полная версияПолная версия
The Life of Friedrich Schiller
[The Princess appears at the door, and stops; the Countess, but not Piccolomini, observing her.
—I clasp'd her wildly in my arms,My lips were join'd with hers. Some footsteps stirringI' th' next room parted us; 'twas you; what thenTook place, you know.Coun.And can you be so modest,Or incurious, as not once to ask meFor my secret, in return?Max.Your secret?Coun. Yes, sure! On coming in the moment after,How my niece receiv'd me, what i' th' instantOf her first surprise she—Max.Ha?Thekla [enters hastily].Spare yourselfThe trouble, Aunt! That he can learn from me.We rejoice in the ardent, pure and confiding affection of these two angelic beings: but our feeling is changed and made more poignant, when we think that the inexorable hand of Destiny is already lifted to smite their world with blackness and desolation. Thekla has enjoyed 'two little hours of heavenly beauty;' but her native gaiety gives place to serious anticipations and alarms; she feels that the camp of Wallenstein is not a place for hope to dwell in. The instructions and explanations of her aunt disclose the secret: she is not to love Max; a higher, it may be a royal, fate awaits her; but she is to tempt him from his duty, and make him lend his influence to her father, whose daring projects she now for the first time discovers. From that moment her hopes of happiness have vanished, never more to return. Yet her own sorrows touch her less than the ruin which she sees about to overwhelm her tender and affectionate mother. For herself, she waits with gloomy patience the stroke that is to crush her. She is meek, and soft, and maiden-like; but she is Friedland's daughter, and does not shrink from what is unavoidable. There is often a rectitude, and quick inflexibility of resolution about Thekla, which contrasts beautifully with her inexperience and timorous acuteness of feeling: on discovering her father's treason, she herself decides that Max 'shall obey his first impulse,' and forsake her.
There are few scenes in poetry more sublimely pathetic than this. We behold the sinking but still fiery glory of Wallenstein, opposed to the impetuous despair of Max Piccolomini, torn asunder by the claims of duty and of love; the calm but broken-hearted Thekla, beside her broken-hearted mother, and surrounded by the blank faces of Wallenstein's desponding followers. There is a physical pomp corresponding to the moral grandeur of the action; the successive revolt and departure of the troops is heard without the walls of the Palace; the trumpets of the Pappenheimers reëcho the wild feelings of their leader. What follows too is equally affecting. Max being forced away by his soldiers from the side of Thekla, rides forth at their head in a state bordering on frenzy. Next day come tidings of his fate, which no heart is hard enough to hear unmoved. The effect it produces upon Thekla displays all the hidden energies of her soul. The first accidental hearing of the news had almost overwhelmed her; but she summons up her strength: she sends for the messenger, that she may question him more closely, and listen to his stern details with the heroism of a Spartan virgin.
Act IV. Scene X.
Thekla; the Swedish Captain; Fräulein Neubrunn
Capt. [approaches respectfully]Princess—I—must pray you to forgive meMy most rash unthinking words: I could not—Thekla [with noble dignity].You saw me in my grief; a sad chance made youAt once my confidant, who were a stranger.Capt. I fear the sight of me is hateful to you:They were mournful tidings I brought hither.Thekla. The blame was mine! 'Twas I that forced them from you;Your voice was but the voice of Destiny.My terror interrupted your recital:Finish it, I pray you.Capt.'Twill renew your grief!Thekla. I am prepared for't, I will be prepared.Proceed! How went the action? Let me hear.Capt. At Neustadt, dreading no surprise, we laySlightly entrench'd; when towards night a cloudOf dust rose from the forest, and our outpostsRush'd into the camp, and cried: The foe was there!Scarce had we time to spring on horseback, whenThe Pappenheimers, coming at full gallop,Dash'd o'er the palisado, and next momentThese fierce troopers pass'd our camp-trench also.But thoughtlessly their courage had impelled themTo advance without support; their infantryWas far behind; only the PappenheimersBoldly following their bold leader—[Thekla makes a movement. The Captain pauses for a moment, till she beckons him to proceed.
