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Foreign Classics for English Readers
EDITED BY
MRS OLIPHANT
PROSPECTUS.
THE
'IIE cordial reception given by the public to the Series
of "Ancient Classics for English Readers" has
confirmed the intention of the Publishers to carry out a
kindred Series, which it is believed will not be less
useful or less welcome, and in which an attempt will be
made to introduce the great writers of Europe in a similar
manner to the many readers who probably have a perfect
acquaintance with their names, without much knowledge
of their works, or their place in the literature of the
modern world. The Classics of Italy, France, Germany,
and Spain are nearer to us in time, and less separated in
sentiment, than the still more famous Classics of anti-
quity; and if foreign travel is, as everybody allows, a
great means of enlarging the mind, and dispersing its
prejudices, an acquaintance with those works in which
the great nations who are our neighbours have expressed
their highest life, and by which their manners of thinking
have been formed, cannot but possess equal advantages.
A man who would profess to know England without
knowing something of Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, and
the great writers who have followed them, could form but
an imperfect idea of the national mind and its capabili-
ties and so no amount of travel can make us acquainted
:
}
3
with Italy, while Dante, Tasso, and her great historians
remain unknown to us; nor can the upheavings of French
Society and the mental characteristics of the nation be
comprehended without Voltaire, Molière, Rousseau, and
other great names beside. Neither is Germany herself
without Goethe and Schiller: nor Spain recognisable
deprived of that noble figure of Cervantes, in whom lives.
the very genius of the nation. This great band it is our
design to give such an account of as may bring them
within the acquaintance of the English reader, whose zeal
may not carry him the length of the often thankless study
of translations, and whose readings in a foreign language
are not easy enough to be pleasant. We are aware that
there are difficulties in our way in this attempt which did
not lie in the path of the former Series, since in the
section of the world for which we write there are many
more readers of French and German than of Greek and
Latin; but, on the other hand, there is no educated class
supremely devoted to the study of Continental Classics,
as is the case in respect to the Ancient; and even the
greatest authority in the learned matter of a Greek text
might be puzzled by Jean Paul Richter, or lose himself
in the mysteries of Dante's 'Paradiso.' The audience to
which we aspire is, therefore, at once wider and narrower
than that to which the great treasures of Hellenic and
Roman literature are unfamiliar; and our effort will be
to present the great Italian, the great Frenchman, the
famous German, to the reader, so as to make it plain tɔ
him what and how they wrote, something of how they
lived, and more or less of their position and influence
upon the literature of their country.
The Volumes published of this Series contain-
By the EDITOR.
By Major-General Sir E. B. HAMLEY, K.C.M.G.
By Principal TULLOCH.
BY HENRY REEVE, C.B.
By A. HAYWARD, Q.C.
By Mrs OLIPHANT and F. TARVER, M. A.
By Rev. W. LUCAS COLLINS, M. A.
By WALTER BESANT.
By E. J. HASELL.
By CLIFTON W. COLLINS, M.A.
By the EDITOR.
By HENRY M. TROLLOPE.
By Miss THACKERAY.
DANTE,
VOLTAIRE,
PASCAL,
PETRARCH,
GOETHE,
MOLIÈRE, .
MONTAIGNE,
RABELAIS,
CALDERON,
SAINT SIMON,
•
•
CERVANTES,
CORNEILLE AND RACINE,
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ,
LA FONTAINE, AND OTHER
FRENCH FABULISTS,
SCHILLER,
TASSO,
ROUSSEAU,
By Rev. W. LUCAS Collins, M. A.
By JAMES SIME, M. A.
In preparation—
By E. J. HAsell.
By HENRY GRAHAM.
7.
Foreign Classics for English Readers
EDITED BY
MRS OLIPHANT
SCHILLER

1872
SCHILLER.
BY
JAMES SIME, M. A.,
AUTHOR OF “LESSING: HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS."
GENERAL DI
University of
MICHIGAN

PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1882
CHAP.
I. INTRODUCTION,
II. AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY,
III. IN STUTTGART,
IV. IN MANNHEIM,
V. SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS,
CONTENTS.
VI. IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR,
66
VII. DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS,
VIII. IN JENA,
IX. SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS,
X. SCHILLER AND GOETHE,
XI. WALLENSTEIN,
XII. IN WEIMAR,
XIII. SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS,
XIV. THE END,
،،
•
27
PAGE
1
7
28
38
54
68
86
95
112
127
158
171
184
210
SCHILLE R.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION
MÂN
In his splendid Epilogue to "The Song of the Bell,"
written soon after Schiller's death, Goethe says of his
friend that, in his mature years, "that which fetters us
all-the common-lay far behind him." It would be
impossible to indicate more exactly the quality which
must impress every student of Schiller's career. Even
in his appearance there was an aspect of greatness as he
walked through the streets with his firm military step,
his tall form towering above the passers-by. "His
carriage, his walk, every one of his movements," said
Goethe to Eckermann, "was proud and grand; but his
eyes were mild." No one could talk with him without
perceiving the loftiness of his aims; and always he felt,
even to his last hours, that, whatever task he had ac-
complished, still wider worlds remained for him to con-
quer. For many years his life was one of almost con-
F.C.-XV,
A
M
2
SCHILLER.
stant suffering; but pain could not break his iron will,
or turn him from the path on which he had elected to
march. The meanest subjects he strove to see in the
light of great ideas; and in his search for truth he never
allowed his judgments to become hard doctrines, but sub-
mitted them willingly to new tests, holding that man rises
to genuine dignity, not so much by what he believes as by
the temper in which he believes it. Schiller's poetry is
marked by the same grandeur of tone as that which char-
acterised his thought and feeling. (The passions which
he prefers to represent are high, enduring, and strenu-
ous-passions which, if gratified, create around them a
new world; which, if baffled, rend human nature in its
depths. With how many heroic forms has he not en-
riched modern literature !-forms which breathe the
spirit of his own inmost life, and which possess an
eternal freshness and vitality. Only the highest poets
of all-and Schiller does not rank with them-have the
capacity of appreciating equally the tragedy and the
comedy of existence. To humour he was not inaccessible,
but wit, in its most refined forms, was beyond his range;
and it was more natural to him to grasp his materials
boldly and firmly, than to handle them with a light
and delicate touch. The peculiarities of his genius
were not, however, incompatible with a fine feeling for
the gentler aspects of life; and amid the "crashing
splendours" of his heroic conflicts we often detect a
note of exquisite tenderness and pathos.
It is commonly said of Schiller, that in all his writ-
ing he is the representative and the advocate of a par-
ticular set of ideas. (C
Schiller," says Heine, "wrote for
the great ideas of the Revolution; e destre, & le
INTRODUCTION.
3
;
Bastille of the intellect, he aided in building the temple
of freedom." He had, it is true, a strong passion for
ordered liberty, and with this he combined an equally
strong sentiment of humanity. It was impossible for
him to refrain from expressing these elements of his
character in his works, and it is because he expressed
them that his highest conceptions convey so powerful an
impression of sincerity and truth. Moreover, his writ-
ings were one of the mightiest influences in arousing in
the German mind a longing for a worthier national life
and they still feed the flame which they helped to kindle.
It is, however, to do Schiller extreme injustice to sup-
pose that he was nothing more than a proclaimer of new
social and political doctrines. Even in his earliest
dramas, which were the passionate utterance of long-sup-
pressed emotions, he did not altogether disregard the
claims of art; and in his mature labours these claims be-
came absolutely supreme. It was one of his fundamental
principles that the artist is not directly concerned with
the practical effect of his work; that he has to think
only of its artistic quality. That a work of art, if its
artistic quality be true, will indirectly stimulate man's
moral nature by making him vividly conscious of his
power and freedom, Schiller firmly maintained; but he
also maintained that to make this the end of art is to
conflict with its essential tendencies and to defeat its
proper aim. Hence when, in some of his chief dramas,
he introduces the conceptions of humanity and-freedom,
he does so because through them, with his special tem-
perament, he is able most directly and most powerfully
to achieve the purpose of tragedy; and he determines
the character of their expression in accordance with the
4
SCHILLER.
•
artistic necessities of his scheme. It is, therefore, as an
artist, not as a prophet, that Schiller must be estimated ;
and it may be safely said that his art in its highest
manifestations, and within its own limits, is nearer per-
fection than that of any other master, Goethe alone ex-
cepted, in the literature of Germany.
The pessimistic philosophers, whose voices are so
potent in the Germany of to-day, indulge sometimes
in a quiet sneer at Schiller; but it would be an error
to represent him as indifferent to the facts on one
interpretation of which the pessimistic philosophy is
built up. Who, indeed, can be indifferent to them?
They thrust themselves before us too persistently to
be overlooked by the dullest and the most self-satis-
fied minds. And if the burden of the "world-pain"
rests at times on men of ordinary aptitudes, a man
of poetic genius, with more delicate susceptibilities, is
not likely to escape its pressure. Schiller, certainly,
did not escape it; and in several of his tragedies he
presents pictures as striking as any that have been
drawn in modern times of the working of those awful
powers which play with human happiness for ends we
cannot fathom. But Schiller, unlike the pessimists, did
not consider that the whole duty of man is to reflect on
his own misery. He recognised in the human spirit a
power to rise above the sorrows and struggles of time,
and to create for itself an ideal world in which the dis-
cords of reality are harmonised and its tempests stilled.
And he not only took refuge from the occasional mean-
ness and pettiness of life in this larger sphere, but held
fast by the faith that the ideal world need not always
be a mere ideal, but that the course of history slowly
INSEIL MAKA
F
777
777
نے
INTRODUCTION.
10
5
tends to give it form and body. Such ideals as his, we
are told, are illusions; but they have their root in the
ultimate ground of man's nature, and may it not be
that they are nearer the essential truth of things than
the world which is called real? So Schiller reasoned
and his hope inspired him with courage, energy, and
calm. In nearly all his mature works we feel the pres-
ence of this prevailing mood. He did not write to give
it expression; but it created the atmosphere in which
the figures of his imagination suffered or rejoiced, con-
quered or died.
The controversy as to the relative position of Schiller
and Goethe in literature was long ago finally closed;
but by undisputed right Schiller stands next to Goethe
in the love and reverence of Germany. He, more than
any other poet, has embodied in abiding forms what are
believed to be the vital qualities of the German nature;
and his countrymen delight to think of him, with his
unresting vigour, his high aspirations, his sustained en-
thusiasm, as the ideal type of the national character.
These claims need not be disputed; but Schiller, like
Goethe, is too great to be merely the poet of a single
nation. He has the true cosmopolitan touch, and his
art gives him the pass-word that admits him to the com-
pany of the immortals.
Of the numerous biographies of Schiller, one of the
earliest was Carlyle's; and, although necessarily written
with inadequate materials, it has too much genius ever
to be wholly superseded. More than twenty years after
Schiller's death, his sister-in-law, Caroline von Wolzogen,
herself endowed with poetic feeling, wrote a charming
little biography, in which appeared for the first time
6
SCHILLER.
many of his most interesting letters. There are also
biographies by Hoffmeister (who wrote two books on
Schiller, one of which has lately been made the basis
of an elaborate work by Viehoff, Goethe's biographer),
by Palleske (whose work has been translated into Eng-
lish by Lady Wallace), by Schwab, Boas, Goedeke, and
others. A volume by Heinrich Düntzer, issued in 1881,
brings together the facts of Schiller's life in strictly
chronological order, and the narrative is illustrated by
a number of excellent engravings. In addition to these
works there are many volumes of Schiller's correspond-
ence.
C
7
CHAPTER II.
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY.
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER was born in
Marbach, in Würtemberg, on the 10th or the 11th (pro-
bably the 10th) November 1759. He came of a re-
spectable Swabian stock, his grandfather and great-
grandfather having been prosperous bakers in Bittenfeld,
a village at the point where the Rems flows into the
Neckar. They were probably descended from Jacob
George Schiller, who was born in Grossheppach, another
Swabian village, in 1587; and they may have been
connected with Jörg Schiller, who in the early part of
the fifteenth century was famous as a Master Singer in
South Germany.
At the time of Schiller's birth, his father, Johann
Kaspar Schiller, was about thirty-six years of age, and
his life had been full of stir and excitement. After the
war of the Austrian succession, during which he was a
surgeon in a Bavarian regiment of hussars, he went in
the spring of 1749, "on his own horse," to visit a mar-
ried sister in Marbach, a pretty little town on a vine-
covered hill overlooking the Neckar. He put up at
the "Golden Lion," and six months afterwards mar-
8
SCHILLER.
:
ried his landlord's pretty daughter, Elisabeth Dorothea
Kodweiss, who was then only seventeen. Before his
marriage he passed the State examination which em-
powered him to practise as a surgeon, and a little later
he acquired the right of citizenship in Marbach. As,
however, a village practice afforded small scope for his
energies, he soon began to think of resuming his old
life; and in 1753 he joined the army of his native
prince, the Duke of Würtemberg. He began with a
humble post, but was soon made an officer, and gradu-
ally rose to the rank of captain. He saw a good deal
of active service during the Seven Years' War, in which
the Duke of Würtemberg joined the Allies against the
King of Prussia. At the battle of Leuthen his horse
was shot under him; and he almost lost his life in a
morass during the flight of the Austrian left wing, to
which the Würtemberg troops were attached.
Meanwhile his young wife remained contentedly at
Marbach with her parents, who had fallen on evil times;
her father gradually sinking, through his own impru-
dence, from comparative wealth to poverty, until at last
he was glad to become keeper of one of the town gates.
Eight years after her marriage a new interest was added
to her life by the birth of her eldest daughter, Christo-
phine; and two years later came Schiller. Four other
daughters were born, two only of whom survived infancy,
Louise and Nanette. The two latter were so much
younger than Schiller, that they exercised little direct
influence over him; but his eldest sister was his con-"
stant companion and friend. Her greatest pleasure was
to be permitted to share his amusements, and if he com-
mitted any little fault she would try to shield him from
AT IIOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 9
punishment by pretending that she was chiefly to blame.
All through life Schiller found in the affection and sym-
pathy of this sister a source of strength and consolation.
Towards the close of the Seven Years' War Captain
Schiller was stationed with his regiment in Ludwigs-
burg, where he was joined by his wife and their two
children. In 1763, about Christmas, he was sent as a
recruiting officer to the imperial city Schwäbisch Gmünd,
with permission to reside in the neighbouring village,
Lorch; and thither he was followed in a few months by
his family, from whom he was not again separated.
Schiller, who had now entered his fifth year, was thus
brought under the influence of both his parents. His
father, as his career testifies, was a man of great vigour
and independence of character; there was a look of keen
intelligence in his dark, piercing eyes; and his whole
bearing was that of a man who had fought his way suc-
cessfully through life, and who knew his own worth.
In manner he was so rigid that his children rather re-
spected than loved him, yet they knew that beneath the
rugged surface of his nature there were depths of true
gentleness. The effect of his severe, sometimes harsh
discipline, was softened by his refined and tender-hearted
wife. She was tall, lithe, and graceful, with light-blue,
rather weak, eyes, reddish hair, and a broad open fore-
head. Without being beautiful, her features were made
interesting by the sweetness and dignity of their expres-
sion. Although an excellent "Hausfrau," she did not.
allow herself to be entirely absorbed by her domestic
duties; she was fond of poetry, especially poetry of a
religious tendency, and took pains to make it attractive
to her children.
1
10
SCHILLER.
-
Lorch is a charming village on the eastern border of
Würtemberg, from which may be seen, to the east, the
ridges of the Rauhe Alp, and to the west the dim outlines
of the Black Forest. Close at hand are various hills, past
which, with their vines and pine-woods, flows the Rems,
through fruitful valleys, to the Neckar. One of these
hills is crowned by the ruins of a cloister, which was
the burying - place of the Hohenstaufen family; and
further off is the Hohenstaufen hill itself, on whose
steep summit formerly stood the castle of this mighty
race. In Lorch the family lived for three years, and Schil-
ler always looked back upon them as among the happiest
years of his life.
He was a delicate child, with his
mother's face and figure; of gentle manners, but bright,
active, and intelligent. After his death his sister re-
called with enthusiasm the pleasure with which he would
abandon play to hear his father read, and the beauty of
his expression as he knelt with folded hands at morning
and evening prayers. He loved to roam with his sister
through the ruined cloister; and sometimes their father
would join them, and talk to them about the Hohen-
staufen emperors, bringing in occasional touches from
his own military experience.
Schiller received his first lessons in Latin from Pastor
Moser, the chief clergyman of Lorch, who taught him
along with his own son. Pastor Moser made a strong
impression on Schiller, who afterwards gave his name
to the clergyman in "The Robbers." Under the influence
of this austere but not unkind teacher, he fancied that
there was no life so glorious as that of a pastor; and at
home, with a black gown thrown over his shoulders, he
would sometimes mount upon a chair and deliver little
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY.
11
sermons, with his admiring mother and sister for a con-
gregation. The recollections of his childhood are not
all, however, of so serious a character, for we are told
that beautiful weather tempted him occasionally to prefer
the hills and meadows to the schoolroom. His mother
condoned these small offences, but carefully kept them
from his father's knowledge.
However happy Schiller may have been at Lorch, his
father was wretched; he hated the work of a recruiting
officer, and—such was the impoverished condition of the
Würtemberg treasury-he could not obtain a florin of
his pay.
The birth of his second daughter, Louise, made
it absolutely necessary for him to improve his circum-
stances; and after various urgent applications he was
allowed, in the closing days of 1766, to rejoin his regi-
ment in Ludwigsburg, where his arrears were gradually
made good. Frau Schiller was especially pleased by this
change, for Marbach is not very far from Ludwigsburg,
so that she was able to visit her aged parents sometimes.
On an Easter Monday, when walking over the hills on
this pious errand with her son and daughter, she talked
to them with so much feeling of Christ's journey with
the two disciples to Emmaus, that (according to Chris-
tophine) the children were deeply touched, and at last
burst into tears.
At this time Ludwigsburg was one of the most ani-
mated towns in South Germany; and it owed its tem-
porary importance to the wilfulness of Duke Karl Eugen,
one of the petty despots who had so long been playing
with the destinies of the German people. Not wholly
without good impulses, he was in the main selfish, arbi-
trary, and tyrannical. A poll-tax having been lately im-

had
12
SCHILLER.
posed without the sanction of the States, a deputation
from Tübingen waited upon him to represent the griev-
ances of the Fatherland. "What Fatherland?" cried
the Duke, in feeble imitation of Louis XIV.; "I am
the Fatherland." As Stuttgart also resented his tyranny,
he marked his displeasure by transferring his residence
from the capital to Ludwigsburg. Here he had a splen-
did palace and park; and he rapidly built a large theatre,
for which, at immense cost, he obtained singers and
opera-dancers from Italy and France.
While in Ludwigsburg, the Schillers occupied a part
of the house connected with the printing establishment
of Cotta, who was afterwards Schiller's publisher. In
the same house lived a brother officer, Von Hoven, in
whose son, a lively, intelligent boy, Schiller found a
pleasant companion. Behind the house Captain Schiller
had a large garden, in which he devoted much of his
time to the planting and nurture of trees. Botany and
agriculture had interested him for many years, and, in
1767-69, Cotta published for him a work in four parts,
entitled "Observations concerning Agricultural Matters
in the Duchy of Würtemberg, by an Officer of the
Duchy."
Although Schiller had only entered his eighth year
when the family settled in their new home, he was
too sensitive not to be impressed by the change from
a remote village to the busy streets of Ludwigsburg,.
along which gaily dressed courtiers, and soldiers in
bright uniforms, were constantly passing. Officers and
their families were admitted free to the theatre; and
although Captain Schiller had no love for amusements
of this kind, he was obliged to take occasional ad-
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 13
(C
vantage of the privilege of his class. His son was
of course fascinated by the gorgeous spectacles in which
the Duke delighted; and now, instead of edifying his
mother and sister with sermons, he entertained them with
mimic tragedies, in which important parts were sustained
by figures cut out in paper. It was, however, the in
tention of his parents to devote him to the Church, and
he was accordingly sent to the Latin school of Ludwigs-
burg, which he attended for six years. In this school
there were three classes, each of which had a precep-
tor" of its own the third and second classes giving
almost their whole time to Latin, while in the first class
Greek and Hebrew were also taught. Pupils destined
for the pastorate were obliged to undergo periodical
examinations at Stuttgart, conducted for the Consistory
there by the rector of the Stuttgart Gymnasium. Schiller
went to his first examination at Easter, in 1769, and the
examiner reported that he was "a hopeful boy." After
the examination of 1771 he was again reported to be
rr
a hopeful boy," and it was added that he "had ad-
vanced not unsuccessfully on the path of letters." He
excelled in Latin verse; and his father, looking back
twenty years afterwards, recalled with pride his in-
numerable "disticha, carmina, epistolæ, &c."
In early boyhood Schiller was as distinguished in play
as in work; but in his thirteenth year he seems to have
become melancholy and thoughtful. For hours he would
walk about with a friend, pouring forth "complaints
against destiny," and talking much about "the mysteri-
ous future," and about "plans for his mature life." The
change had considerable effect on his work, for in 1772
his examiner reported that, although in the preceding
14
SCHILLER.
year his studies "had not been without fruit," he was
not quite equal to the pupils who had been examined
before him. In this same year he was confirmed, and
his mother, seeing him loitering in the street on the
evening before the ceremony, expostulated with him on
his indifference. Schiller silently retired to his room,
from which he emerged an hour or two afterwards with
a poem that is said to have astonished his parents by
the ardour of its religious feeling.
Having in 1772 almost completed his course at Lud-
wigsburg, Schiller was about to be sent to one of the
cloister colleges which formed a link between the Latin
schools and the theological "faculty" at the universities,
when all his plans and those of his parents were sud-
denly changed. At a beautiful country residence near
Stuttgart, called the Solitude, the Duke of Würtemberg
had established a school for the training of builders and
gardeners. By-and-by he transformed it into a school
for the education of officers; and now he was busily
engaged in extending it, so that it might provide a
supply of thoroughly cultivated officials for all branches
of the public service. Early in 1773 the school was estab-
lished on its new basis, and received the name of "The
Military Academy." Meanwhile the Duke, who henceforth
devoted much attention to the Academy, had been seek-
ing for pupils; and he entered into communication with
Captain Schiller about his son. Both parents were sin-
cerely anxious that Schiller should become a clergyman ;
and this was his own earnest wish. The Duke's offers
were therefore politely declined; but, having made up
his mind that Schiller was the kind of pupil he wanted,
he expressed his desire in such terms that a second
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY, 15
refusal was impossible, and the elder Schiller even felt
obliged to accede to his will with assurances of ardent
gratitude for his princely beneficence. The agreement
was that Schiller should remain in the Academy until
the completion of the studies prescribed for him, when
the Duke engaged to grant him an appointment suitable
to his talents and aspirations. Subsequently, Captain
Schiller gave a written promise that his son (who had
not been consulted) would not, without the Duke's con-
sent, abandon the career to which he might be sum-
moned.
In accordance with this understanding, Schiller was
entered by his father at the Military Academy on the
16th of January 1773. He was then thirteen years of
age, and he did not leave the Academy until he was
twenty-one. Of these eight years, which were as im-
portant as any period of his life, he spent about three
at the Solitude and five in Stuttgart, whither the insti-
tution was transferred in November 1775, partly as a
token of the heartiness of the Duke's reconciliation with
his capital.
There were about three hundred pupils at the Acad-
emy, and they were divided into two sections, gentle
and simple, or, as they were called, Chevaliers and
Élèves. The Chevaliers dined by themselves at a horse-
shoe table at the upper end of the dining-hall; their
bedrooms were superior to those of the Élèves; and
those of them who gained prizes were allowed to kiss
the hand of the Duke, while the Élèves were obliged to
content themselves (unless they gave proof of extra-
ordinary ability and diligence) with kissing the hem of
his coat. The life of all the pupils was as rigidly or-
16
SCHILLER.
dered as that of soldiers in barracks. They wore a special
uniform; and if they violated in the slightest particular
any of the numerous and minute rules, they exposed
themselves to a variety of severe penalties. They slept
in large rooms, about fifty in each; and in each room
were stationed an officer and four inspectors. Punctually
at five o'clock in summer, at six in winter, they rose, said
prayers, dressed, and laid out their bed-clothes; they then
marched to breakfast; and at seven o'clock the work of the
day began. Classes continued until eleven, when they
marched back to their bedrooms, made their beds, and put
on their uniforms. Next they were carefully inspected,
frequently by the Duke himself, who did not hesitate to
strike with his cane any unfortunate youth whose hair
had not been curled with sufficient stiffness, or who had
neglected to polish his buckles. After dinner, which
was at twelve, they were allowed to walk or to amuse
themselves in the garden, where a piece of ground was
set apart for each to cultivate as he might think best.
From two to seven work was resumed; and at nine, after
a light supper, all were in bed, with orders to maintain
absolute silence.
The boys looked forward with some pleasure to Sun-
day, when, after attendance at church, they were al-
lowed rather more freedom than usual in their walks
in the neighbourhood, which commands splendid views
of a fertile country dotted over with villages. On
Sunday, too, they might be visited by their relatives,
although grown-up sisters were rigidly excluded. Holi-
days were unknown; but all holy days were celebrated
in much the same fashion as Sunday. The great day
of the year was the 14th of December, the anniversary
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 17
of the foundation of the institution. A fortnight before
this date was devoted to examinations; and on the gala-
day itself prizes were distributed by the Duke, amid
much pomp and circumstance.
The professors were as a rule thoroughly efficient,
the Duke being sensible enough to prefer young men of
energy and enthusiasm, some of them only a few years
older than their pupils. As order was maintained not
by them but by inspectors, it was easier for them than
for most professors to gain the confidence and love of
their students, who would often consult them on matters
that are generally carefully concealed from teachers.
The isolation of the young men, and the strict discipline
to which they were subjected, had at least one good
effect,—it caused them to form warm friendships, which
in many cases lasted throughout life. Individuality
was crushed out of weak natures; but boys of powerful
intellect cherished an ideal world of their own, all the
more ardently because of the narrowness and rigidity of
their ordinary routine. On the whole, with all its de-
fects, the Academy must be said to have done much
more good than harm. It is impossible not to respect
an institution which, within a brief period, gave Schiller
to literature, Dannecker to art, and Cuvier to science.
In his first year Schiller continued his general studies,
adding to Greek and Latin, French, mathematics, geo-
graphy, and history. On foundation-day he received a
prize for distinction in Greek, the only prize he won for
six years, although rewards of this sort were distributed
pretty freely. In 1774, in his fifteenth year, he began
the study of jurisprudence, but made no progress in it,
partly because the subject did not interest him, partly
B
F.C.-XV.
ܪ܂
18
SCHILLER.
because of ill health, for he was now growing fast, and
was frequently confined to bed, on one occasion for more
than a month. Some of the professors repeatedly com-
plained to the Duke of his deficiencies, but in this
instance he was more keen-sighted than they.
"Let
him alone," he said; "he is a youth who will come to
something." Although backward in his professional
studies, Schiller had already entered the path on which
he was afterwards to achieve fame. When he joined
the Academy, his powers were still dormant; he had not
been there many months before some of them were
awakened to tumultuous activity. The reading of con-
temporary literature was strictly forbidden, but that, of
course, only made it the more attractive; and by some
chance Schiller obtained a copy of Klopstock's "Mes-
siah." Nobody can now read this once famous epic;
but its overstrained enthusiasm formed a striking contrast
to the dulness of the versifiers who represented German
poetry at the time when its first cantos were published.
To Schiller it revealed a new world of passion, aspiration,
and conflict; and he immediately began to devise an
epic, conceived in the same exalted spirit, on Moses.
He also wrote two tragedies, one entitled "Absalom,"
another "The Christians," the latter apparently setting
forth the sufferings and heroism of the early martyrs. In
such efforts he was encouraged by several friends, who,
along with himself, formed a little society for the study
of poetry. Among these friends was Schiller's Ludwigs-
burg companion, Von Hoven, who had gone to the Soli-
tude some time before him, and who heartily welcomed
his old schoolfellow. Another of the band was Petersen,
full of fun and frolic, endowed with a lively wit which
{
Man watt"
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 19
sparkled none the less brightly because of the frowns of
severe inspectors. A third friend of Schiller, Scharffen-
stein, was for a time the most valued of all. He won
Schiller's esteem by boldly resisting a harsh official, an
act of heroism which the young poet forthwith cele-
brated in high-sounding verses. Scharffenstein was the
dandy of the Academy, in which respect he differed
widely from Schiller, who was continually being lectured
for his awkward gait and the untidiness of his uniform.
All these comrades were strongly attached to Schiller, and
they seem to have recognised in rough outlines most of
the qualities for which he was afterwards distinguished.
He was particularly remarkable for the ardour of his
affections if he gave his heart, he gave it with passion;
if, on the other hand, he was seriously offended, his
whole soul was thrown into a storm of excitement. In
1778, when they were approaching manhood, Scharffen-
stein wounded him by some thoughtless sarcasms.
Schiller at once renounced his friendship; and when
Scharffenstein wrote to him, protesting that there must
be a misunderstanding, he received an answer full of
extravagant reproaches and of sentimental pathos. Not-
withstanding the force of his passions, Schiller was
known even at this early period to possess a resolute
will. If he set up a goal for himself, external obstacles
never prevented him from reaching it, although they
might compel him to make for it by indirect ways.
>>
When the Academy was about to be established in
Stuttgart, the Duke instituted a medical "faculty;
and the pupils of other departments were asked whether
any of them would prefer to adopt the new study.
Schiller, who disliked jurisprudence more and more,
20
SCHILLER.
gladly took advantage of this offer; and the decision
marked an epoch in his career. Among the teachers
whose lectures he now attended was Professor Abel, a
man of a noble temper, thoughtful and sympathetic.
His department included lectures on psychology, moral
philosophy, and æsthetics, on all of which he discoursed
with insight. Schiller listened to him eagerly, and
learned almost by heart some of the text-books, especially
Ferguson's 'Moral Philosophy,' with notes by Garve, a
clear and suggestive writer of that time. He did not,
however, abandon poetry. It was the custom of Pro-
fessor Abel, in describing conflicts between the passions
and between passion and duty, to illustrate his doctrines
by quotations from dramatic writings; and on one oc-
casion, in 1776—that is, when Schiller was in his seven-
teenth year he read a passage from "Othello" in
Wieland's translation. "Schiller was all ears," wrote
Abel long afterwards; "every feature of his face ex-
pressed the feeling with which he was penetrated; he
raised himself up and listened as if entranced. Scarcely
was the lecture finished when he begged me to give him
the book, and from this time forward he studied it with
uninterrupted enthusiasm.". When the first tumult had
subsided, he was rather repelled by the coldness dis-
played, as he thought, in Shakespeare's readiness to allow
comic incidents to break in upon heartrending scenes.
