gentlemen of dignified appearance--Evangelista Torricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti--took him by the arms, one on each side, and conducted him to a seat in front of the stage, taking their places on either side of him.
No sooner were they seated than there entered on to the stage, Formica, as Pasquarello!
"Accursed Formica!" cried Pasquale, springing up and shaking his clenched fist towards the stage. Torricelli's and Cavalcanti's grave looks of disapproval, however, constrained him to silence and quietness.
Pasquarello sobbed, wept, and cursed his fate which brought him nothing but grief and misery; declared he did not know how he should manage to laugh, were it but ever so little, and concluded by saying that, in the excess of his despair, he would most certainly cut his throat, were it not that the sight of blood always made him faint; or throw himself into the river, if he only could help swimming when in the water.
Here Doctor Graziano entered and inquired the cause of his grief.
Pasquarello asked him if he did not know what had been happening in his master's, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's, house?--whether he had heard that an abandoned ruffian had run off with his master's niece, Marianna?
"Ha!" murmured Capuzzi, "I see what it is, Signor Formica. You think you will exculpate and excuse yourself; you desire my forgiveness. Well, we shall see."
Doctor Graziano expressed his sympathy, and thought the ruffian must have been very clever to have evaded Capuzzi's search after him. Pasquarello told the Doctor not to allow himself to imagine that the rascal Antonio Scacciati succeeded in getting the better of the deep and clever Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, supported as he was, moreover, by influential friends. Antonio was in prison, his marriage declared void, and Marianna again in her uncle's hands.
"Has he got her?" cried Capuzzi, beyond himself; "has he got her again, the good Capuzzi? Has he got his little dove again; his Marianna? Is the scoundrel Antonio in prison? O most blessed Formica!"
"You take too lively an interest in the piece, Signor Pasquale," said Cavalcanti very seriously. "Pray allow the actors to speak, and do not interrupt them."
Signor Pasquale, abashed, sat down in his place again.
Pasquarello went on to say that there had been a wedding. Marianna had repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the necessary dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.
"Yes, yes," murmured Pasquale, aside, whilst his eyes shone with delight; "yes, yes, my dearest Formica! He marries the sweet Marianna, the lucky Pasquale! He always knew the little dove loved him; it was but the devil that led her astray."
In that case, Doctor Graziano said, everything was well, and there was no cause for lamentation.
But Pasquarello began to sob and cry more violently than before, and at last fell down in a faint, as if overcome by his terrible sorrow.
Doctor Graziano ran about anxiously; regretted that he had not a smelling-bottle about him; searched in all his pockets, and at length pulled out a roasted chestnut, which he held under the nose of the insensible Pasquarello. The latter recovered at once, sneezing violently, begged him to excuse the weak state of his nerves, and went on to say that after the marriage Marianna had fallen into the deepest melancholy, calling continually on Antonio's name, and regarding the old man with loathing and contempt. But the latter, blinded by his love and jealousy, had never ceased torturing her in the most terrible manner with his foolishness. Then Pasquarello related a number of mad tricks which Pasquale had been guilty of, and which were actually told of him in Rome. Signor Pasquale jigged uneasily on his seat here and there, murmuring, "Accursed Formica, you lie!--what devil inspires you?" It was only the fact that Torricelli and Cavalcanti kept their grave eyes fixed upon him that restrained a wild outburst of his anger. Pasquarello ended by saying that the luckless Marianna had at last fallen a victim to her unstilled love-longing, her bitter sorrow, and the thousand-fold tortures which the accursed old man had inflicted upon her, and had passed away from this world, in the flower of her age.
At this moment there was heard an awe-inspiringDe profundis, chanted by hoarse and hollow voices; and men in long white mantles appeared upon the stage bearing a bier, on which lay the body of the beautiful Marianna, shrouded in white grave-clothes. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in the deepest mourning, tottered along behind it, moaning aloud, beating his breast, and crying, in his despair, "Oh, Marianna! Marianna!"
When the Capuzzi in the audience saw the body of his niece, both the Capuzzis (him on the stage and he of the audience) howled, and cried in the most heart-breaking tones: "Oh, Marianna! Oh, Marianna! Miserable man that I am! Ah me! Ah me!"
Imagine the corpse of the beautiful girl on the open tier, Surrounded by the mourners, their solemnDe profundis, and along with all this, the comic masks, Doctor Graziano and Pasquarello, expressing their grief in the most absurd gesticulations; and then the two Capuzzis, howling and crying in despair. And in truth, all they who were spectators of this strangest of dramatic representations, notwithstanding the irrepressible laughter into which they could not help breaking over the extraordinary old man, were penetrated by a deep and eerie shudder of awe.