On front and flank with all our horse we charged them;And ere long forc'd them back upon the trench,Where rank'd in haste our infantry presentedAn iron hedge of pikes to stop their passage.Advance they could not, nor retreat a step,Wedg'd in this narrow prison, death on all sides.Then the Rheingraf call'd upon their leader,In fair battle, fairly to surrender:But Colonel Piccolomini—[Thekla, tottering, catches by a seat.—We knew himBy's helmet-plume and his long flowing hair,The rapid ride had loosen'd it: to th' trenchHe points; leaps first himself his gallant steedClean over it; the troop plunge after him:But—in a twinkle it was done!—his horseRun through the body by a partisan,Rears in its agony, and pitches farIts rider; and fierce o'er him tramp the steedsO' th' rest, now heeding neither bit nor bridle.[Thekla, who has listened to the last words with increasing anguish, falls into a violent tremor; she is sinking to the ground; Fräulein Neubrunn hastens to her, and receives her in her arms.
Neu. Lady, dearest mistress—Capt. [moved]Let me begone.Thekla. 'Tis past; conclude it.Capt.Seeing their leader fall,A grim inexorable desperationSeiz'd the troops: their own escape forgotten,Like wild tigers they attack us; their furyProvokes our soldiers, and the battle ends notTill the last man of the Pappenheimers falls.Thekla [with a quivering voice].And where—where is—You have not told me all.Capt. [after a pause]This morning we interr'd him. He was borneBy twelve youths of the noblest families,And all our host accompanied the bier.A laurel deck'd his coffin; and upon itThe Rheingraf laid his own victorious sword.Nor were tears wanting to his fate: for manyOf us had known his noble-mindedness,And gentleness of manners; and all heartsWere mov'd at his sad end. Fain would the RheingrafHave sav'd him; but himself prevented it;'Tis said he wish'd to die.Neu. [with emotion, to Thekla, who hides her face]O! dearest mistress,Look up! O, why would you insist on this?Thekla. Where is his grave?Capt.I' th' chapel of a cloisterAt Neustadt is he laid, till we receiveDirections from his father.Thekla.What is its name?Capt. St. Catharine's.Thekla.Is't far from this?Capt.Seven leagues.Thekla. How goes the way?Capt.You come by TirschenreitAnd Falkenberg, and through our farthest outposts.Thekla. Who commands them?Capt.Colonel Seckendorf.Thekla [steps to a table, and takes a ring from her jewel-box].You have seen me in my grief, and shown meA sympathising heart: accept a smallMemorial of this hour [giving him the ring].Now leave me.Capt. [overpowered]Princess![Thekla silently makes him a sign to go, and turns from
him. He lingers, and attempts to speak; Neubrunn
repeats the sign; he goes.
Scene XI.
Neubrunn; Thekla
Thekla [falls on Neubrunn's neck].Now, good Neubrunn, is the time to show the loveWhich thou hast always vow'd me. Prove thyselfA true friend and attendant! We must go,This very night.Neu.Go! This very night! And whither?Thekla. Whither? There is but one place in the world,The place where he lies buried: to his grave.Neu. Alas, what would you there, my dearest mistress?Thekla. What there? Unhappy girl! Thou wouldst not askIf thou hadst ever lov'd. There, there, is allThat yet remains of him; that one small spotIs all the earth to me. Do not detain me!O, come! Prepare, think how we may escape.Neu. Have you reflected on your father's anger?Thekla. I dread no mortal's anger now.Neu.The mockeryOf the world, the wicked tongue of slander!Thekla. I go to seek one that is cold and low:Am I, then, hast'ning to my lover's arms?O God! I am but hast'ning to his grave!Neu. And we alone? Two feeble, helpless women?Thekla. We will arm ourselves; my hand shall guard thee.Neu. In the gloomy night-time?Thekla.Night will hide us.Neu. In this rude storm?Thekla.Was his bed made of down,When the horses' hoofs went o'er him?Neu.O Heaven!And then the many Swedish posts! They will notLet us pass.Thekla. Are they not men? MisfortunePasses free through all the earth.Neu.So far! So—Thekla. Does the pilgrim count the miles, when journeyingTo the distant shrine of grace?Neu.How shall weEven get out of Eger?Thekla.Gold opens gates.Go! Do go!Neu.If they should recognise us?Thekla. In a fugitive despairing womanNo one will look to meet with Friedland's daughter.Neu. And where shall we get horses for our flight?Thekla. My Equerry will find them. Go and call him.Neu. Will he venture without his master's knowledge?Thekla. He will, I tell thee. Go! O, linger not!Neu. Ah! And what will your mother do when youAre vanish'd?Thekla [recollecting this, and gazing with a look of anguish].O my mother!Neu. Your good mother!She has already had so much to suffer.Must this last heaviest stroke too fall on