"I was not then capable," he himself said at a later
period, "of understanding nature at first hand." Never-
theless, Shakespeare filled his mind with new ideas, and
stimulated all his energies. At this time young Ger-
many admired Ossian almost as much as Shakespeare;
and Schiller not only read "Fingal" and the other
*
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 21
Ossianic poems, but often enchanted his friends by
declaiming his favourite passages. Goethe's "Goetz
von Berlichingen," too, profoundly impressed the young
enthusiasts; and, like most other Germans of "the read-
ing world," they shed many sentimental tears over
"The
Sufferings of Young Werther." They were also moved
by Lessing's "Emilia Galotti," and by the "Julius of
Taranto" of Leisewitz, a drama which is now almost
forgotten, but which had force and animation enough to
secure Lessing's warm praise. The writer, however, who
influenced Schiller most deeply was Rousseau. For a
long time the only world which existed for him was
that of the great misanthropical philanthropist. He was
fascinated by Rousseau's glowing pictures of "nature,"
and shared all his burning scorn for despotism and con-
ventionality. Why had man been endowed with powers
if all of them were not to be freely exercised? What
reason could there be in the nature of things for the
advantages heaped on one class and denied to another?
And was it not the clear duty of humanity to destroy
institutions and customs that had been handed down
from degenerate ancestors, and to return to primitive
simplicity and happiness? As Schiller asked himself
these questions, he strained passionately against the
fetters by which he was bound, and yearned to take his
part in the coming struggle for freedom. The Duke
would have been considerably astonished if he could
have guessed at the strange tempestuous life which was
agitating the young pupil who seemed so quiet. Schiller
had passed by a bound into a new world, and in this
new world he was to achieve his first efforts in
literature.
22
SCHILLER
Stirred to ambition by the poets whom they adored,
their hearts all aglow with fiery passions, Schiller
and his comrades seized every opportunity for giving
expression to their struggling thoughts. Schiller far
surpassed the others in the height and range of his
activity. For some time he could not find a subject
offering full scope for imagination and feeling; but at
last the scheme of a tragedy, suggested by the suicide
of a student, suddenly flashed upon him. In furious
haste he dashed off scene after scene; but when com-
pleted it did not please him, and he threw it into the
fire. 'The Student of Nassau," he had called it;
and in later years he regretted that it had been de-
stroyed, as he felt sure that a drama written with so
much youthful ardour could not be without merit. He
also destroyed another tragedy, "Cosimo de' Medici,"
which, according to Petersen, closely resembled "Julius
of Taranto" in plan, and was not inferior to it in vigour
of conception. In addition to these dramatic efforts
Schiller wrote various lyrics, some of which were printed
in the 'Swabian Magazine,' with commendatory notices
by the editor, Herr Haug, a professor in the Academy,
and father of one of Schiller's fellow-students. One of
the lyrics thus published was "The Conqueror" ("Der
Eroberer"), a wild poem, in which he storms against the
wickedness of tyrants. His manner of composing these
early works cannot be cited in illustration of Words-
worth's doctrine that poetry is "emotion remembered in
tranquillity;" he wrote in a fever of excitement, breath-
ing hard, and stamping his feet. Even in mature life
he could seldom sit quietly at his desk. He preferred
to stand, bending over the paper in an uneasy posture ;
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 23
and when not writing he would restlessly walk about
the room.
Early in 1778 Schiller saw that he must attend more
seriously to his medical studies, and for about two
years afterwards he wrote hardly any poetry. In science
he now made rapid progress, being especially distin-
guished in the classes for anatomy and physiology.
After the examination of 1778 he was classed in anat-
omy with the prizeman, to whom the prize fell by lot;
and in 1779 he carried off three prizes. The day on
which he obtained these small distinctions was made
memorable to him by the presence of an illustrious
visitor. The Duke of Weimar and Goethe happened to
pass through Suttgart on their way back from Switzer-
land, and were cordially welcomed by Duke Karl Eugen,
who was glad to exhibit to two such men an institution
in which he took justifiable pride. On foundation-day
they stood beside him as the prizes were distributed, the
Duke of Weimar on the right hand, Goethe on the left.
Goethe was then thirty years of age, in the flush of
manly strength and beauty. He was naturally an object
of profound interest to the better class of students; and
we may suppose that Schiller (who was only ten years his
junior) looked at him with more admiration than any one
else, and perhaps with something of envy.
Schiller had hoped that 1779 would be his last year
at the Academy. His wish, however, was not grati-
fied. Before leaving the Academy he had to write a
medical dissertation, and he had chosen as his theme
Philosophy and Physiology." Some of the examin-
ers saw in this essay evidence of remarkable talent;
others complained of an excess of 1hetoric, and were
CC
&
24
SCHILLER.
scandalised by the boldness with which he attacked
so high an authority as Haller. The Duke read the
dissertation, and predicted (what he is not known to have
done in any other instance) that the author would be-
come a very great subject;" but he announced at the
same time that Schiller "must remain another year in
the Academy, where his fire might be a little damped."
With a heavy heart Schiller was obliged to submit to
this decision.
CC
His last year at the Academy-1780-was one of
great unhappiness. Every restriction on his liberty irri-
tated him; and his mind was charged with a tempest
of titanic wrath against the wrongs of the world-those
which he knew of, and still more, perhaps, those which
he only imagined. Sometimes he was overcome by
melancholy, and would gladly, or thought he would
gladly, have shuffled off the mortal coil. "I am not
yet twenty-one," he wrote to the father of one of his
fellow-students who had recently died, a younger
brother
of Von Hoven; "but I may freely say that the world
has no longer any charm for me: I take no pleasure in
it; and the day of my departure from the Academy,
which would have been a joyful day a few years ago,
will not call forth from me a single cheerful smile.
With every advance I make in years I become less and
less happy; the nearer I approach manhood the more I
wish I had died in childhood. Were my life my own,
I should be envious of the death of your dear son; but
it belongs to my mother and to my three sisters, who
without me would be helpless; for I am the only son,
and my father begins to have grey hairs."
In this alternately sad and rebellious humour he had
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 25
to prepare for his final examinations. He wrote two
dissertations, one in Latin, the other in German.
The
subject of the latter was "The Relation of the Animal
Nature of Man to his Spiritual Nature;" and it affords.
ample proof that he had not only profited largely by the
instructions of his professors, but had made the relations
of mind and body a subject of much original study. It
might have been supposed that one whose tendencies
were of so ideal a character would try to assert the in-.
dependence of mental operations; but what he does is
to indicate different ways in which they are awakened
and limited by physical causes. The essay was thought
to be worthy of publication, and was issued with a letter
expressing the author's gratitude to the Duke.
There are several illustrative quotations in this disser-
tation, and among them one from what professes to be an
English work, "Life of Moor, Tragedy by Krake." "Life
of Moor," as his friends knew, was "The Robbers." In
writing this drama, which was soon to reveal to Germany
that a new force had arisen in her literature, he found
relief from the petty despotism against which he now so
vehemently rebelled. The subject is said to have been
suggested by an incident recorded in the 'Swabian
Magazine' in 1775; and some parts of the tragedy
were probably written in 1777. The work as a whole,
however, was produced in his last year at the Academy.
In order to obtain opportunities of writing, he some-
times remained all day in his room under pretence of
illness; and occasionally he applied for admission to
the Academy hospital, where night-lights were burned.
If he heard any one approaching, he thrust his manu-
script beneath a medical book, which he had always
ANA,
26
SCHILLER.
conveniently at hand. The play was not completed in
the order in which it stands: he preferred to give form
to the conceptions by which his imagination happened
to be stirred at the moment of writing. Each scene,
when finished, was read to his friends, who stimulated
him by unstinted applause. On one occasion he was
loudly declaiming the appeal of Franz Moor to Moser at
the beginning of the fifth act-"Ha! what!-thou know-
est no worse crime than parricide? Reflect on thy words
hang death, heaven, eternity, damnation!"-when an
inspector, attracted by the noise, opened the door.
"Shame!" cried this official, seeing Schiller storming
through the room, "shame! who would rage and curse
so?" When he had gone, the listeners laughed, and
Schiller muttered, "A blockhead!"
At last the day of deliverance came. On the 14th of
December 1780 the usual celebration took place, and
Schiller learned that he had received the appointment
of a regimental medical officer, with the comparatively
humble rank of "Feldscherer." This position did not
even entitle him to wear a sword as an officer, and he
left the Academy smarting under the consciousness of
ungenerous treatment.
Schiller had acquired at the Academy a rather formal,
military manner, which he retained throughout life. He
was very tall and slight, but with broad shoulders and
a full chest. While he remained in the army he wore
the usual pigtail, with stiff curls on either side of the
face; but afterwards his long reddish hair fell freely
over his neck. His eyebrows were bushy, and the eyes,
which were of an uncertain colour-between light brown
and blue-had usually an expression of quiet thought-
AT HOME AND AT THE MILITARY ACADEMY. 27
fulness, but in conversation would sometimes glance
brightly. Like his mother's eyes, they were delicate,
and the eyelids were frequently inflamed. His forehead
was broad and high, the chin prominent but well formed;
and the under lip, which was full and mobile, indicated
every shade of passing feeling. A light blush easily
passed over his features, which were pale, with a slight
tinge of red on the cheeks. He laughed as heartily as
a child, and everybody who met him remarked the kind-
ness and gentleness of his smile.
T
›
÷
28
CHAPTER III.
IN STUTTGART.
ABOUT two years after Schiller went to the Academy, his
father was transferred to the Solitude as director of all
the arrangements for the laying out of gardens and the
planting of trees. He passed the remainder of his life
happily in this position, and was ultimately raised, in
recognition of his services, to the rank of major. The
extent of his knowledge was manifested in a work which
he published in 1795, and which went through two
editions, on the art of the nursery gardener; but long
before that time he was known as a master in his pro-
fession, and his methods were imitated not only in
Würtemberg, but in many different parts of Germany.
Every year he supplied large numbers of fruit-trees to
foreign gardeners.
(C
Before beginning his new duties, Schiller spent some
pleasant days at the home of his parents. His sister,
Christophine, was now a young woman of twenty-three,
tall and handsome, and with some accomplishments,"
of which the chief was a considerable aptitude for draw-
ing. During this visit he had an opportunity for the
first time of gaining the affections of his younger sisters,
,
IN STUTTGART.
29
Louise and Nanette-the latter a charming child of
three, her father's favourite.
Schiller was attached to the grenadier regiment of
General Augé in Stuttgart; and as most of the soldiers
were veterans, and rather sickly, plenty of work was
provided for him. From the outset he detested his
profession, and he does not seem to have been very
skilful, for he soon began to excite alarm by the extra-
ordinary strength of the doses which he was in the habit
of administering. This peculiarity brought him into
frequent conflict with his superior, who was at last
obliged to issue orders that no prescription by the
young doctors under him should be attended to, unless
it had his signature. Notwithstanding his dislike of
his work, Schiller was for some time not unhappy: he
was now free, with all the world before him. Besides,
he had many friends-among them some of his old com-
panions at the Academy, who like himself were enjoying
the first delights of liberty. One of these, Scharffen-
stein, now a lieutenant, had written to Schiller and
"made up" their quarrel. Petersen was an assistant
librarian in Stuttgart, and of course placed at Schiller's
disposal the library with which he was connected. Von
Hoven had settled as a doctor at Ludwigsburg, but man-
aged to pay frequent visits to Stuttgart. These and
other friends often met in Schiller's room, where they
had much merry talk over exceedingly frugal suppers.
His room was sublet to him by a widow, Frau Vischer,
who was about thirty years of age, and, according to
most accounts, neither beautiful nor very intelligent.
Schiller, who was remarkably "susceptible," carried on
a Platonic flirtation with her, and she was the original
30
SCHILLER.
of the Laura whose virtues he celebrated in a series of
famous odes.
>>
For some time after Schiller settled in Stuttgart, he
occupied most of his leisure in revising "The Robbers;
and in April 1781 it was finished. Unfortunately no
bookseller in Stuttgart would undertake to publish it.
Petersen, who had occasion to go to Mannheim, took the
manuscript with him, and Schiller wrote to him to spare
no effort to find a publisher. Fifty gulden, he thought,
he ought to be paid for it; anything beyond this would
go to Petersen himself. "And hear," he continued, "if
you succeed, I will add a couple of bottles of Burgundy!"
Petersen, however, did not succeed, and in the end
Schiller determined to have the play printed at his own
expense. Some persons of his acquaintance being bold
enough to become security for the necessary amount, the
work was set about without delay; and in July a little
volume, remarkably well printed, appeared with this title-
page-"Die Räuber. Ein Schauspiel. Frankfurt und
Leipzig, 1781." This edition was published without
the author's name.
Seldom has a work of genius made so profound an
impression as was produced by "The Robbers." In
a few weeks it was known far beyond the limits of
Würtemberg; and in Stuttgart Schiller became an object -
of universal curiosity and interest. Many respectable
persons shook their heads at the dangerous tendencies
of the young poet, but the youth of Germany enthusi-
astically greeted him as the herald of a new and grander
age.
By-and-by travellers passing through Stuttgart
would stop at his door, and beg to be allowed to talk
with him; and very much surprised some of them must
1
IN STUTTGART.
31
have been by the circumstances in which they found
him. The only furniture of his room was a table and
two benches. On the wall hung his clothes; and,
according to Scharffenstein, the visitors would see "in
one corner piles of 'The Robbers,' in another a quantity
of potatoes, with empty dishes, bottles, and such things."
"On every occasion," he adds, "a shy, silent review of
these objects would precede the conversation." He was
visited not only by lion-hunters, but by modest admirers
who sought his friendship; and one of these, Streicher, a
young musician, was soon to play a part that has gained
for him an honourable place in the record of Schiller's
life. During the public examinations at the Military
Academy in December 1780, Streicher had gone to
watch the proceedings,―mainly, perhaps, because the .
day's work was often closed on these occasions by a
symphony conducted by the pupils. He was struck by
the vigour and animation with which a tall student with
reddish hair defended (in Latin) his dissertation against
a professor; and again, in the dining-hall, by the lively
and attractive manner of this same student as he con-
versed with the Duke, who leaned over his chair as if
he were a favourite. When "The Robbers" was being
everywhere talked about, Streicher strongly desired to
be introduced to the author. "His wish was fulfilled,"
he himself says, "and he was surprised to find in the
poet the youth whose first appearance had made so deep
an impression on him." To Streicher, Schiller's views.
about everything, especially about music, seemed to be
"novel, convincing, and, at the same time, in the high-
est degree natural." His remarks on the works of other
writers were "striking, but charitable, and never ad-
*
32
SCHILLER.
vanced without evidence." "A personality so charming
and so amiable," he continues; "conversations which
raised the listener to his own level, ennobling every
feeling, adorning every thought; sentiments which mani-
fested the purest goodness without weakness;-all this
could not but win the affection of a young artist of a
receptive temper, and add to the admiration with which
he had already regarded the poet the warmest attach-
ment to the man."
To eke out his scanty pay, Schiller conducted for some
time a small weekly newspaper; and in association with
Petersen and his old friend and teacher, Professor Abel,
he started a quarterly periodical, 'The Würtemberg Re-
pertorium,' which was intended to be a complete review
of contemporary politics and literature. Only three
numbers appeared; but one of these contained an ad-
mirable review, by Schiller himself, of "The Robbers,"
the defects as well as the merits of which he freely
discussed. Another work reviewed by him in the 'Re-
pertorium' was 'The Anthology,' a collection of lyri-
cal poetry which he himself had edited. It originated
in Schiller's irritation at the manner in which he had
been treated by a Herr Stäudlin, who had asked him to
contribute to a volume of verse. Schiller had sent him
several poems, but he printed only one of them, and even
that was considerably mutilated. Determined to punish
him for this impertinence, Schiller asked several of his
friends to help him in producing a volume which would
drive Staudlin's book from the field. As he advanced
in his undertaking he became interested in it for its own
sake, and contributed to it nearly all the best of his
early lyrics. The volume (which he published at his
کہ
1
WV HM
33
IN STUTTGART.
own expense) did not become widely known; but in
Würtemberg, and especially in Stuttgart, it added con-
siderably to his fame as the most promising of the
younger poets of the time.
Meanwhile a great event in Schiller's life had occurred
"The Robbers" had been produced on the stage. Soon
after it was published, he received a letter from Dalberg,
director of the Mannheim theatre, asking him to adapt
it for representation. Schiller was delighted by this
unexpected honour, and set to work immediately. On
Sunday, the 13th of January 1782, having started from
Stuttgart with the secret approval of his colonel, he
reached Mannheim in time for the first performance,
which was to begin at five o'clock. He found the theatre
crowded, for "The Robbers" was already so well known
that people had come from a great distance, some even
from Frankfort, to see it in its new form.
The early
scenes hardly produced the effect which had been antici-
pated; but by-and-by the interest became intense, and it
expressed itself from time to time in bursts of vehement
applause. Never had a German play stirred such en-
thusiasm. The spectators dispersed with the conviction
that what they had seen was the appearance above the
horizon of a new star of the first magnitude.
After the play Schiller supped with the actors and
with Dalberg, all of whom congratulated him warmly
on his success. During the performance he had felt
strongly that the drama alone could open for him a
career adapted to his powers, and he expressed an ardent
wish that it might be possible for Dalberg to give him
permanent employment in connection with the Mann-
heim theatre. The prudent director, however, while
F.C. —XV.
C
34
SCHILLER.
encouraging his aspirations, was careful not to commit
himself by any definite promise. Next day Schiller
started on his return journey, and, as he had given out
that he was unwell, found on arriving at Stuttgart that
his absence had not excited remark. He resumed his
profession with a stronger dislike than ever of its dull
routine, but he was made happy by the increasing fame.
of "The Robbers," which not only continued to be re-
presented in Mannheim, but soon appeared in every
important theatre in Germany.
Before the appearance of "The Robbers "
on the
stage, Schiller was already engaged on a new play, the
subject of which was the conspiracy of Count Fiesco, a
Genoese nobleman, against the Dorias. His attention
had been drawn to this theme, while he was at the
Academy, by a remark of Rousseau, to the effect that
Fiesco was a character " worthy of the pencil of Plu-
tarch." It is possible that the work may have been
begun about the same time as "The Robbers," but the
greater part of it was written in 1782. Schiller made a
sincere attempt to master the characteristics of the age
of the Dorias, consulting among other histories Robert-
son's Charles V.,' in which Fiesco's character is care-
fully sketched, and 'La Conjuration du Comte Jean-
Louis de Fiesque,' by Cardinal Retz. For some time
he made rapid progress, but his work was soon inter-
rupted by formidable difficulties.
Among the friends who were attracted to him by
"The Robbers" was Frau von Wolzogen, a lady of noble
birth, whose son Wilhelm had been Schiller's fellow-
student at the Academy. Both she and Frau Vischer
often expressed a wish to see "The Robbers," and dur-
IN STUTTGART.
35
ing the temporary absence of the Duke from Stuttgart,
in May 1782, Schiller fancied that he might safely
gratify their desire. All his longings for a life in ac-
cordance with his deepest sympathies were revived by
this second visit to Mannheim, and he once more con-
sulted Dalberg, who vaguely undertook to do "what
was possible" on his behalf. After his return he was
confined to bed by a severe attack of influenza, and
during this period of solitude and reflection he seems to
have finally decided to give up the medical profession,
and to devote himself to literature. He wrote, therefore,
to Dalberg, entreating him to use his influence with the
Duke to secure his release-a request to which Dalberg
considered it safest to make no answer.
By this time the two ladies had begun to whisper to
their friends that they had visited Mannheim with
Schiller, and the intelligence passed from one to an-
other until it reached the ears of the Duke. He had
read "The Robbers" with high displeasure, and now,
summoning Schiller to his presence, sternly repri-
manded him for writing a play at all, and especially
such a play. As for his neglect of duty, that was an
offence for which he would undergo fourteen days'
arrest. Schiller bore his punishment meekly, but felt
that he was rapidly approaching a crisis in which it
would be necessary for him to act with vigour, or to
consent to the destruction of his most cherished schemes.
The crisis came sooner than he expected, for a con-
troversy having arisen about a passage in "The Rob-
bers" alluding to Grisons as "the Athens of modern
swindlers," the matter was brought to the attention of
the Duke, who immediately issued a peremptory order
36
SCHILLER.
forbidding Schiller either to write books or to hold com-
munication with foreigners. This order reached Schiller
towards the end of August 1782, and a few days after-
wards he addressed a respectful petition to the Duke,
setting forth reasons why his liberty should not be so
severely restricted. The petition was declined, and
Schiller was commanded, on pain of arrest, to send no
such documents in future to his sovereign.
If Schiller really intended to devote his energies to
the drama, he had now no alternative but to fly from
Stuttgart. There were some very powerful arguments
in favour of submission; but his passion for the free
play of his individual impulses was overmastering, and
he was too sanguine not to hope that a bold stroke
would be favoured by destiny. On the 17th of Sep-
tember a public welcome of unusual splendour was
to be accorded to the Grand Duke Paul of Russia,
and as it would be easy to slip out of Stuttgart un-
observed on such an occasion, Schiller decided to depart
on that day. The good Streicher, who had intended
to go to Hamburg in the following spring to study
under Bach, offered to accompany him, and the proposal
was gladly accepted.
Schiller did not venture to tell his father of his plan,
but his mother, his sister Christophine, and several of
his most intimate friends, were let into the secret. On
the day before his departure he walked to the Solitude,
accompanied by Streicher and by Frau Meyer, the wife
of the stage manager of the Mannheim theatre, who
had treated him with much kindness. Captain Schiller
could speak of nothing but the preparations for next
day's ceremony-for the castle of the Solitude was to be
IN STUTTGART.
37
brilliantly illuminated. While he was dilating on this
subject Schiller quietly left the room with his mother,
returning an hour afterwards with very inflamed eyes.
On the morrow, at the appointed hour, Streicher called
for Schiller's trunk, which was to have been packed and
ready; but in arranging his books he had been attracted
by an ode of Klopstock's, and for the moment the ap-
proaching journey was forgotten. Could he not write
an ode at least as good? He would try; and, as Strei-
cher entered, the last stanza was being finished. Strei-
cher had to decide which was best,-Schiller's ode or
Klopstock's; and he was, of course, too loyal not to
give the verdict for his friend. At last the trunk was
taken away; and at nine o'clock in the evening Schiller
called for Streicher, to whom he solemnly displayed two
rusty old pistols, which he carried under his cloak.
Their carriage passed safely through the Esslinger Gate,
where Scharffenstein was the officer on guard; and for
an hour or two they drove on in silence. About mid-
night a turn in the road revealed the Solitude, splen-
didly lighted up. Schiller eagerly rose and pointed to
the spot where his parents lived; but suddenly struck
by a painful thought, he sank back in his seat, saying,
with a sigh, "My mother!"
1
38
CHAPTER IV.
IN MANNHEIM.
SCHILLER drove into Mannheim with a light heart, for
had he not the greater part of a new play in his pocket?
And if "The Robbers" had given him so wide a reputa-
tion, was it not certain that "Fiesco" would add lustre
to his name? Besides, was he not conscious of the
promptings of a lofty genius? and had the world ever
withheld its rewards from a bold and resolute spirit?
These anticipations were in the end fully justified, but
in the meantime he had entered upon an anxious and
troubled period, during which he was destined to sound
some of the profoundest depths of human misery.
As Dalberg had gone to Stuttgart to be present at the
ceremonies in honour of Grand Duke Paul, the two
friends called at once on the friendly manager, Meyer,
who, while much surprised to meet Schiller as a fugi-
tive, gave him a hearty welcome, and found a suitable
lodging for him and his comrade. Schiller lost no time in
writing to the Duke, stating his reasons for what he had
done, and offering to return on condition that permission
were granted to him to continue his literary pursuits.
The letter was enclosed to an officer of high position,
IN MANNHEIM.
39
his father's friend, who had influence at Court; but it
was probably written rather for the purpose of softening
his father's anger, than because he had the faintest hope
of inducing the Duke to come to terms.
The only
answer he received was an intimation that he might
safely return, as the Duke was in a particularly good
humour.
Meanwhile "Fiesco" had been the subject of a good
deal of conversation among the actors; and to give them
an opportunity of estimating it, Meyer arranged that
it should be read to them in his house. Schiller's ex-
perience on this occasion was much the same as that of
Congreve, who read "The Old Bachelor" to the players
so badly that they almost decided to reject it. The
first act of "Fiesco" was listened to in silence, and
after the second act most of the actors went away with-
out expressing either praise or blame, but manifestly
dissatisfied. Meyer took Streicher into another room, and
anxiously asked whether he was certain that Schiller
had written "The Robbers," for he had never heard a
more wretched play than "Fiesco." Poor Schiller re-
turned in a melancholy mood to his lodging, complaining
that he was the victim of envy and malice; but fortu-
nately Meyer had requested that the manuscript should
be left with him, and next morning he received Streicher
with a cry of joy. Fiesco," he declared, was a master-
piece, even better than "The Robbers," and only
Schiller's broad Swabian dialect and pompous declama-
tion had prevented the players from recognising its
worth. Streicher ran back with these glad tidings to
his friend, whose sad broodings had kept him awake
until far on in the morning.
<<
40
SCHILLER.
It soon began to be reported in Mannheim that a
demand would be addressed to the Elector of the Palatin-
ate for the extradition of Schiller. He was therefore
counselled to seek refuge elsewhere; and he and Streicher
decided in the first instance to make for Frankfort.
When they left Stuttgart their united wealth was fifty-
one gulden; and as a considerable part of this small
sum had already vanished, they were obliged to under-
take the journey on foot. On a bright October after-
noon they started, spending the first night at a village
called Sandtorf. Next evening, after a walk of twelve
hours, they reached Darmstadt very tired, and with but
faint hopes to sustain their courage. All day Schiller
had trudged along, speaking seldom, and hardly even
stopping to admire the beautiful scenery unless his at-
tention were called to it by his companion. On the
third day Schiller was so exhausted that he had to lie
down in a wood, where happily he fell fast asleep,
faithful Streicher keeping watch by his side. When
he had slept two hours, some one whom Streicher
took for a recruiting officer came along and stopped to
look at them. "Who are you?" he asked. "Travel-
lers," loudly answered Streicher, who did not like the
man's appearance, and was anxious that they should
resume their journey. Schiller awoke refreshed; and
in a short time they found themselves in Frankfort,
where they hired a room in an inn opposite the
Maine bridge, coming to precise terms with the land-
lord as to the cost of their poor lodging and meagre
fare.
In the morning Schiller wrote to Dalberg, fully ex-
IN MANNHEIM.
41
plaining his circumstances, and asking him to advance
100 gulden. He had incurred heavy debts in Stuttgart,
and this sum would at least enable him to give his
creditors some evidence of honest intentions. The re-
quest was not extravagant, for he had received nothing
for "The Robbers" except his travelling expenses when
he went to see it; and he had every reason to expect
that the theatre would profit largely by "Fiesco." By-
and-by a letter came from Meyer, containing Dalberg's
answer. "Fiesco" in its existing form was pronounced
to be unsuited for the stage, and the director added that
he could not advance money. Schiller uttered not a
word when he read this crushing decision; but Streicher
understood his agitation by his pale face and quivering
lip. The whole basis of his expectations had been swept
away, and he seemed to have nothing before him but
ruin.
He had in his possession a poem on which he set
high value, and, driven by necessity, he took it to a
bookseller, to whom he offered it for twenty-five gulden.
The bookseller was willing to give eighteen gulden; but
even in his poverty the proud poet would not part with
his work on terms which he considered inadequate.
Fortunately Streicher received from his mother an in-
stalment of the money which had been set apart for
his journey to Hamburg; and with thris they started
for Worms, where they found another letter from
Meyer, making an appointment to meet them at an
inn in Oggersheim, a village near Mannheim. Here
they were cordially received by the kind manager, his
wife, and two friends; and a long consultation fol
42
SCHILLER.
lowed as to Schiller's plans. Meyer had no doubt that
if certain alterations were made in "Fiesco," it would
be accepted; and it was finally arranged that Schiller
should remain with Streicher in Oggersheim (the one as
Dr Schmidt, the other as Dr Wolf) until the work was
done, which it would be, he thought, in about three
weeks.
At this period, however, Schiller found it hard to work
according to a strictly defined plan; he could not force
his thoughts into one channel if they persistently sought
to flow in another. Now his imagination had been for
some time kindled by a conception which, he hoped,
would far surpass his previous efforts. This was the
scheme of the play which ultimately received the title
of "Intrigue and Love" ("Kabale und Liebe"), but
which at first he called "Luise Miller." It was to
be a tragedy of middle-class life, and seemed to provide
many opportunities for outbursts of stormy passion and
for scenes of tender pathos. Two of the three weeks
which were to be given to "Fiesco" he devoted to the
new play; and so completely did it absorb his energies,
that for days he would not go out even for a short walk.
His imagination was especially alert in the evening,
when he would pace his room by twilight or by moon-
light Streicher both stimulating and soothing him.
with music. To these peaceful hours he looked forward
every day with pleasure, and at their mid-day meal he
would say to Streicher, "You will play to me this
evening?"
At last Schiller forced himself to return to "Fiesco,"
and it was soon despatched to Dalberg. But he was
again doomed to disappointment: after considerable
IN MANNHEIM.
43
delay, Dalberg decided that the play was still likely to
be ineffective. Schiller had been writing of his pros-
pects in sanguine terms to his parents and his sister;
and he had tried to persuade himself that success was
within easy reach. Now he was driven almost to de-
spair. His creditors had become clamorous, and his
father was too poor to undertake fresh burdens; while
Streicher had so completely exhausted his resources, that
he was compelled to accept employment as a musician
in Mannheim. In addition to these troubles, Schiller
was in some alarm for his safety; for the Duke of Wür-
temberg had ordered him to return, and it was by no
means improbable that he would become the subject
of negotiations between the Würtemberg and the Pala-
tinate Governments. He wrote, therefore, to his friend,
Frau von Wolzogen, reminding her that she had once
offered him an asylum in her house in Bauerbach, and
asking her if he might now take advantage of her kind-
ness. Frau von Wolzogen had three sons, whose pros-
pects partly depended on the favour of the Duke;
nevertheless, she at once assented to Schiller's request.
