The Life of Friedrich Schiller

Such a manner of considering the Maid of Orleans is evidently not the right one. Feelings so deep and earnest as hers can never be an object of ridicule: whoever pursues a purpose of any sort with such fervid devotedness, is entitled to awaken emotions, at least of a serious kind, in the hearts of others. Enthusiasm puts on a different shape in every different age: always in some degree sublime, often it is dangerous; its very essence is a tendency to error and exaggeration; yet it is the fundamental quality of strong souls; the true nobility of blood, in which all greatness of thought or action has its rise. Quicquid vult valdè vult is ever the first and surest test of mental capability. This peasant girl, who felt within her such fiery vehemence of resolution, that she could subdue the minds of kings and captains to her will, and lead armies on to battle, conquering, till her country was cleared of its invaders, must evidently have possessed the elements of a majestic character. Benevolent feelings, sublime ideas, and above all an overpowering will, are here indubitably marked. Nor does the form, which her activity assumed, seem less adapted for displaying these qualities, than many other forms in which we praise them. The gorgeous inspirations of the Catholic religion are as real as the phantom of posthumous renown; the love of our native soil is as laudable as ambition, or the principle of military honour. Jeanne d'Arc must have been a creature of shadowy yet far-glancing dreams, of unutterable feelings, of 'thoughts that wandered through Eternity.' Who can tell the trials and the triumphs, the splendours and the terrors, of which her simple spirit was the scene! 'Heartless, sneering, god-forgetting French!' as old Suwarrow called them,—they are not worthy of this noble maiden. Hers were errors, but errors which a generous soul alone could have committed, and which generous souls would have done more than pardon. Her darkness and delusions were of the understanding only; they but make the radiance of her heart more touching and apparent; as clouds are gilded by the orient light into something more beautiful than azure itself.

It is under this aspect that Schiller has contemplated the Maid of Orleans, and endeavoured to make us contemplate her. For the latter purpose, it appears that more than one plan had occurred to him. His first idea was, to represent Joanna, and the times she lived in, as they actually were: to exhibit the superstition, ferocity, and wretchedness of the period, in all their aggravation; and to show us this patriotic and religious enthusiast beautifying the tempestuous scene by her presence; swaying the fierce passions of her countrymen; directing their fury against the invaders of France; till at length, forsaken and condemned to die, she perished at the stake, retaining the same steadfast and lofty faith, which had ennobled and redeemed the errors of her life, and was now to glorify the ignominy of her death. This project, after much deliberation, he relinquished, as too difficult. By a new mode of management, much of the homeliness and rude horror, that defaced and encumbered the reality, is thrown away. The Dauphin is not here a voluptuous weakling, nor is his court the centre of vice and cruelty and imbecility: the misery of the time is touched but lightly, and the Maid of Arc herself is invested with a certain faint degree of mysterious dignity, ultimately represented as being in truth a preternatural gift; though whether preternatural, and if so, whether sent from above or from below, neither we nor she, except by faith, are absolutely sure, till the conclusion.

The propriety of this arrangement is liable to question; indeed, it has been more than questioned. But external blemishes are lost in the intrinsic grandeur of the piece: the spirit of Joanna is presented to us with an exalting and pathetic force sufficient to make us blind to far greater improprieties. Joanna is a pure creation, of half-celestial origin, combining the mild charms of female loveliness with the awful majesty of a prophetess, and a sacrifice doomed to perish for her country. She resembled, in Schiller's view, the Iphigenia of the Greeks; and as such, in some respects, he has treated her.