The stage now suddenly grew dark. There was thunder and lightning; and out of the depths arose a pale and spectral form, exactly alike in every feature to Capuzzi's brother, Pietro, father of Marianna, who died in Senegaglia.
"Wicked Pasquale!" cried the spectre-form, in hollow, terrible tones; "what have you done with my daughter? Despair and die, accursed murderer of my child! Your reward awaits you in hell!"
The Capuzzi on the stage fell down as if struck by lightning, and at the same instant the Capuzzi down beneath fell senseless from his seat. The branches rustling, closed into their former places; and the stage, with Marianna and Capuzzi, and Pietro's grizzly ghost, disappeared from view. Signor Pasquale was in such a deep faint that it cost some trouble to bring him to himself again.
At last he revived, with a deep sigh, stretched his hands out before him as if to keep off the terror which seized upon him, and cried in hollow tones: "Let me go, Pietro!" A stream of tears burst from his eyes, and he cried, with sobs: "Ah, Marianna!--my darling beautiful girl!--my own Marianna!"
"Bethink you!" said Cavalcanti at last. "Consider Signor Pasquale! It was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive. She is here, to implore your forgiveness for the thoughtless stratagem to which love--and, perhaps, your own inconsiderate conduct--impelled her."
Here Marianna, with Antonio Scacciati behind her, rushed forward from the back of the hall, and fell at the feet of the old gentleman, who had been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, in the fullest lustre of her beauty, kissed his hands, bedewed them with hot tears, and begged forgiveness for herself and Antonio, united to her by the Church's benediction. From the old man's deathly pale face flames suddenly broke, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-articulate voice: "Ha! abandoned wretch!--venomous serpent! whom I nourished in my bosom, for my destruction!" But the grave old Torricelli came up to him, in all his dignity, and said that he (Capuzzi) had seen in a figure the fate which would inevitably overtake him if he dared to prosecute his evil design against the peace and happiness of Antonio and Marianna. He painted, in the most brilliant colours, the folly--the madness--of amorous old age yielding to love, which has the power of bringing down upon its head the most destroying evil with which Heaven can threaten man, since it annihilates all the affection which might still be his portion, whilst hatred and contempt aim their death-dealing arrows at him from every side.
And Marianna cried out, in a tone which penetrated the heart: "Oh, my uncle! I want to love and honour you as a father! You will bring me to the bitter death if you take Antonio from me!"
And all the poets who were surrounding the old man cried, with one voice, that it was impossible that such an one as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia--a lover and patron of the arts, himself an admirable and accomplished artist--should not forgive; that he, who occupied the position of a father to the loveliest of women, should not welcome with joy, as a son-in-law, a painter such as Antonio Scacciati, prized by the whole of Italy, overwhelmed with honour and fame.
It was easy to see that a mental process of some kind was going on within the old man. He sighed; he groaned; he hid his face in his hands, whilst Torricelli plied him with the most convincing arguments; whilst Marianna implored him, in the most moving accents; whilst the others extolled and belauded Antonio Scacciati to the utmost of their skill. The old man looked, now at his niece, now at Antonio, whose fine dress and rich chain of honour proved the truth of what was urged as to his artistic position and success.
All anger had disappeared from Capuzzi's countenance. He sprung up with beaming glances, pressed Marianna to his heart, and cried: "Yes, I forgive you, my beloved child! I forgive you, Antonio! Far be it from mo to destroy your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor Torricelli. Signor Formica has shown me, in a figure, on the stage, all the misery and destruction which would have come upon me if I had carried out my insane idea. I am cured--completely cured--of my folly. But where is Signor Formica?--where is my worthy physician, that I may thank him a thousand times for my recovery, which he has brought about. The terror which he knew how to cause me has transformed my whole being."
Pasquarello came forward. Antonio threw himself upon his breast, crying:
"Oh, Signor Formica! to whom I owe my life, my all! cast aside the mask which disguises you, that I may see your face--that Formica may cease to be a mystery to me."
Pasquarello took off the cap, and the skilfully-constructed mask, which seemed to be an actual, natural face, placing no obstacle in the way of facial expression. And this Formica--this Pasquarello--was transformed into--Salvator Rosa!
"Salvator!" cried Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi,ensemble, all amazement.
"Yes," said that wondrous man. "Salvator Rosa; whom the Romans would have none of, as painter, as poet; and who, as Formica, for more than a year, on Nicolo Musso's poor little stage, moved them almost nightly to the loudest and most immoderate applause; from whom they gladly accepted all ridicule and mockery of what was bad, though they would not swallow it in Salvator's poems and pictures. Salvator Formica it is who has aided you, dear Antonio."