Part of his reckoning at Oggersheim he had been able
to discharge by selling his watch; he now paid the rest
of it, and made some provision for his journey to Bauer-
bach, by disposing of "Fiesco" for ten louis-d'or. These
arrangements made, Streicher, Meyer, and other friends
agreed to meet him at Oggersheim, and to accompany
him to Worms. On a clear, frosty night, under bright
stars, they saw him mount the mail-coach, which, after
two days' journey, was to take him to his remote place
of refuge. To all of them he said a kindly adieu; but
his feelings for Streicher were revealed by a firm hand-
44
SCHILLER.
ظة
grip, which was intended to say, and did say, infinitely
more than could have been expressed by the most elo-
quent of spoken farewells.1
4
Bauerbach is a village which consisted at that time of
about thirty houses, in the Thuringian Forest, within two
hours' walk of Meiningen. When Schiller arrived there
late in the evening of the 7th December 1782, snow
lay deep on the ground; and heartily glad he was to
find himself in a well-warmed room, for (as his friends
remembered with remorse after parting from him) he
had been very insufficiently clad for a long, cold journey.
For about eight months he resided (as Dr Ritter) in
Bauerbach; and visitors may still see his low-roofed
room, with his arm-chair, his table, and two old por-
traits of German princes on the walls. He often con-
soled himself in his loneliness by taking long walks
among the neighbouring hills, and sometimes he carried
a gun, although he was probably but a sorry sportsman.
Occasionally, too, he visited Meiningen, where he had at
least one friend, Reinwald, the keeper of the Ducal library,
to whom Frau von Wolzogen had given him a letter of
introduction. Reinwald was about forty-six years of age,
a man of profound learning, who, although of a naturally
kind disposition, had been made bitter and moody by
disappointment and ill health. He is a figure of some
importance in Schiller's biography, for they were des-
tined to become near relatives. A letter of Schiller's
1 Streicher lived afterwards in Vienna as a pianoforte-maker. The
romance of his life was the recollection of his relation to Schiller, after
whose death he published a bright little book-Schiller's Flight
from Stuttgart' ('Schillers Flucht aus Stuttgart')-giving a full
account of their adventures.
IN MANNHEIM.
45
sister, Christophine, falling accidentally into Reinwald's
hands, he read it; and being much pleased by her good
sense, and by the warmth of her affection for her brother,
he wrote to her and ultimately asked her to marry him.
Schiller was sincerely attached to Reinwald, but thought
that his age and the peculiarities of his temper would
make him an unsuitable husband for his sister. She,
however, thought differently; and in 1786 she was
united to her elderly lover, who, until his death thirty
years afterwards, found her a patient, considerate, and
affectionate wife.
Work was always difficult for Schiller unless he
had frequent intercourse with congenial minds; but he
forced himself to go on with "Luise Miller," and he
also began "Don Carlos." Towards the end of 1782
his solitude was interrupted by a visit from Frau von
Wolzogen and her daughter Charlotte, who remained
for nearly a month. Charlotte, who was about sixteen,
fascinated Schiller by her brightness, grace, and ami-
ability, and he soon began to form glorious visions in
which she played the leading part as the bride of a
happy and famous poet. He did not conceal his hopes
from Frau von Wolzogen; but she discouraged them,
for she saw that he could not for a long time be in
circumstances which would justify him in marrying.
Charlotte does not seem to have known how ardently
he loved her, and in a few months she put an end for
ever to his dream by giving her affections to some one
else. In Frau von Wolzogen herself, who was still com-
paratively young, and remarkable for her quick intelli-
gence and generous impulses, Schiller found one of the
most sympathetic of friends; and his letters to her after
46
SCHILLER.
her departure were full of almost passionate expressions
of attachment and admiration.
In May 1783 his friends were once more at home,
and Schiller was so happy in their society that he often
proclaimed his intention of spending his life in Bauer-
bach. Frau von Wolzogen was too much his friend to
approve of so wild a scheme; and one summer afternoon,
while they were walking in a wood, she ventured to sug-
gest to him that it might be worth while to visit Mann-
heim to find out what were likely to be the chances of
"Luise Miller." Some months before, Dalberg had
written to him, indicating a wish to renew their friendly
relations. Schiller replied rather coldly, as if the Mann-
heim theatre were indifferent to him; but Dalberg, who
knew the value of the author of "The Robbers,” wrote
again, saying that Schiller's new play could not be in his
hands too soon. To Frau von Wolzogen it seemed that
this opportunity should not be neglected; and Schiller
was obliged to confess that he would probably benefit
by coming into contact with "the world." The result of
their conversation was, that in the last days of July
1783, Schiller was again in Mannheim, having gone with
the full intention of speedily returning to Bauerbach.
His friend supplied him with money for the journey, and
unfortunately he had already increased his debts by
borrowing considerable sums either directly from her or
from others in her name.
Dalberg happened to be in the country; but after
his return, in about a fortnight, he received Schiller
courteously, and expressed his conviction not only
that "Luise Miller" would succeed, but that "Fiesco"
might be made a good acting play. In a short time
IN MANNHEIM.
47
he asked Schiller to accept a formal engagement as the
dramatist of the Mannheim theatre. Schiller would
still have preferred to live at Bauerbach; but feeling
that it was his imperative duty to take any honourable
position in which he might hope to escape from his diffi-
culties, he accepted Dalberg's offer. The terms were that,
besides giving an opinion on any works that might be
submitted to him, he should, within a year, prepare
"Fiesco" and "Luise Miller" for the stage, and supply
another play. In return for these services he was to
receive 300 gulden, of which 200 gulden were to be
advanced immediately; he was also to have the right of
printing his dramatic works, and each play was to be
represented once for his benefit. Schiller's tendency was
always to overrate the advantages of a new arrangement,
and he now persuaded himself that he was about to enter
upon a career of uninterrupted prosperity. His parents
were informed of his altered prospects, and he was much
pleased to receive the warm congratulations of his mother
and sister.
When he signed the contract with Dalberg, he was
suffering from a severe attack of ague, which prevailed
at that time in Mannheim, and of which, to Schil-
ler's deep regret, his old friend Meyer died. For many
months he was unable to get rid of this disorder, but
he continued to work at "Fiesco," which was ready
before the end of 1783. The changes on which Dalberg
insisted did not commend themselves to Schiller's judg-
ment; they not only involved a wide departure from the
facts of history, but made the conclusion of the play tame
and cold. The first representation took place in January
1784, and although several scenes were not without
48
SCHILLER.
cffect, the work as a whole excited little interest. About
three months later, "Luise Miller," which had received
the title of" Kabale und Liebe," was produced; and
the enthusiasm with which it was applauded amply com-
pensated Schiller for the comparative failure of "Fiesco."
Before the close of 1783 he had received a token of
his growing fame by being made a member of the Ger-
man Society, a well-known literary body in Mannheim,
under the protection of the Elector Palatine. After ad-
mission each member had to read a dissertation, and
Schiller chose as his subject, "The Theatre as a moral
institution." This paper he soon afterwards considered
very inadequate, but it contains the germs of some of
the principles which he ultimately set forth in his philo-
sophical writings. It was not read until June 1784,
and by that time all the glowing hopes with which he
had undertaken his new duties had vanished. His
health was still bad, and he had permanently injured it
by taking excessive quantities of cinchona-bark. Even
more distressing than his prolonged illness were the
anxieties caused by his poverty. The lives of many
German men of letters have been embittered by sordid
care, but few have been in such constant straits as
Schiller during these early years. After receiving two-
thirds of his salary he soon drew the remaining third;
and in lieu of "benefits " Dalberg gave him 200 gulden.
These sums might perhaps have sufficed for ordinary
expenses, but his debts he had no means of discharging.
Driven to bay, he appealed to his father, who was now
becoming old, and felt that his first duty was to his wife
and daughters. It is painful to read the correspondence
of father and son, neither of whom was perfectly just to
IN MANNHEIM.
49
the other the son making demands which could not be
complied with, the father responding with reproaches
which were certainly not altogether deserved.
In August 1784 Schiller's connection with the Mann-
heim theatre came to an end, Dalberg having apparently
thought that his genius was exhausted. It had often
occurred to Schiller that perhaps he ought to resume his
old profession; but happily he hit upon a device which
was more in accordance with his inclinations. This was
the plan of issuing a periodical, to be published once in
two months. The scheme was taken up with his usual
eagerness, and on the 11th of November 1784 he printed
an advertisement setting forth in a lofty and self-confid-
ent tone the great results which he hoped to achieve. The
name he selected for the new miscellany was 'The Rhen-
ish Thalia.' "The public," he wrote, "is now every-
thing to me, my study, my sovereign, my confidant.
To it alone I wholly belong. Before this tribunal, and
before no other, I will place myself. This only I fear
and reverence. I am conscious of something great in
the idea of wearing no fetters except the judgment of
the world, of appealing to no throne except the human
mind." During the winter of 1784-85 he worked hard
at Thalia,' but with all his efforts he could not pro-
duce the first number before March 1785.
F.C.-XV.
Schiller had many friends in Mannheim, and one
of the chief of these was Schwan the bookseller, to
whom he had sold "Fiesco." Schwan had a daughter
of about nineteen years of age, Margareta, a clever,
genial, and attractive girl, on whom had devolved after
her mother's death all the responsibilities of house-
keeping. Charlotte von Wolzogen being unattainable,
4
D
50
SCHILLER.
Schiller cultivated Margareta's friendship; and although
she was of a coquettish temper and often provoked him,
he soon passed from friendship to love, and hoped that
she might become his wife. At this period, however,
he was not a very trustworthy lover; and it hap-
pened that, while he was undecided whether or not to
ask Schwan's permission to woo his daughter, he met a
lady who acquired an extraordinary ascendancy over
him. This was Charlotte von Kalb, a woman of posi-
tion and fortune, the wife of a major in the French
army for whom she had not much affection. She was
about two years younger than Schiller, slightly built,
very beautiful, with dark hair, and eyes of a deep brown
that lighted up as she spoke. Her gestures were ani-
mated, and she delighted in expressing bold and para-
doxical opinions. Her imagination was so active and
so wayward, that, according to Herder, it prevented her
from ever "seeing reality;" and a passing whim would
plunge her from a mood of rapturous happiness into.
profound gldom, or exalt her with equal suddenness
from gloom to happiness again. This strange creature,
changeful as the aspects of an April sky, visited Mann-
heim in the spring of 1784, bringing with her a letter
of introduction from Reinwald to Schiller, of whose
writings she was a warm admirer. In autumn she re-
turned with the intention of remaining for some time,
her husband being stationed with his regiment in
Landau, and going to see her several times a-week.
By-and-by Schiller came completely under her spell,
and she loved him with all the vehemence of her pas-
sionate nature. To Frau von Kalb life appeared for the
first time to be thoroughly worth living; but to Schiller
1
IN MANNHEIM.
51
their relation was a source of constant disquietude and
vexation. He was drawn towards her by an irresistible
charm, yet he was never at rest in her presence; and
when he again became master of himself he confessed
that "her influence over him had not been salutary."
That she exerted influence over him, however, is not
surprising; for, long afterwards, Jean Paul Richter was
almost as enthusiastic as Schiller had been about her
،،
great eyes" and " great soul," and her society was
sought by Goethe, Herder, and Fichte.
Through Frau von Kalb's influence Schiller was in-
vited, towards the end of 1784, to read some passages
from his writings at the Court of Hesse-Darmstadt. He
chose the first act of "Don Carlos," which was received
with the highest favour. Among the company was
Duke Karl August of Weimar, Goethe's friend; and he
was so pleased with what he heard that he entered into
conversation with Schiller, asking him minutely about.
his circumstances and prospects. Next day Schiller
received from the Duke of Weimar a brief note con-
ferring on him the title of Rath (Councillor). This
was but a small honour; but it made Schiller very
happy, for he took it as an indication that he might
look for more substantial benefits from one to whom
German literature was already deeply indebted. In the
meantime, however, these benefits did not come; and
as winter advanced he almost lost hope, not knowing
in what direction to turn for aid.
In June 1784, Schiller received a packet which he
opened with considerable curiosity. It came from
Leipsic, and contained a letter expressing the warmest
admiration for his writings, and thanking him for their
1
52
SCHILLER.
high ideal tone. The letter was signed by C. G. Körner,
Minna and Dora Stock, the daughters of a well-known
engraver (the former betrothed to Körner), and L. F.
Huber. Along with the letter were portraits of the
four friends, drawn with silver point on parchment by
Dora, a silk letter-case, beautifully embroidered by
Minna, and one of Schiller's poems set to music by
Körner. Schiller had never been more touched than
by this spontaneous manifestation of goodwill; yet he
made no answer for six months, probably because he
was too depressed to respond in a perfectly genial spirit.
When at last he wrote, he received a prompt reply; and
in his misery it flashed upon him soon afterwards, Why
not go to Leipsic and be near these sincere and sympa-
thetic friends? "Oh," he wrote, "my soul pants after
new nourishment, after better men-after friendship,
attachment, love. I must go to you; I must learn to
have joy in my own heart again, and give a lively im-
pulse to my whole being by the most intimate inter-
course with you. My poetic vein stagnates; you must
give it warmth again. Near you I shall be twice, thrice
what I once was-and more than that, my best friends,
I shall be happy."
Of the correspondents thus addressed, Körner was the
leading spirit, and fortune was indeed gracious to Schil-
ler in providing him at such a time with such a friend.
Körner is now, perhaps, most widely known as the
father of the young poet who in the war of liberation
kindled the enthusiasm of the German armies by his
patriotic songs; but his relation to Schiller gives him a
solid title for his own sake to affection and respect. He
was Schiller's senior by about three years, and had
IN MANNHEIM.
53
already made his mark as a lawyer. To literature and
philosophy he had devoted much attention; he was also
an accomplished musician; and his good sense, kindness,
and vivacity caused him to be a universal favourite in
the society in which he moved. It gave him deep plea-
sure to find that a poet whom he admired was likely to
value his friendship, and he accordingly encouraged
Schiller to carry out his design of visiting Leipsic. But
he did much more. Having about this time invested a
considerable sum in the business of a well-known Leipsic
bookseller, Göschen, he was able to induce the latter to
offer to undertake the publication of 'Thalia' on terms
advantageous to Schiller, and he willingly advanced a loan
of 300 thalers. There was, therefore, a sudden break in
the clouds which had so long been gathering; and after
the issue of the first number of 'Thalia,' Schiller took
advantage of the gleam of unexpected sunshine, and
stepped cheerfully forward to new destinies. By his
departure from Mannheim, early in April 1785, he
closed, without being aware of it, a distinct period of
his career. During this period he had passed through
many struggles and endured much pain, but he had
also done work of sustained excellence, and his genius.
had been disciplined and strengthened for still loftier
flights.
¡
¿
54
CHAPTER V.
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
At the time when Schiller entered upon his career as a
man of letters, German literature had already begun to
manifest those new energies and impulses which were
to make it for a period the most important literature
in Europe. For more than a century the mind of the
nation had slumbered, producing in philosophy alone,
thanks to the penetrating genius of Leibnitz, any worthy
contribution to the intellectual life of the world. In
literature it had been content with feeble imitations of
foreign models, chiefly French; the drama being, per-
haps, more than any other species of imaginative effort,
subject to French influence. The appearance of the
opening cantos of Klopstock's "Messiah" was the first
decisive indication that the German genius was about to
contend on equal terms with its rivals; for, with all his
faults, Klopstock had imagination, force, and emage.
Wieland struck out in an opposite direction, and by his
light epicureanism, his quiet irony, and his mastery of a
graceful style, he did quite as much as Klopstock to
foster an independent spirit among the writers of the
new generation. Important as was the influence of
1
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
55
Wieland and Klopstock, however, it pales before that of
Lessing, who, while preparing the way for those who
were to come after him, did work which is as valuable
to-day as it was in the eighteenth century. By his
dramas, his controversies, and his original and powerful
criticism, he evoked higher ideals than had ever before
been presented to his countrymen, and encouraged his
successors to have confidence in the free exercise of their
own powers. The current of thought and aspiration,
of which Lessing was the leading representative, was
deepened by a growing acquaintance with Greek and
English poetry, and by that mighty agitation in France,
which in politics was making for the Revolution, in liter-
ature for the Romantic school. German literature was
not, of course, directly affected by Frederick the Great;
but indirectly it received a strong impetus from the
revival of patriotic ardour, which was due to his heroic
conflict with more than half of the civilised world.
1
Had the literary movement advanced on the lines
traced by Lessing, it would have combined freedom with
a frank recognition of the eternal laws of art. In the
first flush of youthful activity, however, it seemed to
those who inherited his task that liberty was incompat-
ible with law in any form. They were deeply dissatisfied
with the world and with themselves; society as it ex-
isted, with its countless anomalies in the distribution of
happiness, in religion, in thought, had become hateful to
them; and they panted for a life which, being without
restraint, should be one prolonged rapture. The expres
sion of their glowing passions could not, they supposed,
be adequate, if it were not vehement and stormy; and so
Germany was startled by the wild cries of the "Sturm
56
SCHILLER.
und Drang" poets. Lessing turned in disgust from a
ferment of contending elements which were so opposed
to his chastened vigour; and he was not altogether with-
out excuse for the melancholy conviction that all his
labour had been in vain. His failure, however, was
only in appearance, for among the "Sturm und Drang"
poets was Goethe; and as the movement was splendidly
opened by "Goetz von Berlichingen" and "Werther,"
so it was destined to be splendidly closed by "The Rob-
bers" and "Intrigue and Love.”
In his Essay on Sir Walter Scott, Keble contends that
"poetry is the indirect expression in words, most appro-
priately in metrical words, of some overpowering emo-
tion, or ruling taste, or feeling, the direct indulgence
whereof is somehow repressed.” Whatever may be said
of this as an exhaustive definition of poetry, it exactly
applies to Schiller's early dramas. When they were
written, his "overpowering emotion was one of fierce
resistance to the order of the world, as he knew it. An
ideal of the world as it ought to be, he had not; but
that the dignity of human nature was obscured by un-
just laws, and by still more unjust conventions, of this
he was sure; and the belief filled him, not only with
pity for those whom unjust laws and conventions op-
pressed, but with rage against the system that oppressed
them. For these feelings, intensified, in the first in-
stance, by his own sufferings as the victim of crush-
ing rules at the Academy, and afterwards by his hard-
ships as a fugitive from a threatening despot, there could
be no sufficient outlet except in literature; and in his first
plays he poured them forth with an energy which is un-
surpassed, perhaps unmatched, in any of his later works.
""
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
57
"The
Of these three plays, all of which are in prose,
Robbers" is the most remarkable. Almost every scene,
it is true, contains extravagant passages, and some of the
figures are rather guesses at character than living forms.
The hero, Karl Moor, is, however, a creation of true
genius. When he is first introduced, we find him uttering
the sort of thoughts and sentiments that might be ex-
pected from an ardent disciple of Rousseau.
"Laws,"
he declares, "have never formed a great man," but
freedom produces "men of colossal type." "Oh," he
cries, "that the spirit of Arminius still glowed in the
ashes! Give me an army of lads such as I am, and
Germany would become a republic, compared with which
it would be said that Rome and Sparta were convents."
While he is in this violent humour, longing for heroic
action, he receives a letter from his brother, Franz Moor,
telling him that he is disowned by his father, and that,
if he returns to his home, he will be thrown into the
deepest dungeon of the castle. He is stung almost to
madness by this injustice. Now, more than ever, he
is persuaded of the hatefulness of society. Civilisation
seems to him a vast structure based on wrong, and
he will assault it with furious energy. He forms his
comrades into a robber band, and with them wars
against every institution which men hold in respect,
determined that outraged nature shall at last have her
due. No other German drama presents so striking a
picture of desolating force. By the might of his re-
sistless will, Moor asserts absolute supremacy over his
followers, and he passes from violence to violence, each
more terrible than the last, shrinking from no scene of
horror to which his destiny appears to call him. Yet he
58
SCHILLER.
never altogether loses our sympathy, for his passions are
those of a mind radically generous, and in his most
monstrous actions he is thinking not of his own welfare
but of what he supposes to be the welfare of the miser-
able and the enslaved. Still more powerful, however,
and touching deeper facts of human nature, are the
scenes in which he at last begins to doubt whether the
end he has in view justifies the means, and whether in
any case he has a sure title to the character he has
assumed. Ultimately his doubts are changed into cer-
tainty, and he closes his career by rendering himself to
justice, feeling, when it is too late, that his methods of
destroying the elements of life which he loathes are in-
finitely worse than these elements themselves. The in-
terest of the play culminates in the famous second scene
of the third act, where, for the first time, he sees the
struggle in which he is engaged in its true light. The
robbers have defeated, after a desperate fight, an appar-
ently overwhelming force, and they are now encamped
on a height, among trees, in the neighbourhood of the
Danube. The sun is setting, and Karl Moor is gazing
at it intently.
"Schwarz. How splendidly the sun sets!
Moor (fascinated by the scene). So dies a hero-adorable!
Grimm. You appear to be deeply moved.
Moor. When I was still a child, it was my favourite thought
to live like the sun, to die like it (with suppressed pain). It
was a boyish thought!
Grimm. I will hope so.
Moor (pressing his hat over his face). There was a time-
leave me alone, comrades.
Schwarz. Moor! Moor! - the deuce! How his colour
changes!
P
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
59
Grimm. The devil! What is wrong? Is he ill?
Moor. There was a time when I could not sleep if I had
forgotten my prayers-
Grimm. Are you mad? Will you let yourself be tutored
by the years of your boyhood?
Moor (leaning his head on Grimm). Brother! brother!
Grimm. How? Be not a child, I pray you-
Moor. Were I but a child!
Were I but a child again!
Grimm. Pooh, pooh!
Schwarz. Cheer up! See what a picturesque landscape—
what a lovely evening!
Moor. Yes, friends; this world is so beautiful!
Schwarz. Come, that was well said.
Moor. The earth is so splendid!
Grimm. Right, right! that is what I like to hear.
Moor (self-absorbed). And I so hideous in this beautiful
world—and I a monster on this splendid earth!
Grimm. Oh! oh!
Moor. My innocence! my innocence! See! everything
goes out to sun itself in the peaceful ray of spring-why do
I alone draw hell from the joys of heaven? Everything is
so happy, all things are so united by the spirit of peace! The
whole world one family, and a Father above-but not my
Father; I alone the rejected-I alone driven from the ranks
of the pure; not for me the sweet name of child; never for
me the yearning glance of the beloved one; never, never the
embrace of the bosom friend. (Turning wildly round.) En-
circled by murderers; vipers hissing around me; bound to
crime by iron fetters; on the bending reed of crime hanging
dizzily over the pit of perdition; amid the flowers of the
happy world a howling Abbadona !1
Schwarz (to the others). Extraordinary! I have never seen
him thus.
Moor (sadly). Oh that I might return to my mother's womb!
that I might be born a beggar! I would ask no more, oh
1 Abbadona is one of the fallen angels in Klopstock's "Messiah."
He alone of the rebels repents.
CO
SCHILLER.
heaven-that I might become like one of these day-
labourers! Oh, I would work until blood rolled from my
temples to purchase the rapture of one hour of mid-day
slumber, the blessedness of a single tear !
Grimm (to the others). Patience! The paroxysm is pass-
ing.
Moor. There was a time when tears so readily flowed! Oh,
ye days of peace! Oh, castle of my father, ye green, enchant-
ing valleys! Oh, all ye elysian scenes of my childhood! will
ye never more return? never, with gentle breezes, cool my
burning breast? Mourn with me, nature! They will never
more return, never with gentle breezes cool my burning
breast. Gone! gone! Irrecoverable !"
While Karl Moor supposes that he is bitterly wronged
by his father, the old man continues to love him, and
longs for his return. The agent of his ruin is his gloomy,
selfish, and unscrupulous brother. Having despatched
the letter which drives Karl to despair, Franz Moor tries
to force the affections of Amalia, his brother's betrothed,
and ultimately seizes the estates, throwing the elder
Moor into a dungeon, where he is supposed to die.
Secretly, however, the father is saved by the fidelity of
an old servant; and Amalia remains true to her absent
lover. Reminded of the past by the adventures of a
youth who falls into his hands, Karl visits his home.
without immediately revealing himself; and the visit
results in the discovery of his brother's villany. His
father dies when Karl confesses himself to be a brigand,
and Franz, who is about to be seized, takes his own life
amid the flames of the burning castle. In despair
Amalia appeals to the robbers to end her misery by
death, and Karl himself slays her, exclaiming, "Moor's
beloved shall die only by Moor's hand!”
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
61
quely
In developing this wild plot, Schiller indulges in a
vast amount of boyish rant, and many of the speeches
could not now be listened to seriously. A strong im-
pression is produced by one scene, in which Franz
Moor, in conversation with Pastor Moser, to still the
rising fears of conscience, sets forth a base materialis-
tic philosophy. Here Schiller was expressing thoughts
with which he had come into contact in his studies, and
he penetrates deeply into the recesses of a spirit striv-
ing to evade its responsibilities by sophistry, by which
it is only half convinced. In almost every other scene
Franz Moor is a mere monster, put together, apparently,
in imitation of Richard III., and Edmund in "King
Lear," but without any trace of their vitality. Hardly
any attempt is made to give a definite character to the
elder Moor, and there is little truth to nature in the
presentation of Amalia, who, instead of acting for her
lover, as the scheme of the play would easily have per-
mitted her to do, wastes her force in vague sentimental
declamation. She does not even recognise him when he
visits the castle, although others soon penetrate through
his disguise. None of these defects, however, obscure
the high imaginative energy displayed in Karl Moor and
his followers. The robbers subject to Moor are cast in
a rougher mould than their chief, and have not his wide,
revolutionary aims; but they share his love of freedom,
and each bears the stamp of a strong and clearly marked
individuality.
In creative force Schiller's next play, "The Conspiracy
of Fiesco" ("Die Verschwörung des Fiesco"), is far
below the level of "The Robbers." After making him-
self, by a brilliant stroke, master of the Genoese Republic,
62
SCHILLER.
the Fiesco of history met with a sudden death.
He was
going on board a vessel when the plank on which he
was crossing gave way; and being heavily armed, he
sank and was drowned, An accident of this kind, how-
ever impressive in real life, is not a fit basis for tragedy;
and Schiller, being well aware of the fact, was compelled
to deprive Fiesco's death of its accidental character.
The means which he devised was to represent his hero
as influenced in part by motives of personal ambition.
One of Fiesco's confederates, Verrina, is represented as
a man of pure republican sympathies; and when the
conspiracy has been conducted to a triumphant issue,
Verrina entreats his chief to crown the work by establish-
ing perfectly free government. Fiesco refuses to give the
pledge demanded of him; whereupon Verrina avenges the
cause of liberty by overturning the plank and plunging
him into the sea. A genuinely tragic motive is thus, no
doubt, provided; but it is at the expense of the character
of Fiesco, who has no longer a claim to be regarded as a
champion of republicanism. Even with such mingled
impulses his character might perhaps have been made.
coherent; but, unfortunately, the greater part of the
play was written before Schiller decided as to the man-
ner in which he would end it. Thus he hesitates, all
through, between two conceptions; they are not welded
together in a figure of sure and distinct outlines. Ver-
rina is consistent from first to last; but his position is
subordinate, and he has no qualities by which we are
either strongly attracted or repelled. It would have
been difficult for Schiller to make the conspiracy seem
natural by giving prominence to the grand character
of Andrea Doria; he was therefore justified in laying
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
63
stress mainly on the tyranny of Andrea's nephew,
Gianettino. His effects are, however, too easily attained,
since he attributes to Gianettino no acts or tendencies
which mark him off from the most commonplace of brutal
ruffians. Fiesco has a very beautiful wife, Leonore;
and he masks his ultimate designs by pretending to
neglect her and to pay court to Julia, Gianettino's sister.
The character of Julia is made unnecessarily coarse; and
we are perplexed by sudden and unexplained transitions.
in Leonore, who begins as a shy and retiring young wife
and ends as a passionate enthusiast.
It was not surprising that Dalberg hesitated for some
time to accept a play in which there are so many radical
flaws; yet he could scarcely help seeing the excellence.
of its purely technical qualities. The action is more
condensed than in "The Robbers;" there is less extra-
vagance in the dialogue; the language, if not always.
so forcible, is keener and finer; and the defects of the
scheme are often concealed by outbursts of impressive
rhetoric. And one character, Muley Hassan, a Moor,
whom Fiesco wins for his service by contemptuous
generosity, has at least the merit of exuberant life. In
the hands of a good actor, he seldom fails to strike a
powerful note by his thoroughgoing rascality and rough
humour.
In "Intrigue and Love" ("Kabale und Liebe"),
Schiller again trusted solely to the imagination for his
plot; and he was able once more, as in "The Robbers,”
to make the drama the reflection of his own stormy
passions. The scene is laid in one of the petty German
courts of the eighteenth century; and we almost wonder
that there was not a German as well as a French Revolu-
64
SCHILLER.
tion, when we see the hatred and scorn with which
Schiller presents the heartlessness of the higher classes,
and their cynical contempt for every one beneath their
own rank. The heroine, Luise Miller, is the daughter
of an honest musician, and has given her heart to
Ferdinand von Walter, the son of one who holds the
highest position in the principality next to the sovereign
-that of President of the Council. Ferdinand is a
youth of an ardent, generous, and romantic nature, and
is fully resolved to make Luise his wife. Her mother
is proud of her good fortune; but her father feels that
the relation can lead only to disaster, and insists that
Luise shall abandon her aristocratic lover and accept a
husband of her own station. Ferdinand's father, the
President, assumes that the young man is only amusing
himself, and makes arrangements for a marriage between
him and Lady Milford, an Englishwoman, (of the house
of Norfolk!) who has been for some time the prince's
mistress. Lady Milford loves Ferdinand, and fervently
hopes that he will assent to his father's plan. To her
surprise, and still more to that of the President, Ferdi-
nand firmly rejects her offered hand, and announces his
intention of marrying, at whatever sacrifice, the musi-
cian's daughter. The President, having convinced him-
self that he cannot achieve his design by force, has
recourse to stratagem. He orders the arrest of Luise's
father and mother; and then, filled with horror at what
seems to be their impending fate, she is induced to write
a letter to a person who has been paying court to her,
making an appointment with him, and pretending that
she has never loved Ferdinand. This letter is conveyed
to her lover, whose heart is broken by so terrible a revc-
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
65
lation. He gathers himself together for a last act of
revenge, and discovers the truth only when the poison,
which he himself has drunk and which he has given
to Luise, has taken effect, and they are both in their
death-agonies.