The woes and desolation of the land have kindled in Joanna's keen and fervent heart a fire, which the loneliness of her life, and her deep feelings of religion, have nourished and fanned into a holy flame. She sits in solitude with her flocks, beside the mountain chapel of the Virgin, under the ancient Druid oak, a wizard spot, the haunt of evil spirits as well as of good; and visions are revealed to her such as human eyes behold not. It seems the force of her own spirit, expressing its feelings in forms which react upon itself. The strength of her impulses persuades her that she is called from on high to deliver her native France; the intensity of her own faith persuades others; she goes forth on her mission; all bends to the fiery vehemence of her will; she is inspired because she thinks herself so. There is something beautiful and moving in the aspect of a noble enthusiasm, fostered in the secret soul, amid obstructions and depressions, and at length bursting forth with an overwhelming force to accomplish its appointed end: the impediments which long hid it are now become testimonies of its power; the very ignorance, and meanness, and error, which still in part adhere to it, increase our sympathy without diminishing our admiration; it seems the triumph, hardly contested, and not wholly carried, but still the triumph, of Mind over Fate, of human volition over material necessity.

All this Schiller felt, and has presented with even more than his usual skill. The secret mechanism of Joanna's mind is concealed from us in a dim religious obscurity; but its active movements are distinct; we behold the lofty heroism of her feelings; she affects us to the very heart. The quiet, devout innocence of her early years, when she lived silent, shrouded in herself, meek and kindly though not communing with others, makes us love her: the celestial splendour which illuminates her after-life adds reverence to our love. Her words and actions combine an overpowering force with a calm unpretending dignity: we seem to understand how they must have carried in their favour the universal conviction. Joanna is the most noble being in tragedy. We figure her with her slender lovely form, her mild but spirit-speaking countenance; 'beautiful and terrible;' bearing the banner of the Virgin before the hosts of her country; travelling in the strength of a rapt soul; irresistible by faith; 'the lowly herdsmaid,' greater in the grandeur of her simple spirit than the kings and queens of this world. Yet her breast is not entirely insensible to human feeling, nor her faith never liable to waver. When that inexorable vengeance, which had shut her ear against the voice of mercy to the enemies of France, is suspended at the sight of Lionel, and her heart experiences the first touch of mortal affection, a baleful cloud overspreads the serene of her mind; it seems as if Heaven had forsaken her, or from the beginning permitted demons or earthly dreams to deceive her. The agony of her spirit, involved in endless and horrid labyrinths of doubt, is powerfully portrayed. She has crowned the king at Rheims; and all is joy, and pomp, and jubilee, and almost adoration of Joanna: but Joanna's thoughts are not of joy. The sight of her poor but kind and true-hearted sisters in the crowd, moves her to the soul. Amid the tumult and magnificence of this royal pageant, she sinks into a reverie; her small native dale of Arc, between its quiet hills, rises on her mind's eye, with its straw-roofed huts, and its clear greensward; where the sun is even then shining so brightly, and the sky is so blue, and all is so calm and motherly and safe. She sighs for the peace of that sequestered home; then shudders to think that she shall never see it more. Accused of witchcraft, by her own ascetic melancholic father, she utters no word of denial to the charge; for her heart is dark, it is tarnished by earthly love, she dare not raise her thoughts to Heaven. Parted from her sisters; cast out with horror by the people she had lately saved from despair, she wanders forth, desolate, forlorn, not knowing whither. Yet she does not sink under this sore trial: as she suffers from without, and is forsaken of men, her mind grows clear and strong, her confidence returns. She is now more firmly fixed in our admiration than before; tenderness is united to our other feelings; and her faith has been proved by sharp vicissitudes. Her countrymen recognise their error; Joanna closes her career by a glorious death; we take farewell of her in a solemn mood of heroic pity.

Joanna is the animating principle of this tragedy; the scenes employed in developing her character and feelings constitute its great charm. Yet there are other personages in it, that leave a distinct and pleasing impression of themselves in our memory. Agnes Sorel, the soft, languishing, generous mistress of the Dauphin, relieves and heightens by comparison the sterner beauty of the Maid. Dunois, the Bastard of Orleans, the lover of Joanna, is a blunt, frank, sagacious soldier, and well described. And Talbot, the gray veteran, delineates his dark, unbelieving, indomitable soul, by a few slight but expressive touches: he sternly passes down to the land, as he thinks, of utter nothingness, contemptuous even of the fate that destroys him, and

'On the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.'