"Salvator!" old Capuzzi began; "Salvator Rosa! I have looked upon you as my worst enemy, but I have always held your art in highest honour; and now I love you as the most valued of my friends, and I venture to beg you to accept me as such."
"Say, my worthy Signor Pasquale," answered Salvator, "in what I can be of service to you, and be assured beforehand that I will employ all my powers to fulfil your desires."
There dawned in Capuzzi's face once more that sugary smile which had vanished since Marianna's departure. He took Salvator's hand, and whispered gently: "My dear Signor Salvator, you can do anything with the good Antonio. Beg him, in my name, to allow me to spend the brief remainder of my days with him and my dear daughter Marianna, and to accept from me the fortune which she inherits from her mother, to which I mean to add a liberal marriage-portion. And then, too, he mustn't look askew if I now and then kiss the lovely child's little white hand; and--at all events on Sundays when I go to mass--he must dress my moustache for me; a thing which nobody in all the world can do as he can."
Salvator had difficulty in restraining his laughter; but before he could make answer, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old man, assured him that they would not consider the reconciliation complete, or feel thoroughly happy, until he took his place by their hearth as a beloved father, never to leave them more. Antonio added that he would dress Capuzzi's moustachios not only on Sundays, but every day of the week, in the daintiest manner. And now the old man was all joy and happiness. Meanwhile a splendid supper had been served, and to this they all sate down, in the happiest mood of mind.
In taking my leave of you, dear reader, I wish with all my heart that the happiness which has now fallen to the lot of Salvator and all his friends, may have glowed very brightly in your own breast, whilst you have been reading the story of the marvellous Signor Formica.
"Now," began Lothair, when Ottmar had ended, "since our friend has been fair and honourable enough to admit from the outset the lack of vigour--the weakness of knee, so to speak, of his production, which it has pleased him to call a 'Novella,' this appeal to our considerateness does, certainly, draw the sting out of our criticisms, which were formed up, in complete steel, to attack him. He bares his bosom to the partizan-pike, and therefore, as magnanimous adversaries, we withhold our thrust, and are bound to have mercy."
"More than that," said Cyprian, "to console his pain, we feel ourselves permitted to bestow a certain limited amount of praise. For my part, I see a good deal in this work that is pleasant and Serapiontic. Capuzzi's broken leg, for instance, and its consequences, his mysterious serenade----"
"Which," interrupted Vincenz, "has all the more of the real Spanish, or the true Italian smack about it, just because it ends with a tremendous cudgelling. No proper Novella of the kind would be complete without the due amount of licking, and I prize it highly as, medically speaking, a specially powerful stimulant, always employed by the best writers. In Boccacio things hardly ever wind up without cudgelling; and where does it rain more blows or thrusts than in the Romance of all Romances, 'Don Quixote?' Cervantes himself considered it necessary to apologise to his readers about it. Now-a-days intellectual ladies will have none of such matters in connection with the mental 'teas' (which they enjoy along with tea for the body); the honoured hide of a favourite poet--if he would retain his footing at 'teas,' and in pocket-books--must, at highest, be blackened by a tap or so on the nose, or the least little box on an ear. But what of tea? What of cultivated ladies? Behold in me, oh, Ottmar, your champion in complete armour, and cudgel soundly in all the novels you may be thinking of writing. I praise you for the cudgelling's sake."
"And I," said Theodore, "for the delightful trio which Capuzzi, the Pyramid-doctor, and the somewhat shudder-creating little abortion, Pitichinaccio, form; and, moreover, for the wonderful way in which Salvator Rosa--who never appears as the hero of the tale, but always as an auxiliary--conforms to his character as it is described, and also as it appears in his own works."
"Ottmar," said Sylvester, "has held chiefly to the adventurous and enterprising side of his character, and given us less of what was grave and gloomy in him.A proposof this, I think of the famous sonnet in which, allegorising on his own name--Salvator--he utters his deep indignation at his enemies and persecutors who accused him of plundering from older writers in his poetry, which, indeed, is all ruggedness, and deficient in interior connectedness."
"But," said Lothair, "to return to Ottmar's Novella. The principal fault which I have to find with it is that, instead of a story rounding itself into a whole in all its parts, he has merely given us a series of pictures, although they are often delightful enough."
"Can I do otherwise than fully agree with you?" said Ottmar. "Still, you will all admit that it requires very skilful navigation to keep clear of the rocks upon which I have run."