So violent a conclusion leaves us dissatisfied, unless
we feel that it is absolutely inevitable, and it cannot be
said that Schiller convinces us of its necessity. A word
from Luise would at once enlighten Ferdinand, and there
is no sufficient reason why the word should not be spoken
in their final interview. Indeed, the device by which
he is deceived is so gross, that he almost forfeits our
sympathy for not immediately perceiving its real char-
acter, or at any rate for not suspecting treachery. It is
a striking testimony to the genius of the play that this
scarcely diminishes the interest of the spectators at the
moment of representation; they are too swiftly borne
along by the torrent of emotion to be fully conscious of
weakness and inconsistency in the conduct either of the
hero or the heroine. No single figure in "Intrigue and
Love" is so striking as Karl Moor; on the other hand,
all are more truly conceived than Franz Moor, the elder
Moor, and Amalia. Both Luise and Ferdinand, although
they protest too much, and in too sentimental a tone,
are admirable types of passion breaking itself against the
barriers of social convention; and in Miller there is a
most lifelike presentment of an irascible, but honest and
kind, father. The ardour of the lovers has a perfect foil
in the coldness, selfishness, and cruelty of the President;
and although die Court-Marshal, to whom Luise is made
to address her fatal letter, seems now to be a figure only
suited for burlesque, his utmost follies were not incredible
F.C.-XV.
E
ܫܝܘ ܡܐܡܤܝ
66
SCHILLER.
to Schiller's contemporaries. In some respects all these
characters are surpassed by Lady Milford, who, notwith-
standing her degradation, cherishes tender memories and
a lingering faith in purity. There is both strength and
delicacy in the art with which her better nature is made
to awake through the loyal affection of the lovers, whom
she in vain attempts to separate.
The poems written by Schiller during the early part
of his career, so far as their substance is concerned, have
essentially the same character as his dramas. They are
the passionate outpourings of a mind which has become.
conscious of its capacities, but has not learned either to
look at the world steadily or to control its own sym-
pathies and yearnings. The most ambitious of these
elforts is a satirical and didactic poem, "The Chariot of
Venus" ("Der Venuswagen"), issued separately soon
after the publication of "The Robbers." It is intended
to display the ruin caused by unbridled passion, and
there is hardly a stanza which is not marked by energy
of expression and freedom of movement. The effect of
the whole, however, is marred by too bold a handling of
matters, about which the wisest are, perhaps, those who
feel most inclined to be silent. Several other poems of
this period manifest the same audacity without the ex-
cuse of a didactic motive. Yet, in "The Triumph of
Love" ("Der Triumph der Liebe"), Schiller's point of
view is so exalted that love appears as a sentiment
In these
adapted only to natures of angelic refinement.
early lyrics he seems to know no middle way between
idealism without passion, and passion without idealism;
and the consequence, of course, is, that neither his ideal-
ism nor his passion has the charm of tr
Poetry. The
SCHILLER'S EARLY WRITINGS.
67
images in the Odes to Laura are so indefinite that they
tell us nothing of the qualities which excite his enthu-
siasm, and the poet appears to be more interested in the
vague philosophic fancies suggested by his relation to
Laura than in Laura herself. A truer chord is touched
in his Ode on "Friendship" ("Die Freundschaft "), in
which he writes with the warmth of experience. In this
powerful poem, which is remarkable for the pomp and
splendour of its language, Schiller generalises the attrac-
tion between kindred minds until it becomes the type of
the forces that give coherence and unity to the Cosmos.
His political poems, "The Conqueror" ("Der Eroberer")
and "The Bad Monarchs" ("Die Schlimmen Mon-
archen"), contain little more than a vehement protest,
extravagant in form if not in feeling, against tyranny.
"Flowers" ("Die Blumen "), and the lines "To Spring "
("An den Frühling"), are the expression of a sincere
delight in nature, but give no evidence of exact and fine
observation. One of the best of these early writings is
a poem on Rousseau, in which he celebrates with enthu-
siasm the virtues of the master by whom he had been so
much influenced, and contrasts his free spirit with the nar-
rowness and prejudice of his age. In "Count Eberhard,”
Schiller records a pathetic incident in the history of
Würtemberg, and it is interesting as the first indication
in his minor poems of the vivid force and directness of
his later ballads.
"
68
CHAPTER VI.
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
WHEN Schiller reached Leipsic (on the 17th of April
1785), his friend Körner was in Dresden, where he held
the office of Councillor to the Supreme Consistorial
Court. Schiller was, however, warmly welcomed by the
sisters, Minna and Dora Stock, and by Huber, a youth
of an affectionate and enthusiastic temperament, but
without any distinguished intellectual qualities. The
spring fair was in progress at the time of Schiller's
arrival, and he heartily enjoyed the stir and movement
which give the streets of Leipsic a gay and animated
appearance on these occasions. The booksellers gladly
did honour to a poet from whom such great things were
expected, and he found that literary men of every grade
of merit and pretension were pleased to make his ac-
quaintance.
Soon after his arrival in Leipsic, Schiller began to
review his position seriously; and as he did so, the
image of Margareta Schwan rose more and org de vel)
before him. Now that he was free from the miluence
of Frau von Kalb, his love for Margareta revived; and he
felt sure that, if he could win her, she would give unity
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
69
and charm to his life. He accordingly wrote to Schwan,
begging that he might have permission to ask her to be-
come his wife. Schiller was obliged to confess that he
could not for some time offer her a home; but he had
resolved, he said, to devote himself again to the medical
profession, and he did not doubt that he would soon
have a sufficient practice. He had always received so
much kindness from Schwan, and Margareta and he had
bidden each other so affectionate a farewell (promising
to be faithful correspondents), that he looked forward
with confidence to the reply. Schwan, however, was
not attracted by the proposal, and promptly answered
that he did not think the character of his daughter
would accord well with that of Schiller. So vanished
another dream; and in the end Schiller had good reason
to congratulate himself that his wish had not been grati-
fied. He continued for some time afterwards to think
of practising as a physician, but the idea was by-and-by
finally abandoned.
Wishing to have leisure and quiet for literary work,
he hired a room in Gohlis, a pretty village in the Rosen-
thal, within easy walking distance of Leipsic, and here
he spent the summer of 1785. That he had many happy
hours during this summer may be assumed, if (as is most
probable) the verses "To Joy" ("An die Freude")
were written in Gohlis. In Mannheim he had worked
from time to time at "Don Carlos," and now he occupied
himself with it still more seriously; he also gave many
hours to 'Thalia,' although without hope of being able
to issue it as frequently as he had originally intended.
On the 1st of July he met Körner for the first time, and
each immediately recognised in the other a friend to
70
SCHILLER.
whom he might give his whole heart. Soon afterwards,
Körner not only delivered Schiller again from a tem-
porary difficulty, but asked to be permitted to provide
for him during the following year.
In August 1785, Körner and Minna Stock were
married, and they immediately established themselves in
Dresden, taking with them Minna's sister Dora. About
a month afterwards they were joined by Schiller, and
for nearly two years he was virtually an inmate of their
house. The first weeks were spent at Loschwitz, a vil-
lage on the Elbe near Dresden, where Körner possessed
a vineyard with a summer-house, commanding a lovely
view of the distant mountains of Saxon Switzerland.
As winter approached they returned to Dresden, and
Schiller took up his abode in rooms which had been
hired for him opposite Körner's dwelling. These rooms
were in a short time shared by Huber, who had entered
the diplomatic career, and had received his first appoint-
ment at the Saxon Court. The morning was given by
Schiller to work; he then joined the Körners at dinner,
and spent with them the afternoon and evening. Some-
times they had visitors, but they generally preferred
to be alone; and a charming little society they formed,
marked by perfect freedom and refinement. The ex-
perience of these months left a deep impression on
Schiller's mind and character. Melancholy enough he
often felt, for his future was still dark, but he was
cheered and strengthened by constant association with
friends who appreciated his genius and loved him for
his own sake. And in several directions is intellectual
life was deepened and widened by Körner's influence.
Körner was an ardent student of Kant; al although he
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
71
could not at this time induce Schiller to join him in
his studies, he often made philosophy the subject of
their conversation. Partly owing to Körner, too, Schil-
ler began to give much attention to history.
Excellent as Schiller's opportunities now were, the
only important work which he completed during his
residence in Dresden was Don Carlos." It gave him
far more trouble than he had anticipated, the expansion
of his plan making it necessary for him to introduce nu-
merous changes. In May 1787, however, it was finished;
and although there was a remarkable diversity of critical
opinion as to its merits, the first edition was quickly
exhausted, and in some theatres it was brilliantly suc-
cessful. For a long time he was known chiefly as the
author of "The Robbers" and "Don Carlos," and the
latter may be said to have made his fame secure. Three
numbers of Thalia' were published, and he had no
reason to be dissatisfied either with the manner in which
they were received by the public or paid by the book-
seller. The first number (issued in Mannheim) had con-
tained the first act of "Don Carlos;" the second and
third acts were included in subsequent numbers. In
these numbers appeared also the "Philosophical Letters"
("Philosophische Briefe "), and a part of "The Vision-
ary" ("Der Geisterseher ").
،
،،
Early in 1787 Schiller went with the Körners to a
masked ball, and was addressed by a graceful and frolic-
some damsel who at once made a conquest" of him.
She proved to be Henriette von Arnim, a charming girl
of about nineteen, the daughter of a widow who held the
position of gouvernante of the ladies of the Dresden
Court. Frau von Arnim was not inclined to give her
72
SCHILLER.
daughter to a poor poet, however famous; but she did not
altogether discourage him, as there was a chance that his
devotion would stimulate the ardour of more "eligible
lovers. The young lady herself, although by no means
indifferent to the advantages of wealth and high birth,
seems to have loved Schiller sincerely; and he was soon
completely mastered by his passion. The Körners liked
neither her nor her family, and did what they could to
break the connection, but in vain. Work became im-
possible, and of his small earnings a considerable part
was spent in pretty presents for Henriette and her
mother. At Easter he was persuaded to take a short
holiday at the little town of Tharand, but here he
thought more than ever of his new love, and at last he
wrote to Henriette, telling her how necessary she had
become to his happiness. The letter which he received
in reply was as passionate as his own; yet there was
something in its tone which displeased him, and on his
return to Dresden she found that he no longer wished
her to be more than his friend. The change did not
break her heart, but her romance was perhaps deeper
than Schiller suspected, for during her future life (and
her life was a very checkered one) his portrait always
hung in her room.
After the completion of "Don Carlos," Schiller began
to feel that he must make another effort to test the pos-
sibilities of fortune. His love for Körner was unabated,
but his intellectual life needed a fresh impulse, and it
had become manifest that he could not lepe to find in
Dresden a settled position. More than ty years
before, when in much the same kind perplexity,
Lessing had turned naturally to Berlin, which then took
""
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
73
*
the lead in German literature; but its influence had since
passed to Weimar, where a brilliant Court had been able
to attract Wieland, Goethe, and Herder. Almost every
young man of letters hoped that, like these great writers,
he might find a patron in the generous Duke; and many
a pilgrimage was made to the little capital with vague
expectations, which could not, of course, be realised.
Schiller, however, was justified in looking to Weimar
for help, for already he was in the foremost rank of
contemporary poets, and by making him a Councillor
the Duke had given him signal proof of goodwill. To
Weimar, therefore, he resolved to go; and on the 20th
of July 1787 he started on his journey, having spent the
previous evening with his friends at Loschwitz, recalling
the happy days they had enjoyed together, and making
many promises of continued attachment. And the pro-
mises were kept. To the end of his life it was one of his
deepest pleasures to open his heart to Körner, from whom
he had received so many evidences of solid judgment
and warm sympathy; and their delightful correspond-
ence throws a vivid light on the changes of thought and
feeling which found gradual expression in Schiller's.
greatest writings.
For some time Frau von Kalb had been in Weimar,
and she was the first to welcome him to this new scene.
Her love for him was unaltered; and in her presence he
seemed to be attracted to her by as strong a fascination
ver. She was in delicate health, being threatened
with socal bindness, and had gone to Weimar for the
purpose of being attended by a famous oculist. This
gave her a fresh claim to Schiller's sympathy; and she
was delighted to have the opportunity of introducing
71
SCHILLER.
O
⭑
him to the society of Weimar, where she was well
known and much liked. CC
Charlotte," he wrote to
Körner, “is a great strange mind-a real study for me.
At every step in our intercourse I discover new qualities
in her, which surprise and enchant me like beautiful
scenes in a wide landscape." He was about, however,
to form many new relations; and by-and-by he was glad
to break off an intimacy which had excited and dis-
turbed him without giving him an hour of genuine.
happiness.
The Duke had gone to Potsdam, and remained away
for many months; and Goethe was in Italy, from which
he did not return until the following year. Schiller,
therefore, found no trace of that varied and brilliant life
which had made Weimar famous for several years.
There was still, however, much to interest him, and he
lost no time in making himself known to those who
were likely to care for his acquaintance. His first visit
was to Wieland, who had pleased him by acknowledg
ing the genius of "The Robbers," although frankly criti-
cising its extravagance.
Wieland was now fifty-four
years of age; and although he had still many years of
labour before him, he had done all the work by which
his name lives. One of his chief occupations was the
editing of 'Mercury,' a periodical by which he exerted
considerable influence on the movements of literary
opinion. In his intercourse with men he had all the
humours and fancies of a child, taking offence for no
apparent reason, and becoming friendly again by a sud-
den impulse; but when he was in the mood nobody
could be more agreeable. He spent two hours with
Schiller in pleasant talk; and afterwards, when Schiller
SAM
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
75
thoroughly understood his light and wayward temper,
they became good friends, and were able to work to-
gether harmoniously for Mercury.' Herder was visited
next, and Schiller felt powerfully attracted by his grave
and noble spirit. Schiller's writings were known to
Herder only by reputation, but he was prepared to think
favourably of them, and he liked the writer himself so
well that he repeatedly expressed a wish that they might
meet often. Much of their conversation was about
Goethe, whom, as Schiller told Körner, Herder loved
"with passion, with a kind of idolatry."
The attractions of the society of Weimar were not
favourable to work; but Schiller was soon reminded of
the necessity of resisting them by the rapid diminution
of his supply of money, which he had been obliged to
borrow, on Körner's security, before leaving Dresden.
Poetry and the drama had hitherto been so unprofitable,
that it occurred to him to try whether he might not
turn to advantage his recent historical studies. In writ-
ing "Don Carlos " he had become familiar with the age
of Philip II., and he now determined to make one par-
ticular phase of it-the revolt of the Netherlands-the
subject of an elaborate work. He had no sooner formed
this resolution than he collected his authorities, began to
study them in earnest, and drew the outlines of his
plan. He now went seldom into society, and was gen-
erally at his desk ten or twelve hours daily.
fell of my materials," he assured Körner, "and work
with pleasure. It is my début in history, and I hope to
produce something that will be very readable."
"I am
In November 1787, he received from Frau von Wol-
zogen an urgent request to visit her at Bauerbach. Since
76
SCHILLER.
they last met she had been in serious difficulties, and had
been forced to make repeated applications to Schiller for
the repayment of the money she had lent him. He had
not been able to discharge any part of his debt, but this
had not interrupted their friendship; and she was now
particularly anxious to see him, as she wished to have
his opinion of the man whom her daughter was about to
marry. He willingly accepted her invitation, and spent
a pleasant fortnight, partly in Bauerbach, partly in
Meiningen, where his sister Christophine was now
settled as Frau Reinwald.
On the way back to Weimar he was accompanied by
his old fellow-student, Wilhelm von Wolzogen. They
travelled on horseback, and on a gloomy December even-
ing rode together into Rudolstadt. As they passed a
pretty house, standing apart in the midst of a large
garden, Wilhelm looked up and saw two handsome
young women watching them from a window. They
were his cousins, the daughters of Frau von Lengefeld,
and he laughingly hid his face in his mantle. Schiller
rode gravely on, but not without exciting the curiosity
of his companion's friends. Soon afterwards Wilhelm
called and asked permission to return with Schiller.
This was a memorable evening to Schiller, for it was
now that he met the lady who, about two years after-
wards, became his wife. Frau von Lengefeld, a mild
and kindly gentlewoman, was the widow of a man of
good birth and superior intelligence, who had made a
considerable reputation by his extensive knowledge of
all matters relating to forests. After his death, about
ten years before this time, she continued to live in Rudol-
stadt with her two daughters; and the elder daughter,
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
77
•
Caroline, married in early youth a Herr von Beulwitz,
who took up his residence in the house of his mother-in-
law. He was generally respected, but the marriage was
not a happy one; ultimately it was dissolved, and Caro-
line married Wilhelm von Wolzogen, to whom she was
already warmly attached. Her sister Charlotte, about
three years younger, was now twenty-one; and although
she was not remarkably beautiful, she had, according
to Caroline, "a very agreeable figure and face." "An
expression of the purest goodness of heart," says Caro-
line, "animated her features; and her eyes, which were
blue, flashed only truth and innocence. Thoughtful,
and sensitive to everything good and beautiful in life
and in art, her whole nature had a beautiful harmony."
She had a talent for drawing, and occasionally wrote
verses, which in Caroline's opinion were "full of grace
and gentle feeling." In childhood the sisters had been
carefully trained by their father, and one result of his
teaching was that they shared his enthusiastic admi-
ration for Frederick the Great, who had invited him
to settle in Prussia. Occasionally they saw something
of "the great world;" for their family was highly
respected by the Duke of Weimar and other princes.
All the famous writers of Weimar they knew; and
Goethe had sometimes been their guest. Much of their
time they spent in reading-their favourite author being
Plutarch, to whom they returned again and again; but
this did not prevent them from appreciating the litera-
Sure of their own period and country. In their quiet
home they had thus an ideal world of their own; and
"often," says Caroline, we seemed to ourselves to be
enchanted princesses, waiting for our deliverer."
(C
78
SCHILLER.
In such a circle, so full of life and intelligence, Schil-
ler could not but be happy. Long before, in Mannheim,
he had seen Frau von Lengefeld and her daughters for
but
a few minutes on their way back from Switzerland;
he was then ill and depressed, and the meeting had
made no impression on him. Now he felt the full
charm of these bright and ardent natures, with their
fine aptitudes, generous enthusiasms, and delicate sym-
pathies. They knew his early writings, and expressed
pleasure at the prospect of reading "Don Carlos," which
he promised to send to them. So agreeably did the
evening pass, that in saying good-bye Schiller declared
he would probably return to Rudolstadt in the following
spring, and work there during summer-a scheme which
was warmly encouraged by his new friends.
Schiller returned to Weimar with a deep affection for
Caroline; but for Lotte he had conceived a passionate
love, which immediately gave a new aim and direction
to his energies. From this time she was never far
from his thoughts, and he cherished an eager hope that
the light which burned steadily in his own heart would
As he could not venture
soon burn as steadily in hers.
to express his hope until he had some definite prospect of
being able to form a home, he began to work with more
ardour than he had ever before manifested. His history
of the revolt of the Netherlands made rapid progress,
and among other labours he returned to "The Vision-
ary," although with a growing repugnance to the story,
as he saw how difficult it would be to bring it to a satis-
factory close.
He soon had an opportunity of developing his relation
to Lotte, who came to visit a friend in Weimar, partly

A gent


IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
79
that the Duchess might be reminded of a promise to
provide her with a position at Court. At this time they
did not often meet; but Lotte saw enough of him to
make her rank him among her most intimate friends, and
she received from him several letters, between the lines
of which it is easy to read his secret. On one occasion
she invited him to spend the following evening at the
house in which she was living, if there was no particular
attraction at the play. "I could almost be provoked,"
he replied, "that the play is not better, or that there is
not some greater pleasure, that I might be able to show
you how gladly I give it up for the happiness of being
near you." The letter ends: "As I wrote, a passing
sledge drew me to the window; and it was you! I
have seen you, and that is at any rate something for
to-day." In a note written immediately before her
return to Rudolstadt, she spoke of the pleasure which
she had found in his "companionship," adding, paren-
thetically, "I must not say friendship, since you do
not like the word." "You really believe," he answered,
"that I object to the word friendship? After what
I may have said of the misuse of the term, I might
perhaps seem too proud if I claimed to be your friend;
but the name shall not disturb me. Let the grain of
seed shoot up: when the spring sun shines on it, we
shall see what flower will come of it."

The parting was made easy to Schiller by the hope
that he would soon be near her again; for he hid de-
eded to spend the summer of 1788 in Rudolstadt, and
Lotte undertook to find a lodging for him. After mucly
looking about, she hired rooms in a quiet village, Volk
städt, near Rudolstadt.
"The village,” she wrote, “h



80
SCHILLER.
a beautiful position on the bank of the Saale. Behind
are hills crowned with dark wood, while all around are
fruitful fields; on the opposite side of the river there is
a view of beautiful meadows, and of a wide, long val-
ley." On one of the hills there is now a bronze copy of
Dannecker's splendid bust of Schiller; and no neigh-
bourhood could be more appropriately associated with
his name, for here, if anywhere, he was happy. Having
worked all day in his room, he generally walked, late in
the afternoon, towards Rudolstadt, following the wind-
ings of the Saale by a path which skirted corn-fields and
orchards; and on a bridge that spanned a tiny brook,
he often found the two lovely sisters waiting for him.
"How happy we were," says Caroline, "when after a
tiresome afternoon visit we were able to go to meet our
genial friend under the beautiful trees on the banks of the
Saale! When we saw his figure against the glow of the
evening sky, a joyful, ideal life opened before us. In
conversation with Schiller, we seemed to wander alter-
nately among the flowers of the earth and the immutable
stars of heaven." Often as he now saw Lotte, mes-
sengers frequently passed between the two houses with
letters; and Schiller said so much, that it is surprising
he did not take courage to say more. Again," he wrote
in one letter, "the evening vanished so quickly! Often
I have so much to say to you, and when I leave, I find
that I have said nothing. When I am near you, I feel
only that it is well with me, and I enjoy my happiness
in silence too much to be able to give it utterance."
When the days shortened, and the nights became chilly,
e shifted his quarters from Volkstädt to Rudolstadt.
(C
then saw Lotte even more frequently; but they still

IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
81
1
wrote to one another, and each successive letter, playful
in form, but with a touch of seriousness, seemed to bring
them nearer to the goal.
The evenings were not altogether spent in talk:
Schiller read with his friends Voss's translation of the
Odyssey, and a prose translation of the Iliad. Fasci-
nated by Homer, he began also to study the Greek
dramatists, learning for the first time to appreciate
classic purity and grace. The sisters begged him to
give them a poetical rendering of some of the passages
he admired; and thus stimulated, he gradually trans-
lated the "Iphigenia in Aulis," and parts of the "Pho-
nissæ," of Euripides, afterwards publishing his transla-
tions in Thalia.'
<
This work," he wrote to Körner,
"exercises me in dramatic writing, enables me to under-
stand the spirit of the Greeks, and, unconsciously to
myself, gives me, I hope, their manner."
His happiness was sadly interrupted by tidings of the
sudden death of Frau von Wolzogen, in whom he had
found so faithful a friend. She died on the 5th of
August, and a few days afterwards Wilhelm von Wolzo-
gen received a letter, in which Schiller declared that
"the recollection of her would live eternally in his
soul." "All the love," he continued, "which my heart
devoted to her, I will cherish for her son, and regard it
as a debt which I owe her in her grave. We must be-
long to each other as brothers. Ah! she was to me
thing that a mother could have been."
hich Schiller never forgot, marked the
his first meeting with Goethe. It
took place bau von Lengefeld's house; and the
sisters had looked forward to the event with the greatest
F.C.-XV.
F
ii.
82
SCHILLER.
А
من
الانتا
interest, for they did not doubt that Goethe and Schiller
would be at once attracted to each other. They were,
however, disappointed. Goethe was polite to Schiller,
no more; and Schiller made no attempt to conciliate
him. "On the whole," he wrote to Körner, "my great
idea of Goethe has not been diminished by personal
acquaintance; but I doubt whether we shall ever ap-
proach each other nearly. Much that is still inter-
esting to me, and that I have to wish and hope for,
is no longer of importance to him. He is so far ahead
of me, less in years than in experience of life and in
self-development, that we shall never meet on our sepa-
rate paths. His whole nature is constituted otherwise
than mine; his world is not mine; our modes of
thought appear to be essentially different. A final judg-
ment, however, cannot be formed from such a meeting;
time will reveal the rest."
Schiller spent in Rudolstadt his twenty-ninth birth-
day; and on the evening of the 12th of November he
was once more in Weimar. The decisive word had not
been spoken to Lotte but his unalterable resolve was to
make for himself a career which would justify him in
asking her to share his fortunes. He no sooner returned
to Weimar than he formed many new plans; and he
worked so hard that his friends expostulated with him
on the injury which he would almost certainly inflict on
his health. One of his schemes was to make Frederick
the Great the hero of an epic poem. The idea had been
suggested by Körner, and had at once attracted Schiller.
He decided to select a period in which Frederick had
displayed undaunted courage in adversity; but the poem
was to represent the whole spirit and progress of the eigh-
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
83
teenth century. Ultimately he abandoned this inten-
tion, but not without regret. Had it been accomplished,
perhaps fewer critics would have been of opinion that
the thirteen years devoted to Frederick by the foremost
English man of letters of the present age were alto-
gether misspent.
Meanwhile, Schiller's history of the revolt of the
Netherlands, part of which had been published in Wie-
land's 'Mercury,' was finished; and its appearance was
destined to have a far more important influence on his
course than he anticipated. It occurred to a friend of
his, Voigt, that the services of one who could write so
well on history ought, if possible, to be secured for the
neighbouring university of Jena. The idea was communi-
cated to Goethe; and as there happened to be a vacancy
in the staff of professors, he entered into it heartily.
Schiller was "sounded," and hesitated whether it would
be worth his while to sanction the scheme. Then, as
now, there were two classes of professors in German
universities full professors and professors extraordi-
nary. It was proposed that Schiller should belong to
the second class, without any fixed salary. After much
consideration, he announced that if he were offered the
appointment he would accept it. The University of Jena.
being the common property of the Saxon Duchies, the
matter could not be formally settled at once; but, on
the 15th December, he informed Körner that Goethe
had sent him a rescript, indicating that, since the Govern-
ment of Weimar was satisfied, no objection would be
made by the other Governments, and that he might
safely begin his preparations for his new duties.
Although Goethe played so kindly a part in this
•
84
SCHILLER.
matter, he had manifested no inclination to cultivate
the acquaintance of Schiller. As he himself explains
in "Wahrheit und Dichtung," he had returned from
Italy with a very different conception of the aims and
methods of poetry from that with which he had opened
his career.
His study of classical literature, and of the
masterpieces of ancient art, had shown him that it is not
enough to have the impulses of genius, and that litera-
ture falls short of perfection in so far as it is deficient
in order, measure, and calm. Schiller himself was
gradually approaching a kindred view; but this was
unknown to Goethe. The work with which he mainly
connected Schiller was "The Robbers," and it displayed
only restless, ungovernable passion. He had therefore
a prejudice against the author, and held aloof from him,
resisting the efforts of common friends to bring them
together. Schiller was too proud to intrude on any one;
yet he was always thinking of Goethe, and could hardly
write a letter without bringing in an allusion to him.
"Goethe excites in me," he wrote, a quite peculiar
mixture of hatred and love, a feeling not unlike that
which Brutus and Cassius must have had towards Cæsar.
I could destroy his spirit, and yet heartily love him
again." For the most part, the balance seems not to
have inclined to love; and the fact, it is to be feared,
was hardly due to disinterested observation. "Once for
all," he wrote to Körner, "this man, this Goethe, is in
my way; and he often reminds me of the hard manner
in which I have been treated by fate. How lightly was
× his genius borne by his destiny, and how have I been
compelled to struggle even to the present moment!"
Caroline, who intensely admired both pocts, was vexed
(C
IN DRESDEN AND WEIMAR.
Co
10
that they did not understand each other; and she tried
earnestly to modify Schiller's opinion of his rival. This
was the response to her efforts: "If Goethe is really so
very amiable, I shall find it out, no doubt, in that world
where we shall all be angels. Seriously, I am too in-
dolent and too proud to wait upon a man until he un-
folds himself before me. There is a saying which all
men understand; it is, Exercise your powers! Any one
who works with his whole energy cannot be concealed
from others. That is my plan."
When this was written, Schiller had urgent need to
"exercise his powers." He had now a heavy burden of
debt, and in order to deliver himself from some part of
it, as well as to provide his daily bread, he was obliged
to devote himself to many uncongenial tasks. At the
same time, as he had not a profound knowledge of his-
tory, he could not avoid the necessity of preparing for
his approaching lectures by extensive reading. Thus
the days passed in incessant labour and anxiety-with,
however, a gleam of happier possibilities when he re-
ceived his weekly letter from Lotte-until the 11th of
May 1789. On that day he left Weimar, and took
possession of his new abode in Jena.
86
CHAPTER VII.
(C DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS.
THE Don Carlos of history was born in 1545. He was
masterful and wayward, but essentially generous, and
endowed with considerable intellectual gifts. During
boyhood his impulses were subject to no control, his
mother having died at his birth, and his father, Philip
II., being absent in the Netherlands and in England.
On the return of Philip to Madrid in 1559 he soon
alienated the affections of his son by harsh treatment;
and the repugnance which they felt for each other
became so bitter, that in 1567, dreading treachery, Don
Carlos resolved to fly from Spain. This came to the
knowledge of the gloomy king, who immediately caused
him to be arrested, and submitted his case to the inves-
tigation of a mock tribunal. He was reported to be
insane, and a few months afterwards died. His death
was attributed to natural causes; but it is probable
that he was either poisoned or driven by despair to take
his own life.
This strange history was brought to the notice of
Schiller by Dalberg, the director of the Mannheim
theatre, and, like other dramatists who have dealt with
(c
87
DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS.
it, he immediately recognised its fitness for tragedy. At
this time he was still dominated by the temper which
marks his first three dramas, and he was attracted to the
new subject partly by the opportunities which the hor-
rors of the Inquisition would offer for the same kind of
writing. In other respects the drama, as he wrote to
Dalberg, was to be "a family picture in a royal house,
the situation of a father who is the unhappy rival of his
son, of a son who loves without hope and is sacrificed."