A few scattered extracts may in part exhibit some of these inferior personages to our readers, though they can afford us no impression of the Maid herself. Joanna's character, like every finished piece of art, to be judged of must be seen in all its bearings. It is not in parts, but as a whole, that the delineation moves us; by light and manifold touches, it works upon our hearts, till they melt before it into that mild rapture, free alike from the violence and the impurities of Nature, which it is the highest triumph of the Artist to communicate.

Act III. Scene IV

[The Dauphin Charles, with his suite: afterwards Joanna. She is in armour, but without her helmet; and wears a garland in her hair.

Dunois [steps forward].My heart made choice of her while she was lowly;This new honour raises not her meritOr my love. Here, in the presence of my KingAnd of this holy Archbishop, I offer herMy hand and princely rank, if she regard meAs worthy to be hers.Charles.Resistless Maid,Thou addest miracle to miracle!Henceforward I believe that nothing isImpossible to thee. Thou hast subduedThis haughty spirit, that till now defiedTh' omnipotence of Love.La Hire [steps forward]. If I mistake notJoanna's form of mind, what most adorns herIs her modest heart. The rev'rence of the greatShe merits; but her thoughts will never riseSo high. She strives not after giddy splendours:The true affection of a faithful soulContents her, and the still, sequester'd lotWhich with this hand I offer her.Charles.Thou too,La Hire? Two valiant suitors, equal inHeroic virtue and renown of war!—Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions,Soften'd my opposers, part my firmest friends?Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee:Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter.Agnes Sorel [approaches].Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised;I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks.Let her have time to ask her heart, to openHer clos'd bosom in trustful confidenceWith me. The moment is arriv'd when IIn sisterly communion also mayApproach the rigorous Maid, and offer herThe solace of my faithful, silent breast.First let us women sit in secret judgmentOn this matter that concerns us; then expectWhat we shall have decided.Charles [about to go].Be it so, then!Joanna. Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassmentOf virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson:To this lady I have nothing to confide,Which I need blush to speak of before men.Much am I honour'd by the preferenceOf these two noble Knights; but it was notTo chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I leftThe shepherd moors; not in my hair to bindThe bridal garland, that I girt myselfWith warlike armour. To far other workAm I appointed: and the spotless virginAlone can do it. I am the soldierOf the God of Battles; to no living manCan I be wife.Archbishop. As kindly help to manWas woman born; and in obeying NatureShe best obeys and reverences Heaven.When the command of God who summon'd theeTo battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay downThy weapons, and return to that soft sexWhich thou deny'st, which is not call'd to doThe bloody work of war.Joanna.Father, as yetI know not how the Spirit will direct me:When the needful time comes round, His voiceWill not be silent, and I will obey it.For the present, I am bid complete the task.He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd,His head unwetted by the holy oil,He is not yet a King.Charles.We are journeyingTowards Rheims.Joanna.Let us not linger by the way.Our foes are busy round us, shutting upThy passage: I will lead thee through them all.Dunois. And when the work shall be fulfill'd, when weHave marched in triumph into Rheims,Will not Joanna then—Joanna.If God see meetThat I return with life and vict'ry fromThese broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaidHas nothing more to do in her King's palace.Charles [taking her hand].It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now,And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom.Believe me, it will not be always mute!Our swords will rest; and Victory will leadMeek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come againTo ev'ry breast, and softer feelings wakenIn every heart: in thy heart also waken;And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep,Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart,Now fill'd by Heav'n, will softly openTo some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begunBy blessing thousands; but thou wilt concludeBy blessing one.Joanna.Dauphin! Art thou wearyOf the heavenly vision, that thou seekestTo deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degradeTo common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee?Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith!Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyesUnveils its wonders; and ye see in meNought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye,Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingleIn the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me,If bearing in my hand th' avenging swordOf God, I bore in my vain heart a loveTo earthly man! Woe to me! It were betterThat I never had been born. No more,No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrathOf Him that dwells in me! The eye of manDesiring me is an abominationAnd a horror.Charles.Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.Joanna. Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grievesAnd harasses me. Something chases meFrom sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission,Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.