"Perhaps," said Sylvester, "the rocks in question are more dangerous to dramatic writers. Nothing--at least in my opinion--is more annoying than, instead of a Comedy, in which all that happens is necessarily and closely attached to the thread which runs through the piece, and should appear to be indispensably necessary to the picture represented, to see merely a series of arbitrary incidents, or even unconnected, detached situations; and indeed, the ablest dramatic author of recent times has set the example of this thoughtless (or 'frivolous') treatment of Comedy. Does the 'Pagen-streiche,' for example, consist of anything but a series of ludicrous situations strung together apparently by chance, and at random? In former days, when, on the whole (at all events as regards the drama), one cannot complain of the want of due seriousness, every writer of a Comedy took much pains to construct a regular plot, and out of that plot all the comic element, the drollery, nay, the very absurdity, duly evolved itself, of itself; because it seemed the natural thing for it to do. Jünger (although he but too often seems very 'flat') always did this, and even Brenner--utterly prosaic as he was on the whole--was by no means deficient in the power of making the comic element flow out from his plots, and his characters have often real force and vividness of life, derived from actuality; as, for instance, in his 'Eheprokurator.' Only those ladies of his, with their grand phrases, are completely unenjoyablo by us nowadays. Notwithstanding this, I have a very high opinion of him, for the reasons I have given."
"In my mind," said Theodore, "his Operas put him out of court altogether. They may serve as examples how an opera ought not to be written."
"For the simple reason," said Vincenz, "that the departed (peace to his ashes, as Sylvester very properly said) did not show many signs of having much poetry in his constitution; so that in the romantic realm of opera he could not find the slightest indication of a track to go upon. However, as you are talking in this strain on the subject of Comedy, I might do worse than point out that you are wasting your time in discussing a nonentity--a thing which does not exist; and cry out to you, as Romeo did to Mercutio--
'Peace, peace, good people, peace,Ye talk of nothing.'
'Peace, peace, good people, peace,
Ye talk of nothing.'
What I mean is that, taking them altogether, we never see a single German Comedy presented on the stage, for the simple reason that the old ones cannot be swallowed or digested (by reason of the weakness of our stomachs), and new ones are no longer written. The reason of the latter I might establish, very briefly, in a treatise of some forty sheets or so; but, for the moment, I let you off with a play-upon-words. What I say is, that we have no comic plays, because we have none of the comic which plays with itself; nor the sense for it."
"Dixi," cried Sylvester, laughing. "Dixi, and the name 'Vincenz' thereunder, with due stamp and seal. I happened, at the moment, to be thinking that in the lowest class of dramatic performances, or rather of productions destined to be represented on the stage, perhaps those should be included in which some cleverfarceurmystifies and befools some good uncle--a theatre director, or some such person. And yet it is not so very long ago that shallow, stupid stuff of this description constituted almost the daily bread of every stage. Just at present there seems to be more or less an intermission in this."
"It will never come to an end," said Theodore, "as long as there are actors to whom nothing in the world can be more delightful than to let themselves be wondered at and admired as chameleontic marvels, in that they change their costume and appearance in the most varied manner in the course of the same evening. Right out of the very depths of my being have I been compelled to roar with laughter over the self-apotheosis of self-sufficiency with which, after passing through a marvellous series of soul-transmigrations, the trueegoof the performer takes its enfranchised flight, like a beautiful insect. Generally speaking, this is done in the shape of a pretty, elegant night-moth, dressed in black, with silk stockings, and a three-cornered hat under one arm, having, from the moment of its appearance as such, only to deal with the admiring public, not troubling itself about that which previously had been doing it soccage-service. As (videWilhelm Meister's 'Lehr-jahren') a special line of parts may so bind and enslave to it some given actor, who, for instance, plays all the characters who have to be cudgelled, or otherwise maltreated, every stage must possess asujetwho undertakes all the parts of the character ofsouffre douleur, and consequently plays those indispensable theatre managers, &c.; at all events, every starring actor has a part of the kind in his pocket, by way of entrance-pass, or letter of credit."
"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the stage in his little minor parts,prayingthem out in the most direful monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he used to take his seat at the lower end of thetable d'hôteof the best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was dining one Sunday at thistable d'hôte, and found only one vacant seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said, was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket, that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness andespritof the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version (Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to admiration at the manner in which he delivered several passages from the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name 'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of, and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The Rehearsal,' which theImpresariohad altered to suit himself, thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that, perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom--he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled, and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was transformed into a clear, resonant bass, such as is employed by jovial characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is trying to pass himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant, as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But, inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience; whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking, saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap intermediate scenes became the principal and important part of the business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his gestures and attitudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter, which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him, to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager (burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous, nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, and presently he was discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself clear."