The third wife of Philip II. was the Princess Elizabeth,
daughter of Henry II. of France. It had been proposed
that she should become the wife of Don Carlos; and
Schiller drew the tragic motive of his play from the
fiction (invented by St Réal, from whose historical
romance he obtained most of his materials) that the
prince had passionately loved her, and continued to love.
her after her marriage with his father. At an early
stage in the play Don Carlos reveals the energy of his
passion in an interview with the queen in the garden
of her country-house at Aranjuez. This interview is
arranged by his friend, the Marquis Posa, who does not
yet understand the real nature of his feelings. For some
time Posa plays a subordinate part; but he is from the be-
ginning represented as a man of a noble and disinterested
ambition, and through him Don Carlos is inspired with
a longing for a position in which he may be able to
forget his sorrows in the fulfilment of great duties. The
Netherlands are in revolt, and Don Carlos asks to be
sent thither at the head of an army, entreating the king,
in a scene of remarkable power, not to exclude his son
any longer from his affection and confidence. The task
of subduing the Netherlands is intrusted (as in history)
88
SCHILLER.
to Alva, but Philip has been touched by the appeal to his
sympathies, and determines to associate Don Carlos with
him in the government. Meanwhile a page hands to the
prince a letter in which a lady who does not sign her name
declares her love for him, inclosing a key to a certain cab-
inet in the queen's pavilion. He assumes that the queen
is the writer, and immediately all his good resolutions are
abandoned. But the lady whom he finds in the cabinet
is the Princess Eboli, who to her dismay quickly dis-
covers that she has misunderstood him, and that he
loves some one else. She penetrates to his secret, and,
enraged by disappointment and jealousy, arouses the
suspicions of the king. Philip's mood is still further
darkened by his confessor Domingo, and by Alva, both
of whom hate Don Carlos, and unite in suggesting a
doubt as to the queen's honour. Their charges are
fiercely resented; but in reality Philip knows not what
to think or how to act, and he bitterly deplores that he
has not a single counsellor to whom he can look for
help. Glancing through a list of persons who have done
him service, he comes upon the name of the Marquis
Posa, twice underlined; and on inquiry he receives such
enthusiastic reports of Posa's character, that Alva is
directed to bring him without delay to the royal cabinet.
The circumstances of Schiller's life prevented him
from reaching this point in the play for several years;
and during that time a great change had passed over his
modes of thought and feeling. In the first period of
his career, hatred of despotism and convention so pos-
sessed his nature that he was hardly conscious of the
sense of humanity from which it sprang; but in Dres-
den, surrounded by sympathetic friends, the sense of
CC
89
DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS.
humanity became his dominant feeling. This was the
characteristic sentiment of all the noblest minds of the
eighteenth century; and in no mind had it deeper roots
than in that of Schiller. He longed with almost pas-
sionate ardour for the happiness of mankind; and with
this growing feeling he now associated positive convic-
tions respecting the true order of the world. The merely
destructive impulse had spent itself; he thought rather
of the establishment of new forms of society than of
the process by which the old forms were to be removed.
His enthusiasm was, if possible, stronger than before;
but it was an enthusiasm, not for revolution, but for re-
construction. It was too late to make Don Carlos, de-
voured by an unhappy passion, the representative of his
altered mood; accordingly he gave new importance to
the Marquis Posa, who from this time becomes the cen-
tral figure of the tragedy. No thought of his own advan-
tage crosses Posa's mind: he is absorbed by love for his
friend, by love for the world; and he is entranced by
the vision of a fair social life which, as he believes, will
one day emerge from the misapprehensions and confu-
sions by which man is now separated from man, and
nation from nation.
Introduced into the king's cabinet, Posa sets forth the
grievances of the Netherlands, and depicts with fervent
eloquence the glory which Philip might achieve by
granting just institutions. The selfish heart of the old
monarch is for an instant moved, and he makes Posa his
first Minister, intrusting to him the duty of finding out
the truth respecting his wife and his son. Unfortun-
ately the measures adopted by Posa are misunderstood
by Don Carlos, who, fancying that he is being betrayed,
90
SCHILLER.
goes to the Princess Eboli and implores her to permit
him to speak with the queen. Posa interrupts them,
and fears that all is lost. His first impulse is to kill the
Princess Eboli, but as he points his dagger at her breast,
a sudden thought suggests itself-be may, perhaps, be
able to save the prince by sacrificing himself. He writes
a letter addressed to the Prince of Orange, pretending that
he loves the queen, and saying that Don Carlos has
visited the Princess Eboli, evidently with the intention
of putting the king on his guard. He intends, therefore,
he declares, to escape from Madrid and join the rebels.
Posa takes care that this letter shall fall into Philip's
hands. Meanwhile he has made it impossible for Don
Carlos to commit any further indiscretion, by causing
him to be arrested; and having said farewell to the
queen, he visits the prince and narrates what he has
done, showing that he has been impelled not only by
affection, but by the hope that his friend will henceforth
use his powers only for great and unselfish ends. As
they converse, a shot is fired between the bars of the
cell, and Posa falls. The king and his courtiers enter;
and Don Carlos, over Posa's body, tells the story of his
self-sacrifice, and vows eternal enmity to his murderer.
Aroused by Posa's heroism, Don Carlos feels himself
delivered from his passion, devotes himself to the cause
of liberty, and determines to proceed without delay to
the Netherlands. At midnight, however, he contrives
to see the queen, and they are saying a few last words
when the king and the Grand Inquisitor suddenly ap-
pear before them. The queen faints; and Philip, turn-
ing to the Grand Inquisitor, says coldly and calmly,
(C
Cardinal, I have done my duty; do yours."
"DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS.
91
The grand defect of "Don Carlos" is that it lacks
unity of design. Throughout the first part of the play
the interest is centred in the prince; throughout the
remainder, except in the concluding scenes, he is almost
passive, and attention is absorbed by the ideal figure of
the Marquis Posa. The elements of the tragedy are not,
therefore, combined in a coherent scheme, and the total
impression is disturbed and confused. In several
scenes there are strange inconsistencies of feeling and
conduct. Had Don Carlos seen that the letter addressed
to him by the Princess Eboli could not have been writ-
ten by the queen, the action must have taken a wholly
different course. His misapprehension is attributed to
the fact that he does not know the queen's handwriting;
yet soon afterwards it is shown that he had at one time
corresponded with her, and that he always carries one of
her letters in his bosom. Apart, however, from this, the
spectator is shocked by the readiness with which Don
Carlos believes that such a letter can have come from
a lady whose honour and purity are beyond reproach.
The most splendid eloquence fails to withdraw attention
from such faults as these: nevertheless, "Don Carlos "
stands on a much higher level than Schiller's early
dramas. In the first place, it is in verse; and he al-
ready displays an astonishing mastery of the iambic
measure, especially when he uses it for the purpose of
giving voice to lofty thoughts and aspirations. And the
characters are, as a rule, more finely conceived than any
of those we have hitherto met. A deeply pathetic im-
pression is produced by the queen, whose patience and
resignation suggest a world of passionate feeling sup-
pressed by circumstances. The Princess Eboli, too, is a
>>
92
SCHILLER.
lifelike study, equally natural in her love, her jealousy,
her degradation, and her repentance. The world asso-
ciates the name of Alva with so tragic a conflict in real
life, that we dislike to see him, as in "Don Carlos," play
the part of an intriguing courtier; and Domingo and the
Grand Inquisitor are rather caricatures than types of
their class, since it is incredible that even the Inquisition
had no other origin than a coarse thirst for power.
On
the other hand, springs of true feeling are touched in
Lerma, a courtier, who from time to time, at consider-
able risk, warns Don Carlos of his peril. The nature of
the passion which governs Don Carlos prevents him
from becoming an object of complete sympathy until he
rises above it; but the resources of Schiller's art are
grandly displayed in the means by which we are con-
stantly reminded of the worthier impulses that contend
for mastery in the prince's deep and agitated spirit.
The figure, however, which gives an enduring charm to
this great although imperfect drama, is the Marquis
Posa. In him the eighteenth century found the highest
expression of some of its most splendid characteristics,
-its faith in man, its longing for an age in which the in-
dividual shall be free and yet feel bound to his fellows
by the ties of inward charity. The Marquis Posa is a
living proof that, before the French Revolution began,
the battle between the dying and the coming era had
already been virtually fought out. It has been often
objected that there is something unnatural and incredible
in the sudden resolve of Philip to make Posa his first
Minister; and it may be admitted that the real Philip,
hard, narrow, and selfish, would have been incapable of
so romantic a stroke. But, as his character is conceived
(C
93
DON CARLOS," AND SOME LYRICS.
by Schiller, his conduct hardly surprises us. Here he is
not a mere sombre tyrant: he is accessible to emotion;
he feels his loneliness, and craves for the support of a
strong and generous nature. In the ideal world of the
drama, it seems almost a matter of course that a king of
this temper should succumb to Posa's authority; for
Posa has more than simple goodness,—he has the radiance
and the fascination of genius: we feel, in his glowing
words, the stirring of mysterious forces which must
transform the face of society. The devices by which he
attempts to secure the deliverance of Don Carlos are not
happily conceived; but we scarcely observe their forced
and artificial character, so potent is the attraction of the
friendship and humanity which shine through them, and
which at last rob death itself of its terrors. When the
conflict which rages in the breast of Don Carlos is ended
by the triumph of his good genius, we are impressed by
the conviction that it could have had no other issue,
since worthy energies could not but be evoked in one
for whom so great a life had sacrificed itself. Criticism
in vain attempts to obscure this genial creation: it has
never lost its interest for Schiller's countrymen; and for
the young especially, the Marquis Posa shines as the
morning star of German freedom.
During these years Schiller worked occasionally at
another play, which was to bear the title of "The
Misanthrope" ("Der Menschenfeind "). His intention.
apparently was to depict the process by which a man of
soured disposition is reconciled to humanity; but the
subject was not congenial, and the work remained a
fragment. Of more importance than this broken scheme
are the poems produced in Schiller's second period.
94
SCHILLER.
'The
They are few in number, but indicate a remarkable
advance both in range of feeling and in mastery of
poetic diction. The hymn "To Joy" is a record of one
of those moments in which the mind rises above the
limits of ordinary life, and breathes the atmosphere of
à calm and flawless world. At such times Schiller was
always impelled to generalise his emotions; and here,
with overflowing gladness in his own heart, he sees in
joy (as he had formerly seen in friendship) the hidden
spring which moves the powers of the universe.
Gods of Greece" ("Die Götter Griechenlands") was
written in response to a demand for an immediate con-
tribution to Mercury,' but there is no trace of hurry
in its majestic images. It presents a powerful contrast
between the unimaginative conceptions of modern times
and the spirit which led the Greeks to associate the ener-
gies of nature and the incidents of life with figures of
divine beauty. In technical skill, although not in
charm of feeling, this poem is surpassed by "The
Artists" ("Die Künstler"), which was planned and
partly executed in Volkstädt. Schiller here sets forth
in a series of brilliant sketches the part which the arts
have played in the development of man. In expression,
it marks the last stage in the transition from the tumul-
tuous style of his youth to the noble and measured verse
of his mature years.
95
CHAPTER VIII.
IN JENA.
A BRILLIANT reception awaited Schiller in Jena, for, as
author of "The Robbers" and "Don Carlos," he had
precisely the kind of reputation which was likely to appeal
to the imagination of young students. He chose for
the subject of his introductory lecture, "What is uni-
versal history, and for what end is it studied?" As the
hour for the delivery of the lecture approached, the room
became so overcrowded that it was necessary to move to
a hall four times as large; and even this could not con-
tain the multitude of eager youths who pressed to hear
him. In the evening they met before his door, and
played and sang in his honour, afterwards dispersing
with hearty cheers.
Schiller lectured during his first term on ancient
history, from primitive times to the age of Alexander the
Great. Much of the ground being as new to himself as
to his hearers, his lectures cost him a vast amount of
labour; but he was, on the whole, satisfied with his
new circumstances. He wrote to Körner that for the
first time he felt "at home," that he had been kindly
treated by his friends, and that his "humour " was
96
SCHILLER.
"good." Early in August, Körner had occasion to be in
Leipsic with his wife and sister-in-law; and although
the work of the university was still going on, Schiller
resolved to visit them and to bring them back with him
to Jena. He went by Lauchstädt, where Caroline and
Lotte had been for some time; the elder sister, who was
in delicate health, having been advised to try the baths
there. Caroline happened to be alone, and Schiller
seized the opportunity to tell her of his love for Lotte,
and to ask her whether he might hope that it would be
returned. She was able to assure him that he had already
won Lotte's heart, and that she would be proud and happy
to be his wife. Overjoyed, Schiller pursued his journey;
and on the evening of the same day he wrote from Leipsic:
"Is it true, dearest Lotte? May I hope that Caroline has
read your mind, and has responded from your heart to'
the feelings which I had not confidence to confess to
you? Oh, how heavily has the secret weighed on me!
-a secret which I have had to keep ever since we knew
each other. Often, when we lived together, I summoned
all my courage, and came to you with the intention of
revealing it, but always my courage deserted me. I
fancied there was selfishness in my wish; I feared that
I was thinking only of my own happiness, and this
thought drove me back. Confirm what Caroline has
led me to hope. Tell me that you will be mine, and
that my happiness does not cost you any sacrifice."
"Caroline," answered Lotte, "has read my mind, and
has responded from my heart. The thought that I may
be able to contribute to your happiness stands before
me clear and radiant."
A few days afterwards the sisters went to Leipsic with
~—,
IN JENA.
97
a friend; and Schiller hoped that for his sake, as well as
for her own, Lotte would become dear to Körner. But
to his surprise and vexation, she was received rather
coldly. Schiller had maintained absolute silence about
his love, and this was resented by Körner, who regarded
it as a sign of a strange want of confidence. The mis-
understanding lasted for some months, and it seemed
not impossible, from the increasing restraint in the tone
of their letters, that they would gradually drift away
from each other; but this misfortune was happily pre-
vented. A few frank words on either side ultimately
brought them together, and there was never again the
slightest interruption to the free flow of their affection.
Schiller resumed his life in Jena with fresh hope:
his work, his companionships, his plans, all were now
seen in new lights. "I have just returned from a walk,”
he wrote in one of his letters. "In the great free space
of nature, as in my solitary room, it is always the same
ether in which I move, and the most beautiful landscape
is only a mirror of the ever-abiding figure. Never have.
I felt so strongly how freely our minds play with nature,
how little it gives us of itself, and how much it receives
from our feeling. How often have I seen the sun set,
and how often has my fancy lent it speech and soul!
But never, never as now, have I read my love in it." On
one occasion he interrupted himself in the preparation
of a lecture to write to the sisters that he was made
happy by the illusion that they were beside him.
"When a Mohammedan prays," he added, "he turns his
face towards Mecca. I think I must set up a desk in
which I may turn mine towards Rudolstadt, for my
religion and my prophet are there!"
1
F.C.-XV.
Ꮐ
98
SCHILLER.
The vacation Schiller spent in Volkstädt, where he
occupied his old rooms; and every day he had the pleas-
ure of seeing Lotte and her sister. As a rule, however,
he could visit them only in the afternoon, for Frau von
Lengefeld now lived in the palace, having been made
governess of the children of the hereditary Prince of
Rudolstadt, and her daughters generally spent the even-
ing with her. Schiller was buoyed up by the anticipa-
tion that, during the approaching term, he would be able
greatly to increase his income by private lectures; but
he was soon undeceived. Only a small class was formed,
and half of the students did not pay their fees, so that
60 thalers represented the whole of his gain for what
would be a hard winter's work. Marriage, therefore,
seemed to be far off, unless he could devise some new
means of overcoming his difficulties. After thinking
of various expedients, he at last resolved to apply to
the Duke of Weimar for a fixed salary. The Duke
asked Schiller to come to him, expressed his regret that
he could not make a generous response, but offered to
let him have 200 thalers a-year. This was miserable
enough pay, even at that time, for such work as Schil-
ler's; but with the money he might make by writing,
and with Lotte's small fortune, he hoped that it might
be adequate. As Lotte took his own sanguine view,
there seemed to be no further reason for delay; and
on the 18th of February 1790 he went to fetch his
bride from Erfurt, where she and Caroline were visiting
a friend. On the 22d the marriage was quietly cele-
brated in a small church in Wenigenjena, a village near
Jena.
"What a beautiful life I lead now!" wrote Schiller
IN JENA.
RAL LIBRARY
University of
MICHIGAN
gr

to Körner a week afterwards. "I look around me joy-
fully, and my heart finds outside of itself an enduring
source of soft contentment." About the same time
Lotte wrote to her cousin, Wilhelm von Wolzogen: "I
never imagined there was so much happiness in the
world as I now feel. In loving Schiller I am bound to
him by a thousand ties; no one else could have given
me what I have in him; and he, too, is happy, as my
heart tells me. Dear Wilhelm, who could have thought
that all this would happen when you brought my Schiller
to me for the first time? Thanks to you! Thanks, also,
to destiny, which gave me my happiness through you!"
Nothing occurred to disturb their peace during this
year; and Schiller began with confidence a new work,
his "History of the Thirty Years' War." It was in-
tended for 'The Calendar,' a periodical issued by Göschen,
who offered him unusually high terms. All day, when
not engaged at the university, he laboured at this book;
and before midsummer he had fought his way through
the preliminary difficulties, and brought the narrative.
down to the career of Gustavus Adolphus. This part
was immediately published, and even the critical Körner,
who had not hitherto ranked Schiller very highly as a
historian, praised it enthusiastically.
Schiller was now near a long series of fiery trials, in
which the temper of his spirit was to be more severely
tested than in the worst hardships to which he had been
hitherto exposed. At the close of 1790 he and his wife
went for a short holiday to Erfurt; and one evening,
after returning from a concert, he was attacked by a
feverish cold. For several days he was confined to his
room; but, believing that he had quite recovered, he
UorM
100
SCHILLER.
soon returned to Jena, leaving Lotte to spend some time
in Weimar. Two days after his arrival he was again
ill, this time much more dangerously; and Lotte had to
hasten home. He spat blood, and in frequently recur-
ring spasms had so much difficulty in breathing, that
the bursting of a blood-vessel in the lungs seemed to
be almost inevitable. Day and night he had to be
carefully nursed; and he became so weak that the
slightest movement made him faint. By-and-by he
recovered slightly, and in spring he hoped that he was
rapidly advancing towards perfect health; but in May
1791 he was struck down by a still more terrible attack,
and his life was repeatedly despaired of. He lost his
voice, and could make his wishes known only by writing
with a feeble and trembling hand.
His health had never been very good, and it had been
prematurely injured by the harsh conditions of his early
manhood. From this time forward he was always more or
less an invalid, forced to be constantly on his guard, and
often apparently approaching his last hour. It was now
that the splendid elements of Schiller's character fully
disclosed themselves. However much he suffered, a harsh
or impatient word never crossed his lips, and a noble
resignation became his permanent mood. His fire and
enthusiasm were unquenched; but he became in manner
more tender, gentle, and sympathetic. To his passion
for heroic greatness he added a fine appreciation for those
sweet and gracious qualities which give an enduring
charm to the ordinary intercourse of life. His faults had
never been of a mean or petty character; but henceforth
he would have been incapable even of the slight touch
of jealousy with which he had contemplated for a time
IN JENA.
101
the genius and good fortune of Goethe. Small and un-
worthy feelings seemed to have no mode of access to
that generous mind; he moved in a sphere too high and
pure for ignoble rivalries or base suspicions; and even
narrow natures expanded in the light and warmth of his
presence.
In July 1791 he was able to go with his wife and sister-
in-law to Carlsbad. As he was already meditating "Wal-
lenstein," he gladly took the opportunity of visiting
Eger, where he saw the Rathhaus, with Wallenstein's
portrait, and the room in which he was murdered. He
was also pleased to obtain some idea of military manners
by making the acquaintance of several Austrian officers.
A portrait of him, sketched while he was at Carlsbad,
gives a vivid impression of his appearance at this time.
He is seated upon an ass, his right hand touching the
bridle, while with the left he holds the long pipe which
he is quietly smoking. He wears an immense hat,
broader than the broadest of "wideawakes;" and his
boots, the straps of which, at the top, are unfastened,
reach nearly to his knees. His form is meagre; and his
bent shoulders, over which his long hair flows, betoken
lamentable weakness. There is something childlike in
the expression of his delicate features, yet there is a sug-
gestion of much past suffering in their look of patience,
kindness, and calm.
Late in autumn they were again in Jena, and he felt
well enough to translate the second and the fourth books.
of the "Æneid." During this period of illness his re-
covery was retarded by renewed anxiety as to his circum-
stances,-for, as his resources diminished, his expenses
increased. Before the close of 1791, however, he was
102
SCHILLER.
1
delivered, by a sudden stroke, from all his perplexities,
and enabled to face the future with a quiet and contented
mind. In the previous year, the Danish writer, Jens
Baggesen, had made his acquaintance, and had been
attracted to him by an almost magical power. Never
did a poet win more ardent love than that which Bag-
gesen lavished on Schiller. Having returned to his
own country, he talked incessantly of his hero to the
hereditary Prince of Augustenburg and the Minister,
Count von Schimmelmann; and they soon shared his
enthusiasm. By-and-by Baggesen received an accurate
account of Schiller's ill health and of his poverty,
and he immediately submitted it to his powerful
friends. To their eternal honour, they decided to
give the poet an effective proof of their sympathy; and
on the 13th of December 1791, he received from them a
letter, conceived in a tone worthy of his own ideal spirit,
informing him that 3000 thalers were at his service, to
be paid to him by annual instalments of 1000 thalers.
If a god had appeared before Schiller, he could hardly
have been more surprised. For the first time he was
now a free man. The load of debt which had so long
crushed him to the earth might be rolled away; he could
give himself time to recover his physical energies; and,
as he wrote to Körner, it would be in his power "to
work for immortality." The gift was offered in a way
which, to a man of Schiller's temper, made the sense
of obligation a pleasure; and he poured forth his grat-
itude in terms which must have caused his benefactors
to feel that an act of kindness had never been more
magnificently rewarded.
The year 1792 opened with bright hopes, and during
IN JENA.
103
1
its course he was to be cheered by several pleasant in-
cidents. In April he and his wife visited the Körners
in Dresden, and he had the satisfaction of seeing that
they at last did justice to Lotte's loyal, affectionate, and
poetic spirit. Later on he was delighted by a visit from
his mother and his youngest sister Nanette. Of his
mother, he wrote to Körner that she had, indeed,
changed during the previous ten years, but that, not-
withstanding the illnesses through which she had passed,
she had the appearance of good health.
"It rejoices
me," he added, "that this is so, and that I have her
near me and can make her happy." Nanette, who was
about fifteen years of age, he described as "still a child
of nature." She was a beautiful girl, gentle and un-
assuming, very thoughtful, and regarding her brother
with boundless admiration. She had not only studied
his works, but ardently desired to represent on the stage
those of his creations which touched her heart; and she
read his poems with so much feeling and expression, that
he was inclined to encourage her ambition. But the
destiny of this lovely nature, with its flower-like grace
and purity, was to fade and pass away in early youth.
In September Schiller was able to inform Körner that
he had despatched the last sheets of his "History of the
Thirty Years' War." "Now," he wrote, "I am free, and
will remain free for ever. No more work that another
imposes upon me, or that has not its origin in sympathy
and inclination!" His labours as a historian were thus
virtually finished, and he closed them mainly because
his mind was occupied by studies in which he was far
more deeply interested.
Germany had now fairly entered upon the great period
104
SCHILLER.
of her literature; and one of the deepest currents in the
intellectual movement of the age was that which related
to the ultimate problems of philosophy. An entirely
new direction had been given to speculative thought by
Kant, whose 'Critique of Pure Reason,' by the way,
happened to be published in the same year as "The
Robbers "the year, too, of Lessing's death. Kant's
bold and inspiring doctrines stirred quite as deep an
interest as is stirred in our own time by the theory of
evolution. Even Goethe, who hated metaphysics, was
occasionally swept into the stream; and men who had
an impulse towards philosophy, fancied that an intellec-
tual evangel had been proclaimed, which would soon
revolutionise the world.
Schiller was of too open and alert an intelligence not
to be quickly influenced by ideas which were everywhere
in the air. As we have seen, he had been brought into
some contact with Kant's principles by Körner, who was
one of the philosopher's earliest and most enthusiastic
adherents. In Jena he could not, if he would, have
been altogether indifferent to the new teaching; for Jena
was one of the great centres of contemporary thought;
and Reinhold, a leading professor of the university, and
Schiller's friend, devoted his lite to the exposition of the
critical philosophy. For some time, however, Schiller
was too much absorbed by his special pursuits to attack
so formidable a subject with all his strength: not till he
began to recover from his first illness in the spring of
1791 did he find leisure to turn to it with a determination
to master it. He then studied 'The Critique of Judgment,'
and for several years afterwards his mind was penetrated
by the critical philosophy in one or other of its aspects.
IN JENA.
105
It was not by accident that Schiller began with 'The
Critique of Judgment.' He was one of those poets who
cannot help reflecting on the impression produced by
their work, and on the laws of the poetic faculty. For
many years—ever since he had been a pupil in Professor
Abel's class-the subject had attracted him from time to
time; and he had extended his inquiries over the whole
field of æsthetic philosophy. Naturally, therefore, he
applied himself first to the work in which Kant was
on ground more or less familiar to him; and to the
end the critical philosophy interested him most of all
in its relation to the principles of æsthetics. He in-
tended to embody his ideas on art in a dialogue with
the title "Callias; or, Concerning Beauty" ("Kallias;
oder, über die Schönheit"); and we may well regret
that he did not execute a scheme which would have
given scope both for fancy and for reason. Instead of
"Callias " he wrote his letters "Concerning the Æsthetic
Education of Man" ("Ueber die ästhetische Erziehung
des Menschen"). These letters he addressed, as a mark
of gratitude, to the Prince of Augustenburg.
Until 1790 he had continued to issue 'Thalia' at
irregular intervals, finding it a useful medium for the
publication of various writings, mainly historical, which
he did not deem worthy of an independent existence.
Twelve numbers had appeared. In 1792 he projected.
another periodical of a similar kind, 'The New Thalia '
('Die Neue Thalia '), of which two volumes were to be
issued annually, each volume including six numbers.
In about two years this miscellany also died; but it
contained much good work, of which the best related
to what were now Schiller's favourite studies.
106
SCHILLER.
In November 1792 Schiller ventured to return to his
professorial work; but now he chose as the subject of
his private prelections, not history, but æsthetic philo-
sophy. As his class was well attended, and most of the
students paid their fees—a louis-d'or each
a louis-d'or each-he would
have been well satisfied if his health had been tolerable.
But it was sadly broken, and in the spring of 1793
he was overtaken by one of his spasms in the midst
of a lecture. The course was stopped, and he withdrew
with his wife to a country-house near Jena.
His re-
covery, however, being slow, he resolved to try whether
he might not profit by his native air-a decision to
which in any case he was inclined in consequence of
his parting promise to his mother.
Schiller's was not one of those natures which delight
in recalling the scenes and experiences of youth. His
sanguine and aspiring temperament led him rather to
dwell on the future, and to regard the past and the
present as but necessary stages in his progress towards
a more glorious goal. Hence he does not seem to have
been much excited by the prospect of revisiting his early
home, or to have occupied himself in contrasting "then"
and "now." Early in August 1793 he and his wife
started on their journey in a carriage bought for the
occasion, making in the first instance for Heilbronn.
Here they were joined by Caroline, who happened to
be staying in Würtemberg, and by Schiller's sister,
Louise, who for the time kept house for them. Their
original purpose was to make Heilbronn their head-
quarters; but in about a month they moved to Ludwigs-
burg, and afterwards they took up their abode in Stutt-
gart, which they liked better than either of the two other
IN JENA.
107
towns. At Ludwigsburg a great event happened-the
birth of their first child, a son. Schiller was precisely
the man to feel all the charm and joy of this new ex-
perience. His first-born opened in his heart a deep foun-
tain of tenderness, and in his grand manner he instantly
began to form large schemes for the child's education.
The budding possibilities of this new life would be
evolved, he determined, in accordance with the prin-
ciples of Quintilian, whom he happened to be at that
time studying.
The elder Schiller was now in his seventieth year, but
his life had been so temperate and active that he hardly
seemed to be sixty. Keenly vexed and irritated the old
man had been by his son's wayward course; but now
that Friedrich had returned to him a professor, a famous
man, and the friend of famous men, he forgot past
errors, and was even ready to confess that the youth
who had seemed so foolish had perhaps best understood
the career for which he was adapted. Schiller was a
Hofrath, too, having received this title before his mar-
riage from the Duke of Meiningen; and the distinction
was one which flattered some of his father's most cher-
ished prejudices. Altogether, there had probably never
been between father and son such free and affectionate
communion of spirit as they now enjoyed. Schiller's
mother had always understood him rightly, and her
happiness in his society was without check in presence.
of the softened humour of her rugged old husband.
While Schiller was in Würtemberg, his old patron and
oppressor, the Duke, died. Schiller had written to him,
but had received no answer. According to Von Hoven,
Schiller visited his grave, and spoke tenderly of one who
108
SCHILLER.
had been so prominent a figure in his history; but there
is no trace of kindness in the letter in which he spoke of
the event to Körner. "The death of the old Herod,"
he wrote, "has no influence either upon me or upon my
family, except that it is well for all who, like my father,
stand in direct relation with the sovereign, to have to
deal with a man.
That the new Duke is in every good,
!
and in every bad, sense of the word."
Schiller continued to meditate deeply on the questions
which had engaged his thoughts before he left home, and
wrote several of the letters on "Esthetic Education."
He had, however, many dark and troubled hours, for
his native air proved to have less reviving power than
he had expected. Frequent attacks of his old malady
laid him low, some of them being so severe that the
onlookers often expected to see him suffocated in one of
his paroxysms.
"Heaven grant," he wrote to Körner,
"that my patience may not give way, and that a life
which is so often interrupted by a true death may still
have some value for me!" But in the end he benefited
considerably by his visit; and when, in the middle of
May 1794, he found himself once more in Jena, he was
able to hope that he might still achieve the aims to
which his energies were henceforth to be dedicated.