Scene V.

A Knight [in haste]

Charles. How now?Knight.The enemy has pass'd the Marne;Is forming as for battle.Joanna [as if inspired]. Arms and battle!My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms!Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest![She hastens out

[Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is changing pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle.]

Scene VI

[The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the music, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background.]

Talbot, leaning upon Fastolf, and accompanied by Soldiers. Soon after, Lionel.

Talbot. Here set me down beneath this tree, and youBetake yourselves again to battle: quick!I need no help to die.Fastolf.O day of woe![Lionel enters.Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel!Our General expiring of his wounds!Lionel. Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! ThisIs not a time for you to faint and sink.Yield not to Death; force faltering NatureBy your strength of soul, that life depart not!Talbot. In vain! The day of Destiny is comeThat prostrates with the dust our power in France.In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle,Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it:The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lieTo rise no more forever. Rheims is lost;Make haste to rescue Paris.Lionel.Paris has surrender'dTo the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'dWith tidings.Talbot [tears away his bandages].Then flow out, ye life-streams;I am grown to loathe this Sun.Lionel.They want me!Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety:We can hold this post few instants longer,The coward knaves are giving way on all sides,Irresistible the Witch is pressing on.Talbot. Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield:Stupidity can baffle the very gods.High Reason, radiant Daughter of God's Head,Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe,Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then,If, tied to th' tail o' th' wild horse Superstition,Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking,Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss?Cursed who sets his life upon the greatAnd dignified; and with forecasting spiritForms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world.Lionel. O, Death is near you! Think of your Creator!Talbot. Had we as brave men been defeatedBy brave men, we might have consoled ourselvesWith common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness:But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!—Did our earnest toilsome struggle meritNo graver end than this?Lionel [grasps his hand]. Talbot, farewell!The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you,When the fight is done, should I outlive it.Now Fate calls me to the field, where yetShe wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn.Farewell! we meet beyond the unseen shore.Brief parting for long friendship! God be with you![Exit.Talbot. Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render,To the everlasting Sun, the atoms,Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me;And of the mighty Talbot, whose renownOnce fill'd the world, remains nought but a handfulOf light dust. Thus man comes to his end;And our one conquest in this fight of lifeIs the conviction of life's nothingness,And deep disdain of all that sorry stuffWe once thought lofty and desirable.

Scene VII

Enter Charles; Burgundy; Dunois; Du Chatel; and Soldiers.

Burgun. The trench is storm'd.Dunois.The victory is ours.Charles [observing Talbot].Ha! who is this that to the light of dayIs bidding his constrained and sad farewell?His bearing speaks no common man: go, haste,Assist him, if assistance yet avail.

[Soldiers from the Dauphin's suite step forward.

Fastolf. Back! Keep away! Approach not the Departing,Whom in life ye never wish'd too near you.Burgun. What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!

[He goes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him, and dies.

Fastolf. Off, Burgundy! With th' aspect of a traitorPoison not the last look of a hero.Dunois. Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable!Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow,And the wide domains of France once could notStay the striving of thy giant spirit?—Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King:The crown but totter'd on your head, so longAs in this body dwelt a soul.Charles [after looking at the dead in silence]. It wasA higher hand that conquer'd him, not we.Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.Bring him away.[Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off.And peace be with his dust!A fair memorial shall arise to himI' th' midst of France: here, where the hero's courseAnd life were finished, let his bones repose.Thus far no other foe has e'er advanced.His epitaph shall be the place he fell on.

Scene IX

Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun.

A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut. Joanna follows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaits her.