her?Thekla. I cannot help it. Go, I prithee, go!Neu. Think well what you are doing.Thekla.All is thoughtThat can be thought, already.Neu.Were we there,What would you do?Thekla.God will direct me, there.Neu. Your heart is full of trouble: O my lady!This way leads not to peace.Thekla.To that deep peaceWhich he has found. O, hasten! Go! No words!There is some force, I know not what to call it,Pulls me irresistibly, and drags meOn to his grave: there I shall find some solaceInstantly; the strangling band of sorrowWill be loosen'd; tears will flow. O, hasten!Long time ago we might have been o' th' road.No rest for me till I have fled these walls:They fall upon me, some dark power repels meFrom them—Ha! What's this? The chamber's fillingWith pale gaunt shapes! No room is left for me!More! more! The crowding spectres press on me,And push me forth from this accursed house.Neu. You frighten me, my lady: I dare stayNo longer; quickly I'll call Rosenberg.Scene XII.
Thekla
It is his spirit calls me! 'Tis the hostOf faithful souls that sacrificed themselvesIn fiery vengeance for him. They upbraid meFor this loit'ring: they in death forsook him not,Who in their life had led them; their rude heartsWere capable of this: and I can live?No! No! That laurel-garland which they laidUpon his bier was twined for both of us!What is this life without the light of love?I cast it from me, since its worth is gone.Yes, when we found and lov'd each other, lifeWas something! Glittering lay before meThe golden morn: I had two hours of Heaven.Thou stoodest at the threshold of the sceneOf busy life; with timid steps I cross'd it:How fair it lay in solemn shade and sheen!And thou beside me, like some angel, postedTo lead me out of childhood's fairy landOn to life's glancing summit, hand in hand!My first thought was of joy no tongue can tell,My first look on thy spotless spirit fell.[She sinks into a reverie, then with signs of horror proceeds.
And Fate put forth his hand: inexorable, cold,My friend it grasp'd and clutch'd with iron hold,And—under th' hoofs of their wild horses hurl'd:Such is the lot of loveliness i' th' world!Thekla has yet another pang to encounter; the parting with her mother: but she persists in her determination, and goes forth, to die beside her lover's grave. The heart-rending emotions, which this amiable creature has to undergo, are described with an almost painful effect: the fate of Max and Thekla might draw tears from the eyes of a stoic.
Less tender, but not less sublimely poetical, is the fate of Wallenstein himself. We do not pity Wallenstein; even in ruin he seems too great for pity. His daughter having vanished like a fair vision from the scene, we look forward to Wallenstein's inevitable fate with little feeling save expectant awe:
This kingly Wallenstein, whene'er he falls,Will drag a world to ruin down with him;And as a ship that in the midst of oceanCatches fire, and shiv'ring springs into the air,And in a moment scatters between sea and skyThe crew it bore, so will he hurry to destructionEv'ry one whose fate was join'd with his.Yet still there is some touch of pathos in his gloomy fall; some visitings of nature in the austere grandeur of his slowly-coming, but inevitable and annihilating doom. The last scene of his life is among the finest which poetry can boast of. Thekla's death is still unknown to him; but he thinks of Max, and almost weeps. He looks at the stars: dim shadows of superstitious dread pass fitfully across his spirit, as he views these fountains of light, and compares their glorious and enduring existence with the fleeting troubled life of man. The strong spirit of his sister is subdued by dark forebodings; omens are against him; his astrologer entreats, one of the relenting conspirators entreats, his own feelings call upon him, to watch and beware. But he refuses to let the resolution of his mind be overmastered; he casts away these warnings, and goes cheerfully to sleep, with dreams of hope about his pillow, unconscious that the javelins are already grasped which will send him to his long and dreamless sleep. The death of Wallenstein does not cause tears; but it is perhaps the most high-wrought scene of the play. A shade of horror, of fateful dreariness, hangs over it, and gives additional effect to the fire of that brilliant poetry, which glows in every line of it. Except in Macbeth or the conclusion of Othello, we know not where to match it. Schiller's genius is of a kind much narrower than Shakspeare's; but in his own peculiar province, the exciting of lofty, earnest, strong emotion, he admits of no superior. Others are finer, more piercing, varied, thrilling, in their influence: Schiller, in his finest mood, is overwhelming.