Since Schiller went to Weimar in search of better
fortunes, the civilised world had been shaken to its centre
by the French Revolution. At first he did not follow
its events closely, for, as he wrote to Wilhelm von Wol-
zogen, who was in Paris, he felt that his capacity for the
judgment of public affairs "had not been exercised, had
not been developed." As the convulsion became more
terrible, however, he watched its progress with growing
IN JENA.
109
interest; and to a slight extent he himself was brought
into personal relation with it, the National Assembly
having selected him as one of those foreign writers who
were considered worthy of the honour of French citizen-
ship.¹ For some time the party of change had his full
sympathy, but he was alarmed and horrified by the ex-
cesses of the Convention. He even began to write a
defence of Louis XVI., and was not without hope that
the voice of a disinterested spectator would have some
effect on French opinion. Before he had finished his
defence the king was executed. "For fourteen days,"
he wrote to Körner, after he had been startled, like all
the world, by this event, "I have been unable to look at
a newspaper these butchers disgust me so!"
The Reign of Terror confirmed Schiller in his bit-
ter repugnance; and in his later writings he uttered
frequent warnings against revolutionary methods. He
had no sympathy, however, with those whom fear of
revolution drove into reaction. He had long held,
and continued to the end to hold, that laws should
originate in the will of the people by whom they are
to be obeyed; and to this he added the vital doctrine
(about which he was even more in earnest) that,
whatever may be the source of authority, the natural
impulses of mankind should be subjected only to such
1 Schiller was known in France by a translation, or "adapta-
tion," of "The Robbers;" but the notions about him beyond the
Rhine must have been vague, for the proceedings relating to the
honour conferred on him were thus reported in the 'Moniteur:'“Un
membre demande que le Sieur Gille, publiciste allemand, soit compris
dans la liste de ceux à qui l'Assemblée vient d'accorder le titre de
citoyen Français: cette demande est adoptée." The diploma, coun-
tersigned by Danton, and accompanied by a letter from Roland, did
not reach Schiller for five years.
110
SCHILLER.
restraint as is demanded by the general welfare. Half of
the difficulties in the world sprang, he thought, from the
incessant intermeddling of Governments with the relations
between man and man. To him, as to most of the great
thinkers of the eighteenth century, the individual was
far more sacred than the State; and the State, in his
opinion, performed its part most wisely by confining its
functions within the strictest possible limits. Modern
Socialists contend that this view might be defensible if
all men started in life with equal capacities and equal
opportunities, but that in the existing condition of the
world the State is the only power by which the weak
can be delivered from the oppression of the strong. To
this Schiller would have replied that the true remedy
for the inequalities of fortune is to be found, not in
external control, but in the growth of a spirit of human-
ity and self-sacrifice. And he had always an ardent
faith that, if men were but let alone, such a spirit would
more and more dominate their conduct. There was not
the faintest approach to the pessimistic creed in his
estimate of the influences which, in the last resort, move
mankind; he judged others in the light of his own sym-
pathies, and was, moreover, sustained by the belief that
unseen powers determine the progress of the world, and
are gradually directing it towards worthy ends.
Before the French Revolution there was hardly any
sentiment which Schiller held in such light esteem as
patriotism. "We moderns," he wrote to Körner in
1788, "have within our reach a kind of interest which
was unknown to the Greeks and the Romans, and wit}
which the interest of patriotism cannot be for a moment
compared. The latter is important only for immature
IN JENA.
111
nations, for the youth of the world." In the hour of
Germany's humiliation he modified this hasty judgment.
Then he began to take pride in the German name, and to
prophesy that the time would come when "the slowest
people in Europe would overtake the most swift." "The
German," he wrote, "has been unfortunate in war; but
that in which his worth consists he has not lost. The
German empire and the German nation are two very dif-
erent things."
112
CHAPTER IX.
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
THE greater number of Schiller's prose works were pro-
duced in the interval between his departure from Mann-
heim in 1785 and his return from Würtemberg to Jena
in 1794. A few were written afterwards, but even they
express ideas which were the result of thought and re-
search during this period. As a prose writer he takes
high rank in German literature, for he left hardly any
of his subjects in the exact position in which he found
them. His style has not the grace and simplicity of
which Goethe was so perfect a master; nor has it the
vivid, almost dramatic force of Lessing's manner.
It
is the style of an orator, free, flowing, too rhetorical
sometimes, but quite as often stately, and even majestic.
He seldom aims at delicate effects; he prefers to group
his facts and ideas in masses, and to produce broad,
general impressions. The full energy of his best pas-
sages can be realised only when they are read aloud;
and this is perhaps as true of his verse as of his prose.
His prose writings include, among other essays in
criticism, a review of Goethe's "Egmont," a paper on
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
113
"Don
Bürger's poems, and a series of letters on his own
Carlos." These essays, although presenting a very in-
adequate estimate of the works with which they deal,
throw much light on Schiller's conception of the aims
and laws of poetry. A work of a different class, "The
Philosophical Letters," possesses a stronger interest, be-
cause of the hints it affords regarding the religious
opinions with which Schiller satisfied himself in early
manhood. The correspondence is supposed to pass be-
tween two friends, Julius and Raphael, who love each
other with a fervour which was more characteristic of
friendship in ancient times than in the conventional
modern world. One of the letters contains a confession
of faith, in which the writer expresses a doctrine that
verges closely on pantheism.
The only prose tale of any importance written by
Schiller is "The Visionary," which he never completed.
The hero is a prince, the heir to a German throne; and
when the story opens, he has been for some time living
in retirement in Venice. He belongs to the Lutheran
Church, but, although given to quiet meditation, he has
never subjected his faith to rigid scrutiny; and he has
a decided leaning towards superstition. To this prince,
for the sake of the position he will inherit, certain
Catholic leaders direct their attention; and the object of
the tale is to unfold the means by which he is at last
driven to seek for refuge from intolerable difficulties in
the bosom of the Roman Church. The plot is extrava-
gant and fantastic; but in style the story is admirable,
flowing on without interruption in a broad, limpid
stream; and there are passages of almost fascinating
interest. Such are some of the scenes in which the
F.C. XV.
H
Dorm
114
SCHILLER.
prince appears to be caught in the meshes of preter-
natural intrigue, and all of those which relate to his
love for the woman who first touches his ideal. When
"The Visionary" appeared in 'Thalia,' it contained a
long philosophical conversation (afterwards much short-
ened), which is also of some value, for it sets forth
many of the conclusions at which Schiller arrived
after the period represented by "The Philosophical
Letters." The leading idea is, that man, alone of
beings known to us, has the power of merging his
individual impulses in the life of his species; that in
proportion as he exercises this power he is noble and
happy, while in proportion as he neglects the life of his
species, and thinks only of his personal pleasures, he
allies himself to the lower animals and becomes common
and wretched. For conceptions of this nature Schiller
appears to have been partly indebted to Moritz, a sug-
gestive writer with whom he was personally acquainted ;
and, to a certain extent, they connect themselves more
easily than some of his later speculations with the dis-
tinctive thought of the nineteenth century.
Had Schiller not been a great poet, it is improbable
that his historical writings would have survived: it is,
however, generally acknowledged that they have sterling
merits. In the eighteenth century Germany could boast
of few historians, a fact which Lessing explained by
pointing out that German men of letters would not
study, while scholars could not write well. A deeper
reason, perhaps, was, that the absence of political life in
Germany prevented even intelligent men from taking
much interest in the progress of events, either in their
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
115
*
own or in past times. Schiller was among the earliest
German writers who attempted to make ordinary readers
feel the charm of history, and his endeavours were at-
tended by considerable success. His historical works
do not embody the results of profound investigation;
but he honestly consulted the most important author-
ities, and always knew how to make his narrative in-
telligible. His studies exercised a decisive influence
on his later and more important labours, for they not
only led him to choose historical subjects for dramatic
treatment, but provided him with materials on which
his imagination could work freely.
His account of the revolt of the Netherlands ('Ge-
schichte des Abfalls der vereinigten Niederlande von der
Spanischen Regierung') was the first, and it is in some
respects the best, of his histories. He had only recently.
finished "Don Carlos," and his mind was still filled with
the ideas and sentiments for which he had created so
brilliant a representative in the Marquis Posa. He un-
dertook, therefore, with enthusiasm to trace the progress
of a great conflict for liberty; and his enthusiasm gave
warmth and animation to his style. The larger portion
of the book he wrote in Volkstädt, generally reading in
the evening to his friends in Rudolstadt the passages
which he had completed in the course of the day; and
this, no doubt, helped to sustain the interest with which
he entered upon his task. Unfortunately he did not
carry the history beyond the arrival of Alva in the
Netherlands, when the prospects of freedom appeared
to be darkest; but the period within which he confines
himself is capable of being represented as a whole, and
he moves over the ground with the firm step of one who
116
SCHILLER.
knows it intimately. Here Philip II. appears in his
true colours as a dark, narrow, and ruthless egoist, in
whose nature religion itself becomes stern and cruel.
William of Orange may almost be called the hero of the
work; and perhaps no other historian, within the same
limits, has presented so vivid a picture of his reserved
and powerful character, and of the sources of his influ-
ence over less original minds. Scarcely less effective
is Schiller's description of the gay, courageous, and fas-
cinating Egmont. While he gives due prominence to
these and other actors in the mighty drama, he does
not lose sight of the historical tendencies which were
behind individual conduct; and he secures breadth for
his narrative by connecting it with the general stream
of progress.
Schiller was attracted to the Thirty Years' War by
essentially the same elements as those which interested
him in the revolt of the Netherlands. With the
creed of the Protestants of the seventeenth century he
had as little sympathy as with that of their opponents;
but they were fighting for spiritual freedom, and this
was the cause which of all others appealed to Schiller
most powerfully. In his history, however ('Geschichte
des Dreissigjährigen Krieges'), he was able to follow
the course of events more calmly than in his previous
work; so that, if the colours of his picture are less
bright, its outlines are traced with a surer hand. As
the periodical in which the history appeared was to be
stopped, Schiller was compelled to hurry over the later
portion of his subject; but this is not much to be
regretted, as he found little to interest him in periods
which were not dominated by great minds. Since his
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
117
time new light has been thrown on every stage of the
Thirty Years' War, especially on the Catholic reaction.
which produced, and was in turn modified by, Ferdi-
nand II. It is still, however, possible to read with
pleasure Schiller's broad sketches of the state of Europe
at the time of the war; and his description of the
heroic career of Gustavus Adolphus is too full of life
and sympathy ever to lose its interest. There is also
remarkable insight in his study of the moody and way-
ward Wallenstein. Schiller pauses less frequently than
in his work on the Netherlands to analyse character, but
he is at more pains to bring out in action the qualities
of the leading figures.
While in Weimar, Schiller began to issue a series of
"Memoirs," and to these he contributed introductory
essays, some of which he regarded as his masterpieces in
this kind. None of them, however, have more original
force than the lecture with which he opened his career
as a professor. Here he emphasises the fact that, besides
the history of individual countries and movements, there
is a wider and more philosophical study-"universal
history." This lecture excited the enthusiasm of his
students by the largeness of its doctrines and the ani-
mating hopefulness of its tone; and it is one of the land-
marks which indicate the utmost verge of speculation
on its subject, before the philosophy of history received
a new impetus from the science of language, political
economy, and the general principles of evolution.
Schiller found sincere pleasure in historical studies,
but he was not sorry to give them up in favour of philo-
sophical speculation; for there were multitudes of ques-
118
SCHILLER.
tions about which he had reflected since early youth
without arriving at any final decision, and respecting
which it seemed possible to obtain new light through
the critical philosophy. In all his reasonings he started
from Kant, but his intellect was too vigorous and inde-
pendent to satisfy itself with mere acquiescence in the
conclusions of a master. Every great subject with which
philosophy concerns itself he thought out for himself,
deriving aid from other writers as well as from Kant-
mainly, perhaps, from Lessing, Herder, and Fichte.
The tendency of the philosophy of the age was to
present an exalted conception of human greatness. To
Kant, Space and Time were but forms of sense, while the
universe, according to his system, could not enter con-
sciousness except by adapting itself to the categories of
the understanding. Fichte, advancing further, found
that the phenomenal world was the free creation of the
individual mind working in accordance with its own
laws. Schiller shared to the utmost this tendency, which
harmonised with all his modes of thought and with all
the peculiarities of his character. He, too, gave the
facts of existence a purely ideal interpretation; and in
that individuality, in whose depths were such vast ener-
gies, he saw a power too great and too sacred to be sub-
jected to arbitrary external control. No one, however,
could have a stronger faith in the moral order which is
above the individual will; and he recognised as an essen-
tial element of human consciousness those fears, hopes,
and aspirations which are appealed to by the various
forms of religious belief and feeling.
These characteristics find more or less distinct ex-
pression in his poetry; but in his philosophical writings.
SCIIILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
119
he limits himself to the discussion of the aesthetic emo-
tions, their origin, their laws, and their effect on human
life, with an occasional reference to matters bearing on
ethics. A complete system of æsthetics he did not ex-
pound, nor perhaps did he ever find a perfectly satisfac-
tory solution of the problems which interested him; but
his essays contain many suggestive hints, and they have.
exercised considerable influence on later German thought.
Among the most attractive of his papers on subjects of
this class is an essay on "Grace and Dignity" ("Ueber
die Anmuth und Würde "), published in 'New Thalia'
in 1793. Kant had represented Duty as a stern mistress,
confronting man with a threatening aspect, and demand-
ing that he shall submit to her decrees with a conscious
acknowledgment of her authority. In this paper Schil-
ler admits the validity of Kant's conception in certain
stages of human development, but insists that there is a
still higher conception-that, namely, of a nature which
conforms to the law of reason without effort; a nature
in which duty has become instinct, and which has a con-
sciousness of joy and freedom only in worthy action. In
such a nature-"the beautiful soul"-there is no dis-
cord; every element of humanity, the sensuous and the
spiritual, receiving the satisfaction which accords with
the scheme of the whole. Grace, or beautiful movement,
Schiller regards as the manifestation of this harmonious
working of human powers. But man's will is liable to
be attacked by stormy passions, the force of which he
cannot but feel. Dignity is defined by Schiller as the
expression of the power by which man rises and asserts
his freedom against these passions, driving them back
within the limits prescribed by reason. If grace and
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SCHILLER.
dignity at their highest stage could be united in one
person—the former supported by beauty of structure, the
latter by force-we should have the ideal of the human
form. (C
According to this ideal of beauty the ancient
marbles were formed, and we may recognise it in the
divine form of a Niobe, in the Apollo Belvedere, in the
winged genius of the Borghese, and in the Muse of the
Barberini Palace." Schiller concludes his essay by some
fine and interesting suggestions as to the part which
may be properly played in the intercourse of life by
grace and dignity, now one, now the other, being pre-
dominant, or both acting together in unison.
I
A more elaborate work is the series of letters "Con-
cerning the Esthetic Education of Man" ("Ueber die
ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen"). These letters,
published in 1794-95, were partly written after Schiller's
return from Würtemberg. There are twenty-seven of
them, and they appeared in three instalments, the first
consisting of nine letters, the second of seven, the third
of eleven. In style the work is as near perfection as
anything Schiller ever wrote, the first nine letters being
especially remarkable for that union of grace and dignity
which he so much admired in human expression. He
starts with a reference to what he conceives to be the
central effort of modern times: it is, he thinks, the
effort to transform the State from the mere condition of
nature to a condition in which it will accord with reason.
He expresses complete sympathy with this aim, but
points to the vast obstacles which stand in the way,-
obstacles arising partly from the fact that the mass of
the humbler classes are materialised, while the higher
classes manifest a refined egoism, governing conduct
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
121
only by conventional rules. Besides, the modern man
has almost lost the idea of that free and harmonious play
of all his powers which characterised Greek life. Each
has his special work, and only in rare cases does any
one think of going beyond the limits of his customary
activity. By this minute division and subdivision of
labour, humanity may have been enriched, but the indi-
vidual has been impoverished. By what force, then,
can it be hoped that a reasonable form of society will
be evolved? It is useless to appeal to the State, since
the State is partly responsible for existing evils; and
it can itself become worthy only through an enlight-
ened community. Schiller concludes the first section
of his argument by stating his belief that the power
which will be most effective in leading man to the
life to which he aspires is Art. In the second part he
tries to prove his position by indicating the essential
nature of beauty. In man he finds two fundamental
elements, the sensuous and the spiritual. But there is
a third impulse-the impulse towards play; and Schil-
ler boldly maintains that man is man in the fullest sense
only when he plays. The Greeks, he says, understood
this, and hence they banished from the face of their
gods every trace of care and labour. In this impulse
towards play art has its root, and in order to satisfy its
demands the artist must combine both sense and spirit,
giving to each the place which is its due in the order
of its importance. Art, therefore, touches the whole.
being of man; and it is because it does so that we may
look to it to help the world to higher forms of social and
individual life. In the last part Schiller gives fuller ex-
pression to the idea that the tendency of true art is to
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SCHILLER.
make us conscious, not only of this or that capacity, but
of all our energies. "If we have given ourselves," he
says, "to the enjoyment of genuine beauty, we are at
such a moment masters both of our passive and of
our active powers, and we shall be able to turn with
equal ease to work or play, to rest or movement, to sub-
mission or resistance, to observation or abstract thought."
In order that our mood may be made as general as pos-
sible, each art, while retaining its peculiarities, ought to
borrow as much as its conditions permit from the sister
arts. "Music in its highest perfection must become
form, and affect us with the calm power of the antique;
plastic art must become music, and move us by imme-
diate sensuous impression; poetry must lay hold of us
powerfully like music, but at the same time encompass
us, like plastic art, with calm clearness." Moreover,
each art ought as far as possible to escape from the
limits imposed upon it by the material with which it
works. "In a truly beautiful work of art matter is
nothing, form everything, for through form alone the
whole nature of man is affected, through matter only
particular powers. Matter, however sublime and widely
comprehensive it may be, has a narrowing influence on
the mind, and from form alone true artistic freedom is
to be expected." Towards the conclusion of the work,
returning in part to the ideas of his essay on "Grace and
Dignity," he develops the doctrine that beauty ought not
to be confined to works of art, but should be made the
animating principle of the whole of human life. Thus
both the sensuous and the spiritual would receive their
rights, and "taste would bring harmony into society,
because it would create harmony in the individual." As
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
123
yet, however, society ruled by beauty is to be found,
"like the pure Church and the pure republic,” only “in
a few select circles, where man guides his conduct, not by
mindless imitation of foreign manners, but in accordance
with his own beautiful nature; where he walks through
the most confused relations with bold simplicity and
calm innocence, and needs neither to limit the freedom
of others in order to maintain his own, nor to cast aside
his dignity in order to manifest his grace."
One of the most important of Schiller's prose writings
is his treatise "On Naïve and Sentimental Poetry >> 1
("Ueber die Naive und Sentimentalische Dichtung "),
published in 1795-96,-like the "Esthetic Letters," in
three instalments. This work is a remarkable example
of Schiller's power of placing in fresh lights every sub-
ject in which he interested himself: it is full of ideas
which were then new, and at the same time suggests
that the writer has only half revealed the wealth of his
thought. He remarks on the passionate interest with
which modern minds view the spectacle of nature, and
points out that there is no trace of this feeling in Greek
literature. Whence this contrast? Schiller finds the
explanation in the fact that, in modern times, life has
been so completely divorced from nature that the physical
world charms us by reminding us of our lost truth and
simplicity. In like manner we are moved by every mani-
festation of natural impulse, whether in children or in
persons of mature years who retain a childlike heart;
and so we arrive at the conception of the "naïve," which
F
1 The words "naïve" and "sentimental" are rather unfortunate,
but there seem to be no precise equivalents in English for the
terms used by Schiller.
124
SCHILLER.
Schiller defines as (C
nature standing in contrast with art
and putting it to shame." The naïve poet is one who
is himself so perfectly in harmony with nature that
he accepts the world as it is, and who in his poetry
reproduces the facts of life with absolute fidelity, not
mingling with his representation any element from his
own feeling. "The object completely possesses him;
his heart does not lie, like a bad metal, immediately
under the surface, but must, like gold, be sought for
in the depths. As the divinity behind the world,
so the naïve poet stands behind his work; he and
his work are one." As the greatest of naïve poets,
Homer and Shakespeare are mentioned; and it is here
that Schiller refers to the difficulty which he experi-
enced in youth in appreciating Shakespeare's greatness.
Misled by later writers, he had been accustomed to
seek first of all for the poet in his works, to feel the
throbbing of his heart, to reflect along with him on his
theme,-"in short, to view the object in the subject;
and it was intolerable to him that in Shakespeare's
writings "the poet would never let himself be caught,
would never talk with his reader." "For several years,'
adds Schiller, "I studied Shakespeare, and gave him my
entire reverence, before his individuality became dear to
me." In opposition to the naïve poet, the "sentimental"
poet does not reflect the object as it is; he sees it in the
light of his own feelings, and mingles with his repre-
sentation of it something of his individual character.
Nature is the eternal source of all poetry; but while
the naïve poet is nature, the sentimental poet only seeks
for her. Conscious of discord in the world, and in his
intellectual life, the sentimental poet strives to recover
""
""
>
SCHILLER'S PROSE WRITINGS.
125
unity, not by imitation of the actual, but by taking
refuge in the ideal, with which he brings the actual into
relation. As the ideal belongs to the infinite, he can
never present the perfection of form reached by the
naïve poet, who limits himself to the finite. The
excellence of the latter consists in the absolute attain-
ment of a finite, that of the former in the approach to an
infinite, greatness. Both kinds of poetry are legitimate,
and, properly interpreted, they exhaust every possible
species of imaginative effort. Ancient poetry is not
without sentimental elements; and naïve poetry reap-
pears from time to time in the modern world. Still,
the distinction broadly marks the difference between
ancient and modern writers. “The former appeal to us
by nature, by sensuous truth, by living impressions; the
latter appeal to us by ideas." In essence the impression
produced by naïve poets is the same, in whatever de-.
partment they work, whether in the lyric, in the epic,
in narrative poetry, or in the drama; but as the poetry
of sentiment deals with two elements, the ideal and the
actual, and their relations, many different kinds of effect
are open to it. If the poet of sentiment makes reality
his main subject, although with the ideal in the back-
ground, he becomes satirical; and his satire may be
either pathetic or witty, pathetic, if his mind is of the
order which touches the sublime; witty, if he tends
rather towards beauty than towards sublimity. If, on
the other hand, the poet of sentiment directs his
thoughts mainly to the ideal, he becomes elegiac; and
he, too, may approach his theme in one of two ways.
Either nature and the ideal are a subject of sorrow,
because nature is lost, and the ideal is unattained; or
126
SCHILLER.
¡
he may delight to represent them as united in the realm
of imagination. From the former mood springs the
elegy in the ordinary sense, from the latter the idyll in
its widest significance. Starting from these definitions,
Schiller offers a series of masterly criticisms of various
modern writers, among others Goethe, in whom he recog-
nises the rare power of giving naïve form to matter of a
sentimental nature, thus combining the antique and the
modern spirit. He also indicates the special danger of
the sentimental and the naïve poet; the naïve poet
(unless he happens to have a beautiful environment)
being apt to fall into commonplace, the sentimental poet
having a tendency to lose himself in extravagance.
This essay is the most original of Schiller's prose
works, and it produced a stronger impression than any
of the rest. In Goethe's opinion, it laid the foundation
of modern criticism, since, although under different
names, it first brought to view the vital distinction
between the Hellenic and the Romantic methods.
"The
Schlegels," said Goethe to Eckermann, "seized the idea
and pushed it further; so that all the world is now
familiar with it, and everybody talks of Classicism and
Romanticism, of which no one thought fifty years ago."
A
127
CHAPTER X.
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
We have now reached the last period of Schiller's life, the
period of his highest and most brilliant creative activity.
When he returned to Jena from Würtemberg he was
in his thirty-fifth year, with health permanently broken,
but with spiritual energy unabated, and with an inward
calm which contrasted strongly with the restless vehe-
mence of his early years. Henceforth there were few
external changes in his career, and his history is in the
main the history of his writings.
Jena was at this time as attractive a place of residence
for Schiller as any in which he could have been settled,
for it contained many distinguished men, with whom he
was able to have friendly intercourse. Of these the
chief was Wilhelm von Humboldt, who had married an
intimate friend of Schiller's wife. He was a man of
pleasant, jovial manners, and, although nearly eight
years younger than Schiller, had already given evidence
of the qualities which were afterwards to make him one
of the deepest scholars and soundest statesmen of his
age.
Schiller loved no man more warmly; and Hum-
boldt went to live for a time in Jena, chiefly for the
128
SCHILLER.
purpose of being near his friend. Fichte had recently
succeeded Reinhold as a professor of metaphysics, and
Schiller saw him often, and was impressed by the bold-
ness of his philosophical doctrines. By-and-by a new
and still more advanced philosophy was being proclaimed
in Jena by Schelling; and the Romantic school was soon
to be founded there amid clamour and excitement by
the brothers Schlegel. These and other writers, more or
less sympathetic to him, Schiller had many opportunities
of talking with; and he was invariably among those
who took the lead in any society he entered. He
delighted in conversation, and, whatever subject might
be started, he seldom failed to generalise it, and to
make it the occasion of an animated discussion. Ac-
cording to the testimony of his friends, his talk was
always bright and suggestive; and he was a sufficiently
good listener to give a chance to everybody who had
really anything to say.
With Körner he continued to maintain a constant
correspondence; but he now formed a friendship which
was to become of infinitely more importance to him than
any he had hitherto known. This was his friendship
with Goethe. He had repeatedly talked with Goethe
since their first meeting in the house of Frau von Lenge-
feld; but each had held aloof from the other, and there
seemed to be no chance of their ever becoming intimate.
One summer evening in 1794, returning from a meeting
of a scientific society in Jena, of which they were hon-
orary members, they happened to walk along together.
Talking of the society, Schiller remarked that its mode
of dealing with nature was too fragmentary to be of
much use to the layman in science. Goethe answered
•
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
129
that it was perhaps not better adapted to the initiated.
A truer way, he added, was to regard nature as living
and active, working from the whole into the parts; but
Schiller would not admit that this was a doctrine based
on experience. Anxious to pursue the conversation,
Goethe entered Schiller's house, and began to expound
his theory of the metamorphosis of plants. Schiller
listened attentively, but observed, "That is not experience,
it is an idea." Then," answered Goethe, rather pro-
voked, "I am glad that I have ideas without knowing
it, and even see them with my eyes." This conversation
interested Goethe for the first time in Schiller, and made
him wish that they should be better acquainted. Soon
afterwards they met again, and Schiller wrote to Körner
that they had talked much "about art, and the theory
of art." "We found," he added, "an unexpected agree-
ment in our ideas, which was the more interesting, be-
cause it proceeded from the greatest difference in our
points of view."
In September 1794 they had approached each other
so closely, that Goethe begged Schiller to spend a fort-
night with him in Weimar; and as Lotte was in Ru-
dolstadt with her little boy, the invitation was gladly
accepted. This visit made them absolutely sure of each
other; and ever afterwards, until Schiller's death, they
maintained the closest intimacy,-exchanging ideas on
all subjects of human interest-spurring one another to
the utmost activity of their faculties. In all literary
history there is nothing more beautiful than the friend-
ship of these radiant spirits. Their sympathy was never
darkened even by a passing shade of envy or jealousy ;
each found pure delight in the greatness of the other;
F.C.—XV.
I
CC
130
SCHILLER.
R
and, that each might be helped by the other's influence,
to do justice to his genius was the continual hope and
aim of both. To go to Jena and pass some evenings
with his friend was one of Goethe's highest pleasures
and in Goethe's presence, all that was best in Schiller's
nature gleamed and sparkled. "It is astonishing," wrote
Lotte, "what an influence Goethe's presence has on
Schiller, and what an animating effect the frequent
interchange of ideas with Goethe has upon him. He is
quite different even if he is only in 'Weimar."
(C
For a long time science had absorbed Goethe's energies,
and he seemed to have lost sight of his true destiny. The
consciousness of his poetical faculty, and a longing for its
exercise, were rekindled by Schiller's enthusiasm; and
in association with one whom he loved so well, and who
so well deserved his love, he resumed the career in which
he had still to achieve some of his highest triumphs. To
Schiller he owed, to use his own words, " a new Spring."
"You have created for me," he wrote, a second youth,
and have again made me a poet, which I had almost
ceased to be." Most amply did Goethe repay the obliga-
tion, as Schiller again and again acknowledged. Schil-
ler's tendency was to be too absorbed in his ideal world:
in intercourse with Goethe he was compelled to descend
from his cloudland, to present his abstract conceptions in
concrete forms, to compare his ideas with facts, to ob-
serve, to classify. His whole method of thinking was
thus modified; it became more direct, more animated,
more fruitful. His poetry was also deeply influenced.
Idealism which is not maintained in living contact with
nature is apt to end in mannerism; and although Schil-
ler's imagination was too powerful ever to content itself
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
131
with shadowy and unreal forms, it was in this direction
that his peril lay. Goethe helped him to become con-
scious of it, and to strive against it. An idealist he
could not but be: his idealism sprang from the inmost
conditions of his intellectual and moral nature. But,
thanks in part to Goethe, the idealistic elements of his
genius were henceforth to be balanced by other elements,
more solid, more varied, and equally necessary for great
art.
<
His
Meanwhile Schiller had entered upon a new under-
taking, which was to be the chief means of bringing the
two poets into close relation. With the year 1794 the
help which had been so generously accorded him by the
Prince of Augustenburg and Count von Schimmelmann
would cease, so that it was necessary to find other ways
of enlarging his income. He decided to issue a new
periodical, to be called the Horen' ('Hora').
friend Cotta not only expressed his willingness to pub-
lish it, but engaged to give him a salary of 1000 thalers
a-year, besides paying him for his contributions. Schiller
formed a large scheme, and received promises of co-opera-
tion from most of the leading men of letters in Germany.
Among others he applied for contributions to Goethe,
who replied, with unusual warmth, that he would look
forward with pleasure to his connection with the new
magazine. For the Horen' Schiller wrote all the philo-
sophical articles that had not appeared in 'New Thalia ;'
and he contributed to it, besides poems, an excellent
historical article depicting the siege of Antwerp-an
article which he afterwards appended to his history of
the revolt of the Netherlands. The enterprise cost him
far more labour than he anticipated, as few of those who
،
132
SCHILLER.
had pledged themselves to aid him kept their promise;
and in less than four years he was glad to let the
'Horen' die.