"With a very slight 'moral application,'" said Ottmar, "this tale of the old actor belongs to the moral codex of all stage-players, and of those who desire to become players."
During this, Cyprian had risen silently, and, after walking once or twice up and down the room, taken his position behind the window curtain. Just when Ottmar ceased speaking, a blast of wind came suddenly howling and raging in. The lights threatened to go out; Theodore's writing-table seemed to become alive; hundreds of papers flew up, and were wafted about the room; the strings of the old piano groaned aloud.
"Hey, hey!" cried Theodore, as he saw his literary notices, and who knows what other written matter, at the mercy of the raging autumn storm. "Hey, hey, Cyprianus, what are you about?" And they all set to work to keep the lights in, and shield themselves from the thick snowflakes which came swirling in.
"It is true," said Cyprian, shutting the window, "the weather won't let one look to see what it is."
"Tell me," said Sylvester, taking the wholly absentminded and deeply preoccupied Cyprian by both hands, and forcing him to sit down again in the seat he had left, "only tell me--that is all I ask--where have you been? In what distant region have you been wandering? for far, far away from us has that restless spirit of yours been bearing you again."
"Not so very far away from you as you may suppose," answered Cyprian. "And, at all events, it was your own conversation which opened the door for my departure. You had been saying so much about Comedy, and Vincenz was stating his conclusion (justly resulting from experience), that amongst us the fun which plays with itself is lost. It occurred to me that, on the other hand, many real talents have displayed themselves in tragedy, in more and most recent times, and along with this thought I was struck by the remembrance of a writer who began, with genuine, high-aspiring genius, but suddenly, as if carried away by some fatal eddy, went under, so that his name is scarcely ever heard of."
"There," said Ottmar, "you were going in exact opposition to Lothair's principle--that true genius never goes under."
"And Lothair is right," answered Cyprian, "if he holds that the fiercest storms of life cannot blow out the flame which blazes forth from the inner spirit,--that the bitterest adversities, the keenest misfortunes fight in vain against the inner heavenly might of the soul, which only bends the bow to deliver the arrow with the greater power. But how were it if in the first inner germ of the embryo there lurked the poisonous parasite larva, the worm, which, developing along with the beautiful blossom, gnaws at its life, so that it bears its death within itself? No storm is then needed for its destruction."
"In that case," said Lothair, "your genius would be wanting in the first condition indispensible to the tragic-poet who would enter upon life free, and in possession of his powers. I mean that such a poet's genius must be absolutely healthy--sound--free from the slightest ailment, such as psychic weakness, or, to use your language, anything such as congenital poison. Who could, and can, congratulate himself more on such a soundness of mental constitution than our grand Gœthe, mighty father of us all? It is with such an unweakened strength as his, with such an inward purity, that heroes are begotten, such as Goetz von Berlichingen and Egmont! And if we cannot, perhaps, admit such a heroic power (in quite the same degree) in our Schiller, there is, on the other hand, that pure sun-glance of the inner soul beaming round his heroes in which we, beneficently warmed, feel as powerful and strong as their creator. And we must not forget the Robber Moor, whom Ludwig Tieck, with perfect justice, calls the Titanic creation of a young and daring imagination. But we are getting far from the tragic poet whom you were speaking of, Cyprian, and I hope you will tell us at once to whom you allude, although I fancy I have a strong idea?"
"I was very nearly breaking in upon your conversation, as I did once before, with strange words and sayings," answered Cyprian, "which you would not have understood, inasmuch as you were not seeing the images of my waking-dream. Nevertheless, I cry out 'No! Since the days of Shakespeare there never stalked such a Being across the stage as this superhumanly terrible, gruesome old man!' And that you may not remain a moment longer in doubt on the subject, I add at once that no modern poet can congratulate himself on such a loftily tragic and powerful creation as the author of the Söhne des Thales."
The friends looked at each other in amazement. They made a rapid pass-muster of the principal characters in Zacharias Werner's pieces, and then came to the same conclusion--that in every case there was a certain element of the strange and singular, and often of the commonplace, mingled with the truly great, the grandly tragic which seemed to indicate that the author had never come to any really clear seeing of his heroes, and that he was doubtless deficient in that absolute health and soundness of the inner mind which Lothair considered indispensible to every writer of tragedy.
Theodore alone had been laughing within himself, as if he were of another opinion, and now began:
"Halt! Halt! ye worthy Serapion Brethren. Don't be in too great a hurry. I know very well, in fact, I am the only one of you who can know, that Cyprian is speaking of a work which the writer never finished, which is consequently unknown to the world, although friends in the writer's neighbourhood, to whom he communicated sketches of scenes from it, had ample reason to be convinced that it would rise to the position of being amongst the grandest and most powerful, not only that he ever produced, but which have been seen in modern days."