This tragedy of Wallenstein, published at the close of the eighteenth century, may safely be rated as the greatest dramatic work of which that century can boast. France never rose into the sphere of Schiller, even in the days of her Corneille: nor can our own country, since the times of Elizabeth, name any dramatist to be compared with him in general strength of mind, and feeling, and acquired accomplishment. About the time of Wallenstein's appearance, we of this gifted land were shuddering at The Castle Spectre! Germany, indeed, boasts of Goethe: and on some rare occasions, it must be owned that Goethe has shown talents of a higher order than are here manifested; but he has made no equally regular or powerful exertion of them: Faust is but a careless effusion compared with Wallenstein. The latter is in truth a vast and magnificent work. What an assemblage of images, ideas, emotions, disposed in the most felicitous and impressive order! We have conquerors, statesmen, ambitious generals, marauding soldiers, heroes, and heroines, all acting and feeling as they would in nature, all faithfully depicted, yet all embellished by the spirit of poetry, and all made conducive to heighten one paramount impression, our sympathy with the three chief characters of the piece.35
Soon after the publication of Wallenstein, Schiller once more changed his abode. The 'mountain air of Jena' was conceived by his physicians to be prejudicial in disorders of the lungs; and partly in consequence of this opinion, he determined henceforth to spend his winters in Weimar. Perhaps a weightier reason in favour of this new arrangement was the opportunity it gave him of being near the theatre, a constant attendance on which, now that he had once more become a dramatist, seemed highly useful for his farther improvement. The summer he, for several years, continued still to spend in Jena; to which, especially its beautiful environs, he declared himself particularly attached. His little garden-house was still his place of study during summer; till at last he settled constantly at Weimar. Even then he used frequently to visit Jena; to which there was a fresh attraction in later years, when Goethe chose it for his residence, which, we understand, it still occasionally is. With Goethe he often stayed for months.
This change of place produced little change in Schiller's habits or employment: he was now as formerly in the pay of the Duke of Weimar; now as formerly engaged in dramatic composition as the great object of his life. What the amount of his pension was, we know not: that the Prince behaved to him in a princely manner, we have proof sufficient. Four years before, when invited to the University of Tübingen, Schiller had received a promise, that, in case of sickness or any other cause preventing the continuance of his literary labour, his salary should be doubled. It was actually increased on occasion of the present removal; and again still farther in 1804, some advantageous offers being made to him from Berlin. Schiller seems to have been, what he might have wished to be, neither poor nor rich: his simple unostentatious economy went on without embarrassment: and this was all that he required. To avoid pecuniary perplexities was constantly among his aims: to amass wealth, never. We ought also to add that, in 1802, by the voluntary solicitation of the Duke, he was ennobled; a fact which we mention, for his sake by whose kindness this honour was procured; not for the sake of Schiller, who accepted it with gratitude, but had neither needed nor desired it.
The official services expected of him in return for so much kindness seem to have been slight, if any. Chiefly or altogether of his own accord, he appears to have applied himself to a close inspection of the theatre, and to have shared with Goethe the task of superintending its concerns. The rehearsals of new pieces commonly took place at the house of one of these friends; they consulted together on all such subjects, frankly and copiously. Schiller was not slow to profit by the means of improvement thus afforded him; in the mechanical details of his art he grew more skilful: by a constant observation of the stage, he became more acquainted with its capabilities and its laws. It was not long till, with his characteristic expansiveness of enterprise, he set about turning this new knowledge to account. In conjunction with Goethe, he remodelled his own Don Carlos and his friend's Count Egmont, altering both according to his latest views of scenic propriety. It was farther intended to treat, in the same manner, the whole series of leading German plays, and thus to produce a national stock of dramatic pieces, formed according to the best rules; a vast project, in which some progress continued to be made, though other labours often interrupted it. For the present, Schiller was engaged with his Maria Stuart: it appeared in 1800.