In 1795 Schiller conceived another scheme-that of
issuing a yearly volume of lyrics, to be called the 'Al-
manac of the Muses' ('Musenalmanach'). Here again
Goethe, with whom he was now intimate, undertook
to help him; and Schiller worked at the details of his
undertaking with even more than his usual enthusiasm.
A good many years had passed since he had abandoned
poetry, first for history, afterwards for philosophy. Phil-
osophy now began to be distasteful to him; he found it
barren and dreary, and longed for the brighter world of
free and living forms. 'Wilhelm Meister,' the first part
of which had been recently published, confirmed and
deepened this feeling. "I cannot express to you," he
wrote to Goethe, "how painful it often is to me to glance
from a product of this kind into the philosophical spherç.
There all is so cheerful, so living, so harmoniously solved,
so humanly true; here all is so severe, so rigid and ab-
stract, so utterly unnatural; for while all nature is syn-
thesis, all philosophy is antithesis. The poet is the
only true man, and the best philosopher, compared with
him, is but a caricature." The 'Almanac,' therefore,
offered itself to Schiller at the right moment; and while
writing his essay on 'Naïve and Sentimental Poetry,' he
interrupted his labour from time to time to give free.
course to his ideas in verse. His genius was so extraor-
dinarily productive after its long repose, that before the
end of the year 1795 he had written upwards of forty
poems, some of them of considerable length.
Nearly all of these pieces have a more or less definite
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
133
relation to the stage of intellectual life through which
Schiller had just passed: they are the poetical rendering
of the ideas which he had set forth in prose. They
necessarily appeal to a select class, for they contain few
elements which touch ordinary experience; and only
some of them please the imagination with living pic-
tures. They are not, however, didactic poems; for
Schiller's object is rather to express the feeling which
his ideas excite, than to present the ideas themselves.
His feeling is always high and noble, and its force is
seldom broken by any imperfection either in his diction
or in his rhythm. Perhaps the most characteristic of
the series is the well-known poem, "The Ideal and Life ”
("Das Ideal und das Leben"). Its original title was
"The Realm of Shadows;" and this well expresses its
governing conception, which is, that we may, if we will,
escape from the narrow limits of daily existence into an
invisible world, peopled by beautiful forms, where duty
is merged in inclination, and where man achieves his
destiny without conflict or suffering.¹
•
"Not from the strife itself to set thee free,
But more to nerve, doth Victory
Wave her rich garland from the ideal clime.
Whate'er thy wish, the earth has no repose;
Life still must drag thee onward as it flows,
Whirling thee down the dancing surge of Time.
But when the courage sinks beneath the dull
Sense of its narrow limits-on the soul,
Bright from the hill-tops of the Beautiful,
Bursts the attainèd goal!
1 The poetical translations in this chapter are taken from the late
Lord Lytton's rendering of 'The Poems and Ballads of Schiller.'
134
SCHILLER.
If worth thy while the glory and the strife
Which fire the lists of actual life-
The ardent rush to fortune or to fame,
In the hot field where strength and valour are,
And rolls the whirling thunder of the car,
And the world, breathless, eyes the glorious game—
Then dare and strive-the prize can but belong
To him whose valour o'er his tribe prevails;
In life, the victory only crowns the strong-
He who is feeble fails.
But Life, whose source, by crags around it piled,
Chafed while confined, foams fierce and wild,
Glides soft and smooth when once its streams expand,
When its waves, glassing in their silver play,
Aurora blent with Hesper's milder ray,
Gain the still Beautiful-that shadow-land!
Here, contest grows but interchange of love,
All curb is but the bondage of the Grace;
Gone is each foe,--Peace folds her wings above
Her native dwelling-place."
At the close of the poem (which consists of fifteen
stanzas), Schiller presents the destiny of Hercules as a
figure of man's passage from the actual to an ideal
world:
"So, in the glorious parable, behold
How, bowed to mortal bonds, of old
Life's dreary path divine Alcides trod:
The hydra and the lion were his prey,
And to restore the friend he loved to-day,
He went undaunted to the black-browed god;
And all the torments and the labours sore
Wroth Juno sent-the meek majestic One,
With patient spirit and unquailing, bore,
Until the course was run-
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
135
Until the god cast down his garb of clay,
And rent in hallowing flame away
The mortal part from the divine-to soar
To the empyreal air! Behold him spring
Blithe in the pride of the unwonted wing,
And the dull matter that confined before
Sinks downward, downward, downward as a dream!
Olympian hymns receive the escaping soul,
And smiling Hebe, from the ambrosial stream,
Fills for a god the bowl!"
Another poem, "Ideals" ("Die Ideale "), is a lament
that in mature life we leave so far behind us the im-
pulses of nature, with the dreams and hopes of youth.
Its spirit is expressed in the following stanzas :—
"As once, with tearful passion fired,
The Cyprian sculptor clasped the stone,
Till the cold cheeks, delight inspired,
Blushed-to sweet life the marble grown:
So youth's desire for Nature !-round
The Statue, so my arms I wreathed,
Till warmth and life in mine it found,
And breath that poets breathe-it breathed;
With my own burning thoughts it burned;
Its silence stirred to speech divine ;
Its lips my glowing kiss returned;
Its heart in beating answered mine!
How fair was then the flower-the tree!
How silver-sweet the fountain's fall!
The soulless had a soul to me!
My life its own life lent to all!
The Universe of Things seemed swelling
The panting heart to burst its bound;
And wandering Fancy found a dwelling
In every shape, thought, deed, and sound.
136
SCHILLER.
Germed in the mystic buds, reposing,
A whole creation slumbered mute;
Alas, when from the buds unclosing,
How scant and blighted sprang the fruit!"
Wilhelm von Humboldt complained that the feeling
in this poem is not sufficiently generalised; but the
fact that it seems to spring directly from the heart
of the poet gives it a power which does not belong to
some of his more finished compositions; and it is sig-
nificant that Goethe considered it superior to any of
Schiller's previous lyrics. "The Walk" ("Der Spa-
ziergang") appeared at first simply as "An Elegy;
and it was meant to be a study in one of the kinds.
which Schiller had defined in 'Naïve and Sentimental
Poetry.' The poet leaves his room to enjoy the free
life of nature, and as he walks reflects on the peaceful
lot of the rural population, the complex life of cities,
the inequalities of society; and finally he takes refuge
from the insincerities and conventions of civilisation
in the living scenes of the outward world, "where the
sun of Homer still smiles on us." The same contrast
reappears in "Genius" ("Der Genius "); but here the
"nature" which he celebrates is that which asserts itself
in persons of strong and sincere character. All these,
and many other poems of this year, bear the stamp of
Schiller's moral ideal-the ideal of a mind which ex-
presses itself in the grace and dignity of a perfect body;
which finds freedom in the highest laws of its being;
which, although ever exercising its powers, enjoys eternal
calm; and which is surrounded by, and has the faculty
of appreciating, beauty in an infinite variety of manifes-
tations. He strikes an occasional note of sadness when
"}
SCHILLER AND GOETHE,
137
he remembers how far off this ideal is; but more fre-
quently he rejoices in the conviction that, whatever may
be the poverty and meanness of reality, it is idealism
that discloses the true home of the human spirit.
The historical background to Schiller's activity at this
period is the war in which revolutionary France bade
defiance to nearly all Europe. Early in 1796 the scene.
of conflict was transferred from the Rhine country and
the Netherlands to South Germany; and Schiller had
good reason to dread the possible consequences in the
quiet home at the Solitude. A very happy home it was;
and happiest of all in the little circle was his youngest
sister Nanette, who was looking forward with delight
to the opening of what she hoped would be a brilliant
career in the Weimar theatre. Suddenly Schiller learned
that she had been struck down by fever, which had
spread over the country from the Austrian hospital. He
anxiously awaited tidings; and in a few days came a
letter from his father announcing her death. The old
man himself was dangerously ill, and Louise had also
been attacked by the malady which had proved fatal to
her sister. Schiller would have started at once for Wür-
temberg, but the state of his health did not permit him
to travel; he accordingly wrote to his sister Christophine,
enclosing money, and begging her to go to their mother's
help. Thanks to Christophine's care, Louise recovered;
but their father soon followed Nanette, whose death had
broken his heart. Schiller at once offered his mother a
home in his house, but she preferred to remain near the
old scenes with her daughter Louise.
Sad as this year was, it was not all dark. Schiller
spent nearly a month with Goethe, who strove with the
138
SCHILLER.
utmost tenderness to cheer and console his friend. After
his return from Weimar he had the pleasure of welcom-
ing Körner and his family; and as Goethe also came to
Jena, the three friends (for Körner had long known
Goethe) had much animating talk. The year was made
further memorable by the birth of Schiller's second son.
Now," he wrote to Goethe, "I can begin to count my
small family. It is a peculiar feeling, and the step from
one to two is greater than I thought.”
During this year (1796) Schiller chiefly occupied his
leisure with a kind of poetry to which he had not hitherto
given much attention the epigrammatic. The 'Horen'
had been attacked in many periodicals, and he often
thought of retorting on his critics. Goethe advised him
to put all their criticisms together at the end of the year,
and dispose of them in a single article. "When things
of that kind," he wrote, " are made up in a bundle, they
burn better." In the course of conversation it occurred
to one of them that a good method of revenge would be
to make their assailants the subject of a series of epi-
grams, each to consist of a distich. The more they
thought of this suggestion the more they liked it, and
it quickly assumed larger proportions than they origi-
nally intended. So many writers of the day were dull,
or commonplace, or pretentious, that the opportunity
seemed an excellent one for asserting against them the
claims of true literature; and it was at last decided to
print in the Almanac' as many epigrams as could be
prepared in time, with the general title "Xenien
("Xenia," hospitable gifts, a title borrowed from Mar-
tial). The work was begun in common towards the
end of 1795; and as Goethe happened to be in Jena
((
C
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
139
for a fortnight early in 1796, they were able to carry
it on night after night without interruption. After-
wards they sent each other "Xenien" by the dozen,
and both anticipated with mischievous delight the alarm
which would be spread in the camp of the enemy by
so novel and unexpected an onslaught. Upwards of
four hundred of these epigrams were printed, and the
authorship of some of them is still uncertain.
As a rule,
the most severe are Schiller's, but the majority were to
a large extent the work of both poets. Occasionally
the idea was suggested by one and executed by the
other, and in some instances each contributed a line.
Hardly one in the series deserves to be called a master-
piece of wit, but few are without force, brightness, and
edge. Here and there a great name occurs, and usually
with honour. To Lessing, for instance, a splendid epi-
gram is dedicated, with the title "To Achilles ;" and
Kant appears as a king who builds, while his expositors
are hodmen to whom his building gives employment.
For the most part the tone is one of biting sarcasm.
Few contemporary writers were spared-even Wieland
being made to figure as "the elegant young lady of
Weimar." Friedrich Stolberg and Lavater, although
friends of Goethe, had to listen to some plain words-
the latter for the charlatanism which mingled with his
better qualities, the former for his narrow pietism.
The hottest fire of all was directed against poor old
Nicolai, the Berlin bookseller, who, having begun life
as the friend of Lessing and Mendelssohn, fancied that
he was a valiant champion of enlightenment and toler-
ation, but saw himself here in the foremost ranks of the
Philistines. Loud and prolonged was the outcry raised
140
SCHILLER.
by the sufferers, and even by some who had not suffered,
but who could not tell what might yet be in store for
them. Herder (whose name had not occurred) fiercely
denounced the poets, and Nicolai called the 'Almanac'
an 'Almanac of the Furies." Innumerable "Anti-
Xenien" were published, and Schiller, had not Goethe.
dissuaded him, would have prepared a new assault.
Goethe watched the storm calmly, and was not dis-
pleased by it; and the opinion he expressed to Schiller
was, that they should now devote themselves to "greater
and worthier works," and "put their enemies to shame
by changing their Protean nature into forms of the
noble and the good."
Many epigrams of a more serious nature were produced
at the same time as the "Xenien." Of these the best
were the "Votivtafeln " ("Tabule Votive"), each epigram
expressing some truth which had helped the poet in life,
and which in gratitude he piously hung up as a “tabula
votiva" in the sanctuary. So it is explained in the in-
troductory distich. These epigrams are in their own way
as fine as any of the writings which were the direct fruit
of Schiller's philosophical meditations. The thought
expressed in all of them is marked by his ideal tone, and
the form is so compressed and precise that they bring
us into contact with the essence of his governing prin-
ciples. Some admirable lyrics also belong to the same
year. In "Pompeii and Herculaneum we find our-
selves in a realm of fancy altogether different from any
in which Schiller has hitherto presented himself. Here
there are no moral reflections; he simply pictures the
streets of the disinterred cities as if they were still the
busy scenes of ancient life, and the figures start forth
""
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
141
with remarkable force and vividness. "The Maid from
other Lands" ("Das Mädchen aus der Fremde") is an
allegorical lyric, in which, with exquisite grace and sim-
plicity, he celebrates the power and the loveliness of
poetry. Another allegory, "The Lament of Ceres"
("Die Klage der Ceres"), has brilliant rhetorical pas-
sages; but critics have never been able to agree as to
its hidden significance. A happier effort is "Dithy-
ramb" ("Dithyrambe "), originally entitled "The Visit"
(meaning a visit of the gods), in which, under the figure
of one to whom Bacchus has given rapturous visions,
Schiller describes the poet in an hour of exaltation and
inspiration.
In 1797 Schiller's health was so bad that for several
months he could not go out of doors. A great longing
for the country seized him, and fortunately a garden-
house which was exactly to his taste happened at this
time to become vacant. This he bought, and he and
his family took possession of it in May. It was situated
on the slope of a hill near Jena, and commanded splendid
views of the valley of the Saale. At the upper end of
the large garden Schiller erected a hut in which he spent
the summer days at work; and beside it was a bower,
where there is still the old stone table at which he and
Goethe (as Goethe long afterwards said when revisiting
the spot) "exchanged many a good and great word.”
Before going to this delightful retreat he had spent many
pleasant evenings with Goethe, who had been in Jena for
more than a month. Wilhelm von Humboldt, who after a
long absence had returned, always joined them; and Schil-
ler was still further cheered by the society of Wilhelm von
Wolzogen and Caroline, who were now married, and had
142
SCHILLER.
been living for some time in Jena. In spring, however,
Humboldt went away, and the Wolzogens changed their
residence to Weimar. Goethe, too, was planning a long
tour in Switzerland. Much as Schiller enjoyed his
country-house and garden, he sadly missed his friends,
and he looked forward with positive sorrow to the pros-
pect of Goethe's absence.
"Hermann and Dorothea," which the world owes
chiefly to the impetus communicated to Goethe by
Schiller, was finished about this time, and Schiller read
it again and again. "Your Hermann," he wrote, "leads
me, merely through its pure poetic form, into a divine
world of poetry, while your Wilhelm Meister' scarcely
lets me escape from a real world." Inspired by Goethe's
example, and by the influences of nature, Schiller la-
boured joyfully in his garden-house for the next num-
ber of the Almanac;' and fortunately he had found
a kind of work in which there was perfect scope for his
energies. He and Goethe had talked much lately of
ballad literature, which had been made as popular by
Herder in Germany as by Percy in England; and they
agreed to write a number of ballads simultaneously,
submitting their work to each other as they advanced.
Schiller entered into the scheme with zest, and in the
course of a few months produced six ballads, which
rank among his highest achievements. Any one who
goes through Schiller's works in the order in which they
were written, comes with surprise and delight upon these
beautiful poems. In "Pompeii and Herculaneum
had given some indication of what he could do if he
chose simply to represent objects; but in his ballads he
far surpasses even that vivid picture. He limits him-
(
" he
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
143
self absolutely to the scenes in which he desires to
interest us, and he makes them visible by images of
extraordinary variety, definiteness, and vivacity.
The earliest of Schiller's ballads was "The Diver >>
("Der Taucher "), in which he gave splendid form to an
ancient legend. The king, his daughter, his knights
and squires, stand at the edge of a rugged cliff over-
hanging the sea, and look down on a raging whirlpool.
In the opening stanza the king cries-
"Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,
As to dive to the howling Charybdis below?—
I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold,
And o'er it already the dark waters flow;
Whoever to me may the goblet bring,
Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."
Thrice he repeats his question, but no one answers, until
at last a youthful squire, "gentle and bold," moves for-
ward and casts aside his girdle and mantle. Amid the
wonder of the courtiers, he gazes steadily down into the
gulf.
"As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave
One glance on the gulf of that merciless main;
Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave,
Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again;
And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom,
Rushes foaningly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As when fire is with water commixed and contending,
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin upsoars,
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending.
And it never will rest, nor from travail be free,
Like a sea that is labouring the birth of a sea."
144
SCHILLER.
At last the rage is allayed, and amid the foam yawns a
dark chasm, into which the surging billows are swept.
“The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before
That path through the riven abyss closed again—
Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,
And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main !
And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled,
And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold."
An interval of dreadful suspense follows, during which
the hollow roar of the waters below the surface becomes
more and more terrible; and soon the waves begin to
sweep upwards with their former fury.
And, lo from the heart of that far-floating gloom,
What gleams on the darkness so swan-like and white?
Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!—
They battle-the Man's with the Element's might.
It is he-it is he !-in his left hand behold,
As a sign—as a joy !-shines the goblet of gold!"
The king's daughter fills the goblet with wine, and the
youth describes his adventure.
"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice,
The air and the sky that to mortals are given !
May the horror below never more find a voice-
Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven!
Never more-never more may he lift from the sight
The veil which is woven with Terror and Night!
"Quick-brightening like lightning-it tore me along,
Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play,
In the rocks of its wilderness, caught me—and strong
As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away.
Vain, vain was my struggle-the circle had won me,
Round and round in its dance, the wild element spun me.
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
145
'And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer,
In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath-
And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair,
And I clung to it nimbly-and baffled the death!
And, safe in the perils around me, behold
On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold.
'Below, at the foot of that precipice drear,
Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless Obscure!
A silence of horror that slept on the ear,
That the eye more appalled might the horror endure!
Salamander-snake-dragon-vast reptiles that dwell
In the deep-coiled about the grim jaws of their hell.
'Dark-crawled-glided dark the unspeakable swarms,
Clumped together in masses, misshapen and vast-
Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms-
Here the dark-moving bulk of the hammer-fish passed—
And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion,
Went the terrible shark-the hyæna of ocean.
'There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me,
So far from the earth, where man's help there was none!
The one human thing, with the goblins before me—
Alone-in a loneness so ghastly—alone!
Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound,
With the death of the main and the monsters around.
'Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now
It saw-the dread hundred-limbed creature-its prey!
And darted-O God! from the far-flaming bough
Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way;
And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar,
It seized me to save-King, the danger is o'er !'"
Longing for fresh excitement, the king proposes that the
youth shall dive into the whirlpool for a ring and bring
F.C.-XV.
K
146
SCHILLER.
tidings of what he sees "in the nethermost ground of
the sea."
"Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion:
'Ah, father, my father, what more can there rest?
Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean-
He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest.
If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire,
Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire!'
The king seized the goblet-he swung it on high,
And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide :
'But bring back that goblet again to my eye,
And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side;
And thine arms shall embrace, as thy bride, I decree,
The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee.'
In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy-
And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire,
On that bloom, on that blush, gazed delighted the boy;
The maiden-she faints at the feet of her sire!
Here the guerdon divine, there the danger beneath;
He resolves!-To the strife with the life and the death !
They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell,
Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along!
Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell:
They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng,
Roaring up to the cliff-roaring back, as before,
But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore."
In this fine poem there is no pause in the interest, and
emotion is touched at almost every point where it is
capable of intense expression. Schiller's only direct
knowledge of the appearance of whirlpools was derived
from observation of a mill-stream; but the impressions
obtained in this humble manner were so truly combined
SCHILLER AND GOETHE,
147
and so splendidly vivified, that Goethe found every trait
marked in the poem reproduced at the Falls of Schaff-
hausen.
A worthy pendant to "The Diver” was "The Glove"
("Der Handschuh"), in which, with equal animation,
Schiller shows us a knight descending for his lady's
glove into an arena occupied by wild beasts; and after-
wards, when she is prepared to welcome him with smiles,
refusing her thanks and bidding her an abrupt farewell.
The theme of "The Ring of Polycrates" ("Der Ring
des Polykrates") is the ancient dread of the jealousy
with which the gods were supposed to watch an excess of
human happiness; and this sentiment is brought home
to us by many quick transitions of scene and feeling.
In "Knight Toggenburg" ("Ritter Toggenburg "), the
hero of which fights valiantly in the Holy Land, and
on his return, finding that his lady has entered a con-
vent, becomes a hermit, there is the same truth of per-
ception; but its tone, being more sentimental, is less
impressive than that of the other ballads. Schiller made
ample amends by "The Cranes of Ibycu's" ("Die
Kraniche des Ibykus"), in completing which he was
indebted for valuable suggestions to Goethe, who also
thought of dealing with the subject, but abandoned his
purpose on reading Schiller's poem. Ibycus, the light-
hearted poet, fares on to the Olympian games; but on
his way he is murdered in a wood by two robbers, and
as he is dying he looks up and sees a flock of cranes, to
which he cries to be his avengers. We are introduced
into a theatre crowded by an eager throng; we hear the
fearful song of the Furies
of the Furies; at its close a shadow passes
across the theatre, for a flock of cranes is flying over-
148
SCHILLER.
head; and the stillness is broken by a voice from one
of the highest tiers, "See, see, Timotheus, the cranes of
Ibycus!" And thus the murderers are revealed and
dragged to justice. This is one of the most imaginative
of Schiller's poems: it fills us with a consciousness
of the mysterious influences of destiny; yet we are
immediately confronted only by ordinary facts of nature,
and by familiar promptings of human feeling. The last
of this series was "The Walk to the Forge" ("Der
Gang nach dem Eisenhammer"). Here Schiller aban-
dons his dramatic manner, and presents the incidents
in the flowing style of an epic narrative; and he is as
happy in the one method as in the other. Fridolin, a
youth in the service of the Countess Savern, wins by his
fidelity her confidence and goodwill. Robert, the en-
vious huntsman, excites the jealousy of her lord, who
conceives a dreadful revenge. Two men working at the
forge are directed to cast into the furnace the messenger
who shall come from him with the question, "How have
you fulfilled the master's order?" Fridolin is des-
patched with the message, but on the way, in obedience
to his mistress, enters the church to pray for her sick
child. He is delayed by the priest, and on reaching the
forge is told by the men with a grim smile that the
master's will has been done. The fate destined for him
had overtaken his enemy; and the Count, seeing that
"God Himself had judged," conducts the youth to the
Countess, and acknowledges that he deserves her favour.
So wild a tale would have been made ridiculous by a
single false note; but Schiller escapes this peril by per-
fect grace and simplicity. In two ballads written in
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
149
the following year (1798) "The Conflict with the
Dragon" ("Der Kampf mit dem Drachen"), and
"Security" ("Bürgschaft")-he returned to the dramatic
style, and with no decay of power. The latter is a
glowing picture of ancient friendship. Damon, con-
demned to be crucified by Dionysius, the tyrant of
Syracuse, begs for three days' grace, that he may be
present at his sister's wedding; and his friend, Phintias,
becomes security for him. Schiller has hardly anywhere
displayed more vigour than in his description of the
agony with which, after the wedding, the condemned
man struggles with various obstacles that threaten to
make him too late to deliver his friend from peril. In
"The Conflict with the Dragon" we do not see the fight
while it is in progress, we only hear the conqueror's
report of it; but his deed is thus made more impressive,
since we perceive the effect it produces on the crowd
whom he addresses. He is a knight; and the master
of his Order, while recognising his bravery, decrees that
he shall be dismissed for undertaking an adventure
which had been forbidden. Schiller contrasts admir-
ably the knight's valour with the spirit of humble sub-
mission by which he at last overcomes his superior's
displeasure.
While Schiller was occupied with his ballads, he did
not forget other forms of poetry. During this time he
wrote at least one lyric, "Expectation" ("Die Erwar-
tung"), which ranks among the best love-poems in
German literature. It is a lover who speaks; he is
waiting for "her" in the twilight, and every moment he
persuades himself that she is approaching :-
–
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SCHILLER.
"Hear I the creaking gate unclose?
The gleaming latch uplifted?
No 'twas the wind that, whirring, rose,
Amidst the poplars drifted!
Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering roof,
Destined the bright one's presence to receive,
For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloof
With holy Night, thy boughs familiar weave.
And ye sweet flatteries of the delicate air,
Awake and sport her rosy cheek around,
When their light weight the tender feet shall bear,
When Beauty comes to Passion's trysting-ground.
Hush! what amidst the copses crept-
So swiftly by me now?
No, 'twas the startled bird that swept
The light leaves of the bough!
Day, quench thy torch! come, ghost-like, from on high,
With thy loved Silence, come, thou haunting Eve!
Broaden below thy web of purple dye,
Which lulled boughs mysterious round us weave.
For love's delight, enduring listeners none,
The froward witness of the light will flee;
Hesper alone, the rosy Silent One,
Down-glancing may our sweet Familiar be!
What yonder seems to glimmer?
Her white robe's glancing hues ?-
No,--'twas the column's shimmer
Athwart the darksome yews!
Oh, longing heart, no more delight-upbuoyed,
Let the sweet airy image thee befool!
The arms that would embrace her clasp the void:
This feverish breast no phantom bliss can cool.
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
151
Oh, waft her here, the true, the living one !
Let but my hand her hand, the tender, feel-
The very shadow of her robe alone!—
So into life the idle dream shall steal!
As glide from heaven, when least we ween,
The rosy hours of bliss,
All gently came the maid, unseen :-
He waked beneath her kiss !'
There are several other lyrics of the same class-"To
Emma" ("An Emma"), "The Meeting" ("Die Begeg-
nung"), and "The Secret" ("Das Geheimniss ")—all
of them finely conceived, but without the life that glows
in "Expectation." In "Happiness" ("Das Glück "),
Schiller returns to his earlier manner, enforcing with
great power the idea that happiness is not to be attained
by effort, but is a gift of the gods, and that "
a sub-
lime, a divine lot" awaits those who are born with a
calm and joyful mind. It is supposed that Schiller was
thinking of Goethe when he wrote this poem, and the
opening verses have been placed on the pedestal of
Goethe's bust in the Weimar Library. "The Eleusinian
Festival" ("Das Eleusische Fest") is in the form of a
hymn for the Eleusinian Mysteries, a song of praise
dedicated to Ceres, the founder of civil life. It has
some resemblance in the order of its ideas to "The
Walk," where Schiller reviews some of the characteris-
tics of human society. Here he follows in regular grad-
ation the advance of man from the hunting to the nom
adic stage, from the nomadic stage to the growth of agri-
culture, and so to all the varied phases of civilisation,
celebrating each stage in verses of lofty rhetoric.
Greater than all these poems-greater even than the
1
152
SCHILLER.
3
ballads-is "The Song of the Bell" ("Das Lied von
der Glocke "), which belongs to this period. The con-
ception of "The Song" had been for a long time in
Schiller's mind. Even during his first residence in
Volkstädt he used to visit a foundry in Rudolstadt, for
the purpose of making himself familiar with the pro-
cess of casting bells. He worked at the scheme at
many different times, but was unable to give it its final
form until 1799. Next to his greatest dramas, this is
the poem by which Schiller is best known; and it fully
deserves the rank which is commonly attributed to it.
In some respects it has an affinity to "The Walk" and
"The Eleusinian Festival," 'for, like them, its aim is to
present a picture of human life; but its range is wider,
and the means by which its end is accomplished are in-
comparably more artistic. The dominating element is
formed by the casting of the bell. This is not merely
described; we see the process from first to last, the
master of the foundry (who is supposed to speak through-
out) marking the successive stages in a series of bold and
graphic verses. All is stir, movement, animation; and
each word strikes so swiftly and vigorously, that a mul-
titude of associations start into consciousness, and com-
bine to form a living image of the scene. First we see
the mould in the earth; then the furnace is fed by
masses of wood; the metal is melted and tested; it is
poured into the mould; there is a pause while it cools;
the mould is broken; the bell is disclosed, bright and
smooth; and finally it is raised from its bed in the soil,
to be afterwards elevated to the realm of sound in the
air of heaven." Between cach stanza the master pic-
tures some typical aspect of life, varying his metre in
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
153
accordance with the thought or the sentiment which he
wishes to express, and connecting his descriptions with
the uses to which a public bell is applied. He begins
with the child's birth, and advances through boyhood to
the days of hope and love. Then come marriage and
mature life,—the father struggling with the world for his
children; the mother ruling her house with wisdom, ten-
derness, and diligence. But the ringing of the bell pro-
claims two calamities, the destruction of their house by
fire, and the mother's death. At this point the metal
has been poured into the mould; and while it cools the
master gives his thoughts a wider sweep, contrasting the
plenty and the happiness which spring from public order
and peace with the disasters caused by revolutionary
rage. These images and reflections would have been of
too varied a nature to be combined in a single work
without the central action; but from this they derive
the kind of unity which is sometimes given to a land-
scape by a beautiful stream winding through it. In
"The Song of the Bell," all the highest powers of
Schiller move in harmony. It presents both dramatic
and lyrical elements; and while it contains deep and
serious thought, its thought does not appeal to us directly
through the understanding, but indirectly through ima-
gination and feeling.
..
During these years, notwithstanding his pressing en-
gagements, Schiller had never lost sight of the drama: it
was his firm intention to make it the leading object of
his life. Fortunately, when he began to think seriously
of returning to it, he had not to cast about for a theme;
for we have seen that, while at Carlsbad in 1791, he
was already devising a play of which Wallenstein was
154
SCHILLER.
to be the hero. Ill health, philosophical study, and the
need of making money, prevented him from advancing
with it rapidly; but he often jotted down suggestions as
they occurred to him, especially during his visit to Swa-
bia, and in 1796 he carefully brought these together in
the hope of making a fresh start. In 1797 he wrote a
rhymed prelude, and began the body of the play, com-
posing it at first in prose, but afterwards deciding to
present it in rhythmic form. When once fairly on
his path, he found that the chief difficulty arose from
the wealth of his material; and he was soon forced
to pause, to consider by what means he might hope
to bring it within the compass of a single play. In
September 1798 he spent a week in Weimar; and after
much consultation with Goethe, to whom he read what
he had written, he at last saw his way clear. The Pre-
lude he would extend to the proportions of an indepen-
dent work; and the tragedy itself he would divide into
two parts—“The Piccolomini” (“Die Piccolomini ") and
"Wallenstein's Death" ("Wallensteins Tod"). At this
time the Weimar theatre was undergoing extensive re-
pairs, and it was agreed between Goethe and Schiller that
it should be reopened on the 12th of October 1798 with
the Prelude, "Wallenstein's Camp" ("Wallensteins
Lager").