"Of course," said Cyprian, "I was talking of the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' in which it is that the terrible, gruesome, gigantic character to whom I was alluding occurs, the old King of Prussia, Waidewuthis. It may be impossible for me to give you a distinct idea of this character, which the poet, by virtue of some mighty spell at his command, seems to have conjured up from the mysterious depths of the subterranean kingdoms. It must suffice if I enable you to look into the interior mechanism of the springs which the poet has placed within it to set this production of his into due activity of movement. According to historical tradition, the earliest 'culture' of the ancient Prussians was originated by their king, Waidewuthis. He introduced the rights of property. The fields were divided, and agriculture carried on. He also gave the nation a form of religious worship, inasmuch as he himself carved three graven images, to which sacrifices were offered beneath an ancient oak-tree, where they were set up; but a terrible power grasped hold of him (though himself all-powerful, the god of the nation which he ruled), those rude graven images, carved by his own hands, that the people's force and will might bow down before them as embodiments of a higher energy, suddenly awoke into life. And what inflamed those senseless images thus into life was the fire which the Satanic Prometheus stole from Hell. Rebellious thralls of their Lord and Maker, those idols began to wield against himself the weapons with which he had armed them. And thus commences the monstrous conflict of the Superhuman principle with the Human. I do not know if I have been intelligible to you--if I have quite succeeded in representing to you the poet's colossal idea; but, as Serapion Brethren, I would charge you to look deep down, as I have done, into the terrible abyss which the poet has opened and disclosed, and feel the terror and awe which overwhelms me even now as I think of that Waidewuthis."
"And in truth," said Theodore, "our Cyprian has turned quite white; which of course proves how the whole grand sketch of the extraordinary picture which the poet displayed before him--but from which he has shown us only one of the principal groups--has stirred his inner soul. But, as regards Waidewuthis, I think it would have been sufficient to say that the poet, with astonishing power and originality, conceived this Daemon with so much grandeur, power, and might, so gigantic a figure, that he appears quite worthy of the contest, and that the triumph, the glory of Christianity must beam forth all the brighter in consequence. It is true that in many of his characteristics, the old monarch appears to me as if he were--to speak with Dante--the Imperador del Doloroso Regno in person, walking on earth. The catastrophe of his overthrow, that triumph of Christianity, which is the final chord towards which everything strives, in the whole work (which to me, at all events, according to the design of the second part, seems to belong to another world), I have never been able to form a conception of to myself in dramatic form; although in quite other sounds, and in those only, I did conceive the possibility of a conclusion which, in terrific sublimity, would surpass everything else which could be conceived of. But this only became apparent to me when I had read Calderon's great 'Magus.' Moreover, the poet has not uttered himself as to the mode in which he would finish the work; at least nothing of the sort has reached my ears."
"It seems to me," said Vincent, "on the whole very much as though it had gone with the poet, as to his work, as it did with old King Waidewuthis and his graven images. It grew over his head; and that he could not get control of his own power is proved by the very failure of his inward energy, which, at length, does not allow anything sound, healthy, vigorous, to come to the light of day. On the whole, even if Cyprian is right in thinking that the old king had the best possible dispositions for turning out a splendid and powerful Satan, I do not see how he could have got into due relation with humanity again. The Satan would have had to be, at the same time, a grand, powerful kingly hero."
"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly, which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis. occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into the flames."
"I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him; although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not, himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own value, yet possessing a considerable inkling of its worth. The writer seemed to me much like one of those who are victims of that form of insanity of which the predominant symptom is 'fixed idea.' Those unhappy people are, in their lucid intervals, aware of their delusions; but, to soothe the comfortless horror of that consciousness, they strive to convince themselves that in those very delusions their highest and truest existence lives and moves. And this they do by the most ingenious sophisms; striving also to induce themselves to believe that their consciousness of their delusion is nothing but the sick doubting of Humanity immeshed and enslaved in the Earthly. And in the preface which I am speaking of, the writer touches upon the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' admitting this."
"Please don't make such horrible faces, Lothair! Sit still on your chair, Ottmar; don't drum the Russian Grenadiers' March on the elbow of your seat, Vincenz. I really think that the author of the 'Soehne des Thales' deserves to be discussed rationally and quietly by us, and I must confess that my heart is very full of this subject, and I cannot help letting the froth which is seething there boil thoroughly over."