This tragedy will not detain us long. It is upon a subject, the incidents of which are now getting trite, and the moral of which has little that can peculiarly recommend it. To exhibit the repentance of a lovely but erring woman, to show us how her soul may be restored to its primitive nobleness, by sufferings, devotion and death, is the object of Maria Stuart. It is a tragedy of sombre and mournful feelings; with an air of melancholy and obstruction pervading it; a looking backward on objects of remorse, around on imprisonment, and forward on the grave. Its object is undoubtedly attained. We are forced to pardon and to love the heroine; she is beautiful, and miserable, and lofty-minded; and her crimes, however dark, have been expiated by long years of weeping and woe. Considering also that they were the fruit not of calculation, but of passion acting on a heart not dead, though blinded for a time, to their enormity, they seem less hateful than the cold premeditated villany of which she is the victim. Elizabeth is selfish, heartless, envious; she violates no law, but she has no virtue, and she lives triumphant: her arid, artificial character serves by contrast to heighten our sympathy with her warm-hearted, forlorn, ill-fated rival. These two Queens, particularly Mary, are well delineated: their respective qualities are vividly brought out, and the feelings they were meant to excite arise within us. There is also Mortimer, a fierce, impetuous, impassioned lover; driven onward chiefly by the heat of his blood, but still interesting by his vehemence and unbounded daring. The dialogue, moreover, has many beauties; there are scenes which have merited peculiar commendation. Of this kind is the interview between the Queens; and more especially the first entrance of Mary, when, after long seclusion, she is once more permitted to behold the cheerful sky. In the joy of a momentary freedom, she forgets that she is still a captive; she addresses the clouds, the 'sailors of the air, who 'are not subjects of Elizabeth,' and bids them carry tidings of her to the hearts that love her in other lands. Without doubt, in all that he intended, Schiller has succeeded; Maria Stuart is a beautiful tragedy; it would have formed the glory of a meaner man, but it cannot materially alter his. Compared with Wallenstein, its purpose is narrow, and its result is common. We have no manners or true historical delineation. The figure of the English court is not given; and Elizabeth is depicted more like one of the French Medici, than like our own politic, capricious, coquettish, imperious, yet on the whole true-hearted, 'good Queen Bess.' With abundant proofs of genius, this tragedy produces a comparatively small effect, especially on English readers. We have already wept enough for Mary Stuart, both over prose and verse; and the persons likely to be deeply touched with the moral or the interest of her story, as it is recorded here, are rather a separate class than men in general. Madame de Staël, we observe, is her principal admirer.
Next year, Schiller took possession of a province more peculiarly his own: in 1801, appeared his Maid of Orleans (Jungfrau von Orleans); the first hint of which was suggested to him by a series of documents, relating to the sentence of Jeanne d'Arc, and its reversal, first published about this time by De l'Averdy of the Académie des Inscriptions. Schiller had been moved in perusing them: this tragedy gave voice to his feelings.
Considered as an object of poetry or history, Jeanne d'Arc, the most singular personage of modern times, presents a character capable of being viewed under a great variety of aspects, and with a corresponding variety of emotions. To the English of her own age, bigoted in their creed, and baffled by her prowess, she appeared inspired by the Devil, and was naturally burnt as a sorceress. In this light, too, she is painted in the poems of Shakspeare. To Voltaire, again, whose trade it was to war with every kind of superstition, this child of fanatic ardour seemed no better than a moonstruck zealot; and the people who followed her, and believed in her, something worse than lunatics. The glory of what she had achieved was forgotten, when the means of achieving it were recollected; and the Maid of Orleans was deemed the fit subject of a poem, the wittiest and most profligate for which literature has to blush. Our illustrious Don Juan hides his head when contrasted with Voltaire's Pucelle: Juan's biographer, with all his zeal, is but an innocent, and a novice, by the side of this arch-scorner.