Joanna. Deceiver! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast,By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle,And warded death and destiny from off the headOf many a Briton. Now they reach thy own.Knight. Why dost thou follow me, and track my stopsWith murd'rous fury? I am not appointedTo die by thee.Joanna.Deep in my lowest soulI hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour.To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feelSome irresistible desire impelling me.Who art thou? Lift thy visor: had not ISeen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot.Knight. Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?Joanna. It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom,That Misfortune is at hand.Knight.Joanna d'Arc!Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced,Led on by victory. Let the renownAlready gain'd suffice thee! As a slaveHas Fortune serv'd thee: emancipate her,Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelityShe hates; no one obeys she to the end.Joanna. How say'st thou, in the middle of my course,That I should pause and leave my work unfinish'd?I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow.Knight. Nothing can withstand thee; thou art most strong;In ev'ry battle thou prevailest. But goInto no other battle. Hear my warning!Joanna. This sword I quit not, till the English yield.Knight. Look! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goalAnd purpose of thy march; thou seest the domeOf the cathedral glittering in the sun:There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp,To crown thy sov'reign and fulfil thy vow.Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning!Joanna. Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer,That wouldst frighten and perplex me? Dar'st thouUtter lying oracles to me?

[The Black Knight attempts to go; she steps in his way.

No!Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me!

[She lifts her arm to strike him.

Knight [touches her with his hand: she stands immovable].Kill what is mortal!

[Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks.

Joanna [stands at first amazed: but soon recovers herself].It was nothing earthly.Some delusive form of Hell, some spiritOf Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting PoolTo tempt and terrify my fervent soul!Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear?Victorious will I end my fated course;Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me,My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me.[She is going.

Scene X.

Lionel, Joanna

Lionel. Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle:Not both of us shall leave the place alive.Thou hast destroyed the chosen of my host;Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spiritIn my bosom. I will avenge the Dead,Or share his fate. And wouldst thou know the manWho brings thee glory, let him die or conquer,I am Lionel, the last survivorOf our chiefs; and still unvanquish'd is this arm.

[He rushes towards her; after a short contest, she strikes the sword from his hand.

Faithless fortune![He struggles with her.Joanna [seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears his helmetviolently down, so that his face is exposed: atthe same time she lifts her sword with the righthand].Suffer what thou soughtest!The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!

[At this moment she looks in his face; his aspect touches her; she stands immovable, and then slowly drops her arm.

Lionel. Why lingerest thou, and stayest the stroke of death?My honour thou hast taken, take my life:'Tis in thy hands to take it; I want not mercy.

[She gives him a sign with her hand to depart.

Fly from thee? Owe thee my life? Die rather!Joanna [her face turned away].I will not remember that thou owedstThy life to me.Lionel.I hate thee and thy gift.I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy,Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee!Joanna. Kill me, and fly!Lionel.Ha! How is this?Joanna [hides her face].Woe's me!Lionel [approaches her].Thou killest every Briton, I have heard,Whom thou subdu'st in battle: why spare me?Joanna [lifts her sword with a rapid movement against him,but quickly lets it sink again, when she observes hisface]. O Holy Virgin!Lionel.Wherefore namest thouThe Virgin? She knows nothing of thee; HeavenHas nought to say to thee.Joanna [in violent anguish]. What have I done!My vow, my vow is broke![Wrings her hands in despair.Lionel [looks at her with sympathy, and comes nearer].Unhappy girl!I pity thee; thou touchest me; thou showedstMercy to me alone. My hate is going:I am constrain'd to feel for thee. Who art thou?Whence comest thou?Joanna.Away! Begone!Lionel.Thy youth,Thy beauty melt and sadden me; thy lookGoes to my heart: I could wish much to save thee;Tell me how I may! Come, come with me! ForsakeThis horrid business; cast away those arms!Joanna. I no more deserve to bear them!Lionel.Cast themAway, then, and come with me!Joanna [with horror].Come with thee!Lionel. Thou mayst be sav'd: come with me! I will save thee.But delay not. A strange sorrow for theeSeizes me, and an unspeakable desireTo save thee.[Seizes her arm.Joanna.Ha! Dunois! 'Tis they!If they should find thee!—Lionel.Fear not; I will guard thee.Joanna. I should die, were they to kill thee.Lionel.Am IDear to thee?Joanna.Saints of Heaven!Lionel.Shall I everSee thee, hear of thee, again?Joanna.Never! Never!Lionel. This sword for pledge that I will see thee!

[He wrests the sword from her.