"Ha!" cried Vincenz, very loudly and pathetically, "how the froth seethes!--now that is a quotation from the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' where the heathen priests sing it in fearful and horrible strains. My dear Serapion-Brother Theodore, you may rage, revile, curse and blaspheme as much as you please, but I must just introduce into this many-sided discussion one little anecdote, which will throw, at all events, a momentary glimpse of sunshine over all those corpse-watchers' countenances. The author of whom we are speaking had got together a few friends that he might read to them the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' from the manuscript. They had heard some passages from it before, which had raised their expectations to the highest pitch. The author had, as usual, seated himself in the centre of the circle, at a small table where two candles were burning in tall candlesticks. He had taken his manuscript out of his breast-pocket, and laid down before him his big snuff-box, and his blue-and-white checked pocket-handkerchief. Profound silence reigned. Not a breath was audible. The author, making one of his extraordinary faces, which defy all description, began as follows:--
"'Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!'
"Of course you remember that, in the opening scene, at the rising of the curtain, the Prussians are discovered, assembled by the seashore, collecting amber; and they invoke the deities who preside over this. Very well. The author, as I have said, began with the words--
"'Bankputtis! Bankputtis!"
"Then there was a short pause; after which there came forth out of a corner the soft voice of a member of the audience, saying: 'My dearest and most beloved friend! Most glorious of all authors; if you have written the whole of this most admirable poem of yours in that infernal language, not one soul of us understands a single syllable of it. For God's sake, be so kind as to start with a translation of it.'"
The friends laughed; but Cyprian and Theodore remained silent and grave. Before the latter could begin to speak, Ottmar said: "It is impossible, in this connection, that I should forget the extraordinary, nay, almost preposterously absurd, meeting of two men who were--at all events as concerned their opinions upon Art and their views about it--absolutely heterogeneous in their natures. Indisputable as it may be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should write a tragedy for the Berlin stage. The 'Soehne des Thales' was then attracting much attention, and perhaps that dramatic writer may have been interested in this newly-developed talent, or he may have thought he saw that this youngdébutantwas capable of being trained to the performance of the systematic round of theatre tricks, and would acquire a skilled 'stage-hand.' However this may be, think of Iffland with the manuscript of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in his hands. Iffland--to whom the tragedies of Schiller (which then, in spite of all opposition, had made their way, chiefly through the great Fleck) were really disgustful, in the depths of his soul; Iffland, who although he did not dare, for dread of that sharp lash which he had felt already, to speak out his real opinion, had putthisin print: 'Tragedies which contain grand historical incidents, and a crowd of characters, are the ruin of the stage;' adding, 'on account of the tremendous expenses,' but thinking, in his heart, 'dixi et salvavi.'--Iffland, who would have been too pleased to put upon his privy-councillors, secretaries, and so forth, tragiccothurnimade after his own pattern--read the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in the light of its being a tragedy expressly written for the Berlin stage, which he himself should set out into scenes, and in which he should play nothing less than the Ghost of Bishop Adalbert, murdered by the Pagan Prussians, very frequently appearing on the stage as a terror-inspiring character not sparing of partly edifying, partly mystic speeches, while at every mention of the name of Christ a flame breaks out of his forehead, to instantaneously disappear again. It was impossible to throw this piece overboard (as would have been done in a moment in the case of thedii minores), notwithstanding that it was one which was full of improbabilities, and bristling with difficulties (much more real difficulties from the stage-manager's point of view, than many Shakesperian plays, in which those difficulties are more apparent than real). What had to be done was to express great admiration of it; to laud it up to the skies, and then to declare, with deep regret, that the capabilities of the stage were not practically sufficient for the production of a thing so great. It was this which had to be done; and the letter in which Iffland stated all this to the author (the construction of which was on the lines of the well-known form of refusal of the Italians, 'ben parlato-ma'), was, of course, a classical master-piece of theatrical diplomacy. It was not from the nature of the piece itself that the manager deduced the impossibility of representing it on the stage; he merely, in a courteous manner, complained of the stage-manager, the property-men, and the carpenters, to whose magic there were such narrow limits that they were not even capable of making a Saint's glory shine in the air. But, no more on the subject. It is for Theodore to make such excuses as he can for the errors of his friend."
"To defend and excuse this friend of mine," said Theodore, "I fear would be a very unsatisfactory thing to try to do. I should much prefer to set you a psychical problem to solve, which ought, really, to lead you to consider how peculiar influences may work upon the psychical organism; or, indeed (to return to Cyprian's simile, the worm engendered along with the most beautiful flower), on the worm which is to poison and kill. We are told Hysterism in the mother is not transmitted, by heredity, to the son, but that it does produce in him a peculiarly lively imagination, even to the extent of eccentricity; and I believe that there is one of ourselves in whose case the correctness of this theory is confirmed. Now, how might it be with the effect of actualinsanityof the mother upon the son, although he does not, as a rule, inherit that either? I am not speaking of that weak, childish sort of mental aberration in women, which is often the result of an enfeebled nervous system; what I have in view is that abnormal mental state in which the psychic principle, volatilized into a sublimate by the operation of the furnace of imagination, has been converted into a poison, which has attacked the vital spirits, so that they have become sick unto death, and the human creature, in the delirium of this malady, believes the dream of another life-condition to be actual waking reality. Now, a woman highly gifted mentally, and largely endowed with imagination and fancy, may in those circumstances be much more like to a heavenly prophet than to an insane creature, and in the excitement of her paroxysms may say things, which to many persons would appear much more like the direct inspiration of higher intelligences than the mere utterances of insanity. Suppose that the fixed idea of such a woman consisted in her believing herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son Christ, and let this be repeated daily to the boy, who is not taken away from her, whilst his powers of comprehension gradually develop themselves. He is over-bountifully endowed with talent and intelligence, and specially with a glowing imagination. Friends and teachers whom he respects and believes all tell him that his poor mother is out of her mind, and he himself sees the craziness of the idea, which is not so much as new to him, since it exists in nearly every lunatic asylum. But his mother's words sink deeply into his heart; he thinks he is hearing announcements from another world, and feels vividly the belief taking root within him upon which he bases his system of thinking. Above all, he is very much struck and imbued with what the maternal prophetess tells him regarding the trials of this world; the scoffing and despite which the consecrated one must endure. He finds this all realized, and in his boyish melancholy looks upon himself as a Divine victim, when his schoolfellows make fun of him for his quaint-looking clothes and his timid awkward manners. What follows? Must there not arise in the breast of such a youth the belief that the so-called insanity of his mother, which seems tohimlofty and sublime beyond the comprehension of the common herd, is really neither more nor less than a prophetic announcement, in metaphorical language, of the high destiny in store for him, chosen by the powers of heaven! Saint--prophet!--could there be stronger impulses to mysticism for a youth fired with a glowing power of imagination? Let it be further supposed that he is physically and psychically excitable to the most destructive extent, and apt to fall a prey to and be carried away by the most irresistible tendency to vice, and the wicked lusts of the world.... I desire to pass in haste, and with averted face, by the fearful abysses of human nature whence the germs of those tendencies spring, which might take root and flourish in the heart of the unfortunate youth without his being further to blame than in that he had a hot blood, only too congenial a soil for the luxuriant poison-plant.... I dare not go further; you feel the terrible nature of the strife which tears the heart of the unhappy youth. Heaven and hell are drawn up in battle array; and it is this mortal combat imprisoned within him which gives rise to phenomena on the surface in utter discord with everything else conditioned by mortal nature, and capable of no interpretation whatever. How, then, if the glowing power of imagination of this man (who in youth imbibed the germ of those eccentricities from his mother's mental state) should subsequently, at a time when Sin, bereft of all her adornments, accuses herself, in all her repulsive nakedness, for the hellish deceptions of the past, lead him, driven by the pain and remorse of his repentance, to take refuge in the mysticism of some religiouscultus, coming to meet him with hymns of victory and perfume of incense? How when then, out of the most hidden depths, the voice of some dark spirit within should become audible, saying: 'It was but mortal blindness which led you to believe that there was dissension in your heart. The veil has fallen, and you perceive that sin is the stigma of your heavenly nature, of your supernatural calling, wherewith the Eternal has marked the chosen one. It was only when you set yourself to offer resistance to sinful impulse, to contend with the Eternal Power, that you were abandoned in your blindness and degeneracy. The purified fires of hell shine in the glories of the Saints.' And thus does this terrible hypermysticism impart to the lost one a consolation which completes the ruin of the rotten walls of the edifice of his existence; just as it is when the madman derives comfort and enjoyment from his madness, that his recovery is known to be hopeless."
"Oh, please go no further," cried Sylvester. "You hurried, with averted face, past an abyss which you avoided looking into; but to me it seems as if you were leading us along upon narrow, slippery paths, where terrible and threatening gulfs yawn at us on either side. What you last said reminded me of the horrible mysticism of Pater Molinos, the dreadful doctrine of Quietism. I shuddered when I read the leading theorem of that doctrine. 'Il ne faut avoir nul égard aux tentations, ni leur opposer aucune résistance. Si la nature se meut, il faut la laisser agir; ce n'est que la nature!'[1] This, of course, would carry----"