In the solitude of his garden house Schiller laboured
incessantly at his scheme, and he was able to send the
manuscript to Goethe in good time. Goethe, however,
had now to see Schiller in a new aspect. Every day
improvements suggested themselves; and while the actors
were studying their parts, messengers constantly arrived.
from Jena with unexpected directions. All was taken
i.
SCHILLER AND GOETHE.
155
in good part by the imperturbable Goethe, who exerted
himself to the utmost to gratify his friend's wishes;
and on the appointed day the Prelude was represented.
Its reception was even more cordial than the poet had
ventured to anticipate, so that he returned to "The
Piccolomini" with heightened courage. He was in
wretched health; but weariness and pain were not
allowed to interrupt his work. Before the end of
1798 he despatched the play to Berlin, where Iffland, the
director of the Royal Theatre, was impatiently waiting
for it; and soon afterwards, with many changes for the
better, it was in Goethe's hands. In order to superin-
tend the rehearsals with Goethe, he went to Weimar for
almost a month in the beginning of 1799, and during
this visit the two friends approached each other more
closely than ever. On the 30th of January 1799,
"The Piccolomini" was played for the first time; and
although the public did not seem to realise its importance,
it was welcomed with enthusiasm by all for whose judg-
ment Schiller had high respect. On the second repre-
sentation, a night or two afterwards, spectators of all
classes were impressed by its great conceptions and noble
style. Among those who heartily congratulated him
was the Duke of Weimar; and he also received a let-
ter of warm appreciation from his old friend, Charlotte
von Kalb, to whom he replied that he was glad she
had "found" him in the play, for in it he had expressed
"his being."
"The Piccolomini" in its original form included the
first two acts of what is now "Wallenstein's Death."
What remained to be done, therefore, he could hope to
accomplish rapidly; and about the middle of March
156
SCHILLER.
""
1799, Goethe bad in his 'possession the complete work.
In April all three pieces were represented, a night being
given to each; and, seen thus as parts of one scheme,
they excited almost universal admiration. Christophine,
who followed with pride the triumphant progress of her
brother's career, learned from Lotte that "everybody in
the theatre had sobbed, and that even the actors cried;
and Schiller himself wrote to Körner that the impression
had been "extraordinary," and that "during the follow-
ing eight days nothing else had been talked about."
Soon afterwards the work was again represented in
Weimar, for the pleasure of Frederick William III. of
Prussia and Queen Louise (the parents of the Emperor
William), and the beautiful queen had many pleasant
things to say to the poet. The Duchess of Weimar was
equally gracious, and in testimony of her appreciation
sent Lotte a present of a silver coffee-service. Schiller
was much pleased by this recognition, and laughingly
observed that "poets should always be rewarded by
presents, not paid, for there was a certain relationship
between fortunate gifts and gifts of fortune " (" zwischen
den glücklichen Gaben und den Gaben des Glücks")
"both fell from heaven."
For several years he had often thought of transferring
his residence from Jena to Weimar, and the wish was
strengthened in proportion as he occupied himself with
the drama. In Weimar he would have the advantage of
being in direct contact with the stage, whereas in Jena
there was no kind of influence to stimulate and correct
his dramatic genius. Besides, he would be near Goethe:
and both he and Lotte would find it agreeable to live in
the same town with her sister Caroline. The only diffi-
SCHILLER AND GOETIIE.
157
culty was that in Weimar his expenses would be in-
creased. This was a formidable obstacle, for the
Horen' and the Musenalmanach,' having become.
excessively burdensome, had both been given up (the
former in 1798, the latter in 1799); and although he
had been made, in 1798, a full professor (Professor
Ordinarius), this honour had not been accompanied by
any addition to his small salary of 200 thalers. He
accordingly wrote to the Duke, applying for an increase
of salary, and stating his reasons. The Duke replied in
a friendly spirit, offering to double the amount. As
Schiller had already received what he considered hand-
some pay for "Wallenstein," and as he hoped that his
future works would be equally well rewarded, he con-
cluded that the proposed change might now be safely
made; and on the 3d of December 1799, he and his
family left Jena and established themselves in Weimar.
C
کر
158
CHAPTER XI.
(C
WALLENSTEIN.”
“WALLENSTEIN" is often spoken of as a trilogy; but if
it is meant that Schiller copied the model of the Greek
trilogy, the term is misleading. In a Greek trilogy each
member of the group, while having relations to the rest,
forms an independent work of art. No part of “Wal-
lenstein" is fully intelligible without reference to the
intention of the whole; and as we have seen, Schiller
divided the work into three plays merely because a sin-
gle drama did not seem to provide verge enough for the
mass of his conceptions.
The nearest approach to independence is made by the
Prelude, "Wallenstein's Camp," where we are presented
with a picture of the military circumstances in which
the action unfolds itself. This is one of the most ener-
getic and lifelike representations that we owe to Schiller's
genius. It places us in the midst of the Thirty Years'
War, and reveals the precise character of the instruments
wielded by the struggling jealousies and ambitions of
that tempestuous era. By a few bold strokes we are
reminded of the agitated and suffering world beyond.
the limits of Wallenstein's headquarters. The starving
“WALLENSTEIN.”
159
peasant with his timid boy, the citizen pleading with
his son not to join the army, the rough parson who
denounces the wickedness of the soldier's life, each in
his own way makes visible to us the desolating effects
of the war on the different classes of society. We
remain, however, within the camp; and all its varied
elements are disclosed by a number of typical figures
who represent the aims, the ideas, and the passions
of their comrades. Dugald Dalgetty has made English
readers familiar with the kind of soldier of fortune who.
emerged from the Thirty Years' War, and the characters
in "Wallenstein's Camp" have all his contempt for
danger and his indifference to the principles at stake
in the conflict into which he throws himself. They
are conceived, however, although not with greater
vividness,-in a more poetic spirit. They love the life
of wild adventure, and fight not merely for gain, but
because the excitement of battle stirs the blood. And
for the time they are united in a firm and compact mass,
for whatever may be the differences in their objects and
their hopes, they are agreed in a passionate devotion to
their commander. Wallenstein does not personally ap-
pear in the Prelude, but in all its scenes we feel the
influence of his mighty spirit. This common feeling
gives unity to the play, and evokes in the spectator a
mood which is favourable to the parts that follow.
Curiosity is awakened, and we are prepared for the
manifestation of a strange and potent genius.
In "The Piccolomini" Wallenstein passes before us,
but without revealing his essential qualities: the fore-
ground is occupied by his great officers. Here again
he exercises an indirect influence on the imagination,
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SCHILLER.
A
for he engages all minds; he is the theme of incessant
discussion; the hopes and fears of the characters vary
in the measure of their repugnance to, or their sympathy
with, his daring plans. At last, in "Wallenstein's
Death," he steps forth with all the force of his com-
manding nature; he fills the stage, and to the end the
interest is centred in his slowly approaching doom.
Wallenstein was murdered early in 1634. About
eighteen months before, he had fought the battle of
Lützen, in which Gustavus Adolphus fell; and almost
immediately afterwards he began to excite the sus
picion of the Imperial Court by his dilatory and un-
certain movements. He was found to be intriguing
with the enemy, and the Emperor Ferdinand, afraid to
proceed openly against so powerful a foe, issued a secret
order deposing him from the command, and plainly in-
timating a wish that his life should be taken. Wallen-
stein's aims cannot be exactly determined; but it is at
least known that he desired to secure the crown of
Bohemia, and to grasp powers which would enable him
to determine the issues of the war in accordance with
his own opinions and interests. Schiller remains faith-
ful to the broad facts of the history; but in his presen-
tation of Wallenstein's character he gives free scope to
his creative power.
Of all his dramatic figures this is
the one in which he touches life at the greatest number
of points. The element in Wallenstein, as Schiller con-
ceives him, which first strikes the imagination, is his
loneliness. He stands in the midst of a moving world,
surrounded by men of force and passion; but he towers
above all, admitting no one to his confidence, and cherish-
ing schemes which, if accomplished, must alter the course
ર
161
WALLENSTEIN."
of human progress. Yet in his manner there is nothing
strained or theatrical. He speaks with ease and sim-
plicity, and knows how to attach subordinates by a
graceful and kindly bearing. And there are touches
which show that, if he has an unlimited ambition, he
is not without tender feeling. His daughter, Thecla,
he sincerely loves; and for Max Piccolomini he has
a warm and undying affection. These, however, are
elements of minor importance; what absorbs attention
is his passion for greatness, and his dark resolve to
achieve it. It is sometimes said that Schiller tries
to soften the repugnance with which we contemplate
Wallenstein's crime by the fact that he does not at
once succumb to temptation. But he passes through
no genuine conflict. True, he wavers, argues with him-
self, dwells on the difficulties of his adventure, even
recalls his obligations to the sovereign against whom
he proposes to rebel; but we know that, whether or
not he himself is fully aware of it, he has formed his
decision long before he openly executes it. Before the
beginning of the action in the drama he sends for his
wife and daughter; he despatches to the Swedish camp
letters and verbal messages which absolutely commit
him; while he seems to hesitate, he directs Count
Tertzky to obtain by any means, foul or fair, the sig-
natures of his generals to a document pledging them
unconditionally to his service; and when at last he is
moved by the arguments of the Countess Tertzky, the
fact that he gives way before her transparent soph-
isms proves that he has been convinced all along, and
that his delays have been due merely to a temperament
which, although delighting in vast schemes, shrinks from
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F.C.-XV.
162
SCHILLER.
delivering the final blow. In the great soliloquy before
his decisive interview with the Swedish ambassador he
is not consciously insincere; but we see, and Schiller
meant us to see, that his agitation is only on the sur-
face, and plays over a deep and settled resolve.
But although Wallenstein does not really contend
against temptation, he is a true object of tragic pity.
First of all, his passion for greatness is not altogether
selfish; he fully believes that Germany is being ruined
by the unrelenting fanaticism of the Emperor, and that
he himself, if he becomes her master, will be able to
He intends to
give her peace, order, and contentment.
begin his new career by joining the Swedes; but his
ultimate aim is to drive them and all invaders from the
fatherland. A still deeper impression is made upon us
by the fact that Wallenstein is subject to a mysterious
destiny. In one of Schiller's philosophical essays he
had expressed the opinion that the perfection of the
Greek drama is marred by the part which destiny plays
in it. Partly through a profounder study of Greek
literature, partly through the natural growth of his con-
ception of the world, he had been led to abandon this
view; and in "Wallenstein" he makes destiny the con-
trolling principle which penetrates to the inmost re-
cesses of its thought. Wallenstein has a passionate faith
in astrology, and sees his fate marked in unmistakable
characters in the stars. He has therefore no alternative
but to move towards the end to which he is called; he
is driven forward by a power to which, he thinks, the
human will can offer only a feeble and vain resistance.
If he had made energetic and skilful use of his oppor-
tunities, it is possible (so far as the forces introduced in
"WALLENSTEIN."
163
1
the play are concerned) that success would have been
within his reach. He is adored by the majority of the
army; and the wavering minority might perhaps have
been won by a swift and brilliant stroke. But he takes
no precautions, and when his officers begin to desert
him, offers no serious resistance. He merely conducts
the remnant of his army from Pilsen to Eger, with the
intention of effecting a junction with the Swedes. Not
thus do Richard III. and Macbeth yield to circum-
stances they fight to the last, and by their unresting
vigour excite a far deeper interest than the inactive
Wallenstein. We are not, however, surprised by his
inactivity, for he is lulled by the assurance that whether
he fights or not, his triumph is secure. Even an hour
before his murder, when the Countess Tertzky is over-
come by sad forebodings, he is serene and confident; he
looks up into the dark and stormy sky, and sees the
glimmer of Cassiopeia, in which is Jupiter, the planet
of his nativity. But all the time, behind his false
destiny, true destiny is working. If his course is in-
evitable, not less inevitable is the action of the powers
which gradually close in upon and crush him. Deep as
the empire had sunk below its ancient splendour, it was
still too great to be shattered by one who would not
strain every nerve to destroy it. Since Wallenstein,
instead of acting, indolently trusted to the stars, it was
easy for the Emperor's agents to detach his friends, and
to weave around him meshes of intrigue from which
escape was impossible. Thus, when he falls, we feel
that we have been throughout confronted by Necessity
-in his ambition, in his betrayal of trust, in his inert-
ness, and in his ruin.
164
SCHILLER.
The principal agent of Wallenstein's fall is Octavio
Piccolomini, who has remained loyal to the Emperor.
He shows an exact knowledge of men, especially of
their weaker qualities; and we are obliged to confess
that his course is determined only by worthy motives.
But he does not gain our esteem, as apparently Schiller
desired that he should do; for Wallenstein, whose power
he undermines, was the friend of his youth, has con-
ferred upon him innumerable favours, and trusts him
absolutely. The officers who surround Wallenstein are,
without exception, drawn with a masterly hand. Among
the most striking are Count Tertzky and Marshal Illo,
who, as courageous as they are reckless, are always ready
to foster Wallenstein's evil designs, and yet never pos-
sess the key to his real thoughts. In Tiefenbach we
have an excellent example of the rough German soldier
who maintains, even amid the revolutionary violence
of the Thirty Years' War, the traditional reverence
for ancient institutions; while Isolani, the General of
the Croats, represents with equal force the adventurer
who renders his service to those who offer him most
pay. Butler, the Irish colonel of dragoons, who murders
Wallenstein, is at first one of his warmest friends: but
his friendship is turned to enmity by a supposed wrong;
and there is admirable art in the manner in which he is
made to persuade himself that he acts from a sense of
public duty and by an impulse of fate, while the true
power which moves him is a craving for revenge. Von
Questenberg has the firmness and the polished manner
which become an imperial ambassador; and Seni, the
astrologer, prescrves, without carieature, the air of
mystery which belongs to his calling. The Duchess
((
165
WALLENSTEIN."'
"
of Friedland, Wallenstein's wife, is natural in all her
movements; but her timid nature is thrust into the
background by his bold, unscrupulous sister, the Coun-
tess Tertzky, in whom there is evidently a reminiscence
of Lady Macbeth, although she lacks the grandeur of
Lady Macbeth's ambition.
All these characters are figures taken directly from
actual life they are such characters as we might expect
to meet in their sphere in a confused and troubled age.
It was hard for Schiller to be thus limited to the unbend-
ing outlines of realistic forms, so he created an outlet for
his deepest impulses in two natures, who stand forth in
vivid contrast with the world to which they belong.
These are Max Piccolomini, son of Octavio Piccolomini,
and Thecla, Wallenstein's daughter. Max is young, ener-
getic, a brilliant soldier, yet preferring the joys of peace.
to the excitement of war. Wallenstein loves him as a
son, and for Wallenstein he has an unbounded reverence
and devotion. It is he who is sent to conduct the
Duchess and her daughter to the camp, and during their
journey his heart is filled with love for Thecla, who
responds to it with an ardour equal to his own. When
they arrive at headquarters, Thecla intuitively feels.
that more serious events are in progress than any that
meet the eye, and that disaster is approaching. Max,
bold, light-hearted, and rejoicing in his love, is uncon-
scious of peril, and thinks only of the means by which
he may be able to persuade Thecla's father to surrender
her. Octavio Piccolomini cautiously reveals to him
Wallenstein's designs, but Max rejects with anger any
imputation on his commander's honour: never will he
believe anything to the discredit of one so great, unless
166
SCHILLER.
jo
he hears it from the lips of Wallenstein himself. At
last Wallenstein takes the young officer into his confi-
dence, and then begins in Max a tragic conflict which
cleaves his heart in twain. Nothing in the play ap-
proaches the imaginative energy with which this conflict
is pictured. To quit Wallenstein is to quit the man in
whom, of all others, he has had the strongest faith; and
it is to lose Thecla, without whom, as he thinks, life
will be unrelieved suffering. How can he rise to such a
sacrifice? Wallenstein pleads with him for the sake of
old and dear memories, and strives to prove to him that
duty does not summon him away. Max's simple and
sincere nature, however, penetrates to the naked truth;
and he feels that if his ideal is not to be for ever
shattered, he must obey the inward voice which speaks
to him in clear tones. In his agony he turns to Thecla,
and asks her to decide. The struggle which agitates
him agitates her in a like degree; but, cost what it may,
she cannot do other than bid him follow the promptings
of his own heart. And he goes forth, free and pure,
but with pain too sharp to be borne, and finds almost
immediate deliverance by death on the field. Thecla's
heart, too, is broken; and we catch our last glimpse of
her as she prepares to go and die upon his grave.
This tragedy within a tragedy is the highest tide-mark
of Schiller's dramatic power. We are awed by the
spectacle of destiny sweeping grandly rward to its
goal, and crushing the forms which obstruct its path;
but it fills us with a sense of our insignificance, and had
the fate of Wallenstein alone been unrolled before us,
the effect of the drama would have been only sad and
depressing. A firmer note is struck by the ideal passions.
cr
167
WALLENSTEIN."
""
of Max and Thecla. Even to what appears to be destiny
they do not yield, but gather their energies together and
dash themselves against it, knowing well that by death
alone they can save their spiritual integrity and freedom.
Thus the dominant mood produced by "Wallenstein "
is not one of mere resignation; we are also made vividly
conscious of human greatness. To Max and Thecla,
too, it is due that amid the clash of mighty forces a
lyrical note of exquisite sweetness breaks upon the ear,
for in a beautiful scene they open their hearts to each
other in all the confidence of perfect love.
It is as
if, in a gathering storm, the black clouds parted for a
moment, and revealed the clear depths of the infinite
blue.
Schiller's chief plays have been translated into nearly
every European language, but "Wallenstein" had the
rare fortune to be rendered into English soon after its
publication by a great poet. Coleridge translated the
work in its earliest form (omitting the Prelude), and
allowed himself considerable liberties in his task, ampli-
fying some passages until they bore quite as much the im-
press of his own as of Schiller's genius; but his work as
a whole represents admirably the spirit of the original.
The following is his translation of the scene in which
Wallenstein entreats Max not to desert him (Act iii. sc.
18 of "Wallenstein's Death "-Act ii. sc. 6 in the trans-
lation):-
"Wal.
Max, remain with me.
Go you not from me, Max! Hark! I will tell thee-
How when at Prague, our winter-quarters, thou
Wert brought into my tent a tender boy,
Not yet accustomed to the German winters;
168
SCHILLER.
Z
Thy hand was frozen to the heavy colours;
Thou wouldst not let them go.
At that time did I take thee in my arms,
And with my mantle did I cover thee;
1 was thy nurse, no woman could have been
A kinder to thee; I was not ashamed
To do for thee all little offices,
However strange to me; I tended thee
Till life returned; and when thine eyes first opened,
I had thee in my arms. Since then, when have I
Altered my feelings t'wards thee? Many thousands
Have I made rich, presented them with lands;
Rewarded them with dignities and honours;
Thee have I loved: my heart, myself, I gave
To thee! They all were aliens: thou wert
Our child and inmate. Max! thou canst not leave me:
It cannot be; I may not, will not think
That Max can leave me.
O my God!
I have
Held and sustained thee from thy tottering childhood.
What holy bond is there of natural love,
What human tie, that does not knit thee to me?
I love thee, Max! What did thy father for thee,
Which I too have not done, to the height of duty?
Go hence, forsake me, serve thy Emperor;
He will reward thee with a pretty chain
Of gold; with his ram's fleece will he reward thee;
For that the friend, the father of thy youth,
For that the holiest feeling of humanity,
Was nothing worth to thee.
Max.
Do otherwise? Am I not forced to do it?
My oath-my duty-honour-
Max.
Wal.
O God! how can I
Wal.
How? thy duty?
Duty to whom? Who art thou? Max! bethink thee
What duties mayst thou have? If I am acting
A criminal part toward the Emperor,
te
169
WALLENSTEIN."
It is my crime, not thine. Dost thou belong
To thine own self? Art thou thine own commander?
Stand'st thou, like me, a freeman in the world,
That in thy actions thou shouldst plead free agency?
On me thou'rt planted, I am thy Emperor;
To obey me, to belong to me, this is
Thy honour, this a law of nature to thee!
And if the planet, on the which thou liv'st
And hast thy dwelling, from its orbit starts,
It is not in thy choice, whether or no
Thou'lt follow it;-unfelt, it whirls thee onward
Together with his ring and all his moons.
With little guilt stepp'st thou into this contest;
Thee will the world not censure, it will praise thee,
For that thou heldst thy friend more worth to thee
Than names and influences more removed."
Immediately before his death (Act v. sc. 3 of the same
play in the translation, Act v. sc. 1), Wallenstein, in
conversation with the Countess Tertzky, mourns the loss
of Max :-
“Wal. I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm conscious :
What does not man grieve down? From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
For oh, he stood beside me, like my youth!
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished-and returns not."
Earlier in this scene there are some splendid lines, in
which Wallenstein, looking out into the night, describes
what he sees. This is Coleridge's rendering of them :---
170
SCHILLER.
"Val. There is a busy motion in the Heaven,
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle of the moon,
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light.
No form of star is visible! That one
White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
Is Jupiter. (A pause.) But now
The blackness of the troubled element hides him!"
To these extracts may be added the song sung by
Thecla when her mind is oppressed by a presentiment
of coming evil. The English verses are by Charles
Lamb, and Coleridge praises them for "having caught
the happiest manner of our old ballads:
""
"The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
Her eye upward roving :
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss;
To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one,
I have partaken of all earth's bliss,
Both living and loving."
171
CHAPTER XII.
IN WEIMAR.
DURING the five years of life which remained to Schiller
his work was frequently interrupted by illness. One of
his lungs gradually wasted away, and he was seldom
altogether free from pain. In other respects he con-
sidered himself fortunate, for he was no longer bur-
dened by the duties either of a professor or of an editor,
and could devote his whole time to congenial labour.
Few men of genius have had so happy a domestic life as
Schiller. "Heaven had given him in his wife and chil-
dren," as he once wrote, "nothing but joy." Shortly
before their departure from Jena, a third child, a
daughter, had been born; and in 1804 the family was
completed by the birth of another daughter. Schiller
was seen at his best in his relations to his children,
whom he treated with a charming mixture of playfulness
and tenderness. Often he was found"
Often he was found "romping" with
them; and he caused much merriment by the inflexible
rule that, in order to kiss him, they should climb to his
face without help. He was remarkably hospitable, and
at his table there was always good talk, free, bright, and
open. Their most frequent guest was Lotte's sister,
172
SCHILLER.
Caroline, for whom he retained all the affection she had
excited in the early days of their intimacy.
The Duke and Duchess of Weimar were proud to have
Schiller in their capital, and showed him unfailing kind-
ness; and he sincerely responded to their goodwill.
Wieland he seldom saw, but they were not on unfriendly
terms. This could not be said of Schiller's relation to
Herder, who in his last years (he died in 1803) became
reserved and morose, hostile to all the intellectual move-
ments of his age, and bitterly deploring that his own
achievements had fallen so far below his hopes. Both
from Schiller and Goethe, therefore, he held aloof, al-
though they would willingly have conciliated him. Now
that Schiller was permanently in Weimar, his friendship
with Goethe was, if possible, still more firmly established.
If they were at home, a week seldom passed without
their seeing each other; and when either was unwell,
they maintained a steady correspondence.
Among his other duties Goethe acted as director of
the Weimar theatre, and he was delighted to have the
advantage of Schiller's aid. They became virtually joint
directors, and never perhaps was a theatre conducted
with a higher aim. So high, indeed, was their aim, that
the public of Weimar and the surrounding country often
failed to comprehend it, and would have been well
pleased to see the directorate in less ambitious hands.
Goethe and Schiller not only took pains in the selection
of pieces for representation: they strove to found a great
school of acting. In this task Goethe found his friend
of the utmost service; for while his own manner was
cold, Schiller invited the players to his house, praised
them generously when he was satisfied with their per-
IN WEIMAR.
173
formances, and offered them advice as if he were asking
them to do him a favour.
(C
It was suggested by Goethe that in order to provide.
the theatre with an adequate repertory, they should make
a collection of good German plays, and "adapt" a num-
ber of foreign masterpieces. Schiller cordially assented,
and, while Goethe finished his rendering of Voltaire's
Mahomet," set to work on "Macbeth," of which he
produced a version that long kept possession of the
German stage. To the end of his career he occupied
himself at intervals with labours of this kind; but his
highest energies were of course given to original work,
and when we consider the state of his health, it is aston-
ishing that he was able to make so many and such solid
contributions to enduring literature. He had apparently
a dim presentiment of early death, and was animated
by a desire to force the brief period which was granted
to him to yield the fruits of an ampler opportunity.
When he had accomplished one scheme, he was ill at
ease until he had devised another; and the results in-
dicated on the whole a steady approach to his own high
ideal of excellence.
Many years before, during his solitary residence at
Bauerbach, it had occurred to him that he might find
a fit theme for tragedy in the fate of Mary Stuart; and
by study of Robertson and Hume he made himself
familiar with the facts of her history. Having com-
pleted "Wallenstein," he returned to this idea, and in
settling in Weimar he took with him three acts of his
new play. The work was concluded early in the summer
of 1800 in Ettersburg, a country-house of the Duke of
Weimar; and on the 15th of June the first representa-
en the ECE TO SE
LET HERE FEINA HAR IN
174
SCHILLER.
as his
tion took place on the Weimar stage. It was played,
he wrote to Körner, "with all the success he could have
wished." "At last," he added, "I begin to be master
of the dramatic faculty, and to understand my craft."
Among many other suggestions which offered themselves,
he decided promptly for "The Maid of Orleans"
next subject. To Goethe he complained that his
material would not easily "arrange itself in a few great
masses;" but he overcame this difficulty, and before
the end of 1800 he had finished more than half of the
tragedy. In April 1801 the whole work was given
to Goethe, who in returning it spoke of it as "so
thorough, so good, so beautiful, that he knew nothing
with which to compare it." Circumstances prevented
"The Maid of Orleans" from being at once produced
in Weimar; but in many other German theatres it
was received with greater enthusiasm than had been
stirred by any of Schiller's previous works. This was
due not only to its art, but to the appropriateness of
the Maid's patriotic devotion at a time when the in-
dependence of Germany was threatened by the rapidly
advancing power of France.
After the completion of "The Maid of Orleans," there
was a slight pause in Schiller's activity, as he could not
bring himself to make a final choice between several dra-
matic plans. In autumn (1801) he took advantage of this
interval to go with Lotte and Caroline to Dresden, where
the Körners welcomed them with all the old affection.
Part of the time was happily spent in the summer-house
in Loschwitz, in which, sixteen years before, Schiller
had found so peaceful a contrast to the storm and misery
of his life in Mannheim. When in Dresden before, he
IN WEIMAR,
175
had paid little attention to its treasures of art; but
Goethe had helped him to a higher stage, and now he
visited with delight both public collections and private
studios, and carried away many vivid impressions, espe-
cially of ancient marbles. They returned by Leipsic, and
here Schiller had an opportunity of seeing to how great
a height he had risen in the esteem of his countrymen.
In honour of his visit "The Maid of Orleans" was rep-
resented, and at the end of the first act shouts of "Live
Friedrich Schiller!" broke from all parts of the theatre.
At the close the spectators hastened out, and waited
for him. When he appeared every head was uncovered,
and he was received in respectful silence. A lane was
formed, along which he and his friends passed; and here
and there, it is said, fathers raised their children to their
shoulders, whispering, "That is he! that is he!"
In 1802, Schiller was deeply grieved by tidings of his
mother's death. His sister Louise was now the wife of
a village pastor, and on hearing of the illness of their
mother, who had been living for some time in Stuttgart,
took her to the parsonage, where she was tenderly cared
for. Schiller begged that she might put herself in the
hands of his old friend Von Hoven, in Ludwigsburg,
and sent money to provide for all expenses; but she was
too ill to be moved. She was proud of her famous son,
and two days before her death asked for a medallion
portrait of him, and pressed it to her heart. "God will
reward you," she wrote, "for all your kindness to me.
Ah, there is not in the world such another son!"
The letter announcing her death was received on the
day (the 29th of April 1802) on which Schiller took pos-
session of the house in Weimar that is now a place of
176
SCHILLER.
pilgrimage to multitudes of hero-worshippers. It was a
small but convenient dwelling, pleasantly situated, with
a garden behind. It had been occupied by the British
Consul-General, Mr Mellish, an intimate friend both
of Schiller and Goethe; and from him Schiller bought
it, obtaining part of the money by the sale of his gar-
den-house near Jena. The rooms on the top floor,
with a southern aspect, were set apart for Schiller's
and here, in his quiet "study," he spent the day
at work. His table stood at the window, which, in
accordance with his wish, was draped with a curtain
of crimson silk, as the reddish glimmer on the paper
stimulated his fancy.
use;
In this year (1802) Schiller had the satisfaction, such
as it was, of being raised to noble rank. Although so
much liked by the Duke and Duchess, he had not hitherto
been "Hoffähig,"—that is, he had not possessed the right
of appearing at Court. His wife possessed the right by
birth, but had lost it by her marriage with a commoner.
This state of things caused some inconvenience; and the
Duke, anxious to give Schiller a decided proof of his
respect, resolved to have the difficulty removed. Appli-
cation was therefore made to the Imperial Court for his
elevation to the "nobility" of the Holy Roman Empire,
on the ground that he had done high service by his
historical writings, and by the influence he had exerted
through his poetry on "the spirit of the German lan-
guage." The claim was considered good; and on the
16th of November his patent was handed to him by the
Duke. "You must have laughed," Schiller wrote to
Wilhelm von Humboldt, "when you heard of our rise
in rank. It was an idea of our Duke; and since it
EN WEIMAR.
177
has happened I can take some pleasure in it, for Lolo's
[Lotte's] and the children's sake." "Lolo" wrote to a
friend that Schiller was "quite innocent in the matter,"
and that that pleased her, as "she would have considered
it beneath his character to seek for an honour."
***
During the last months of 1801 and the early months
of 1802, he occupied himself in producing a version of
Gozzi's "Turandot." After some hesitation he then
began "The Bride of Messina," on the plan of which he
had been meditating for many months. For some time
he felt that he was not in the right mood for a drama in
which he was to make so close an approach to the Hel-
lenic spirit; but he at last attuned his mind to his work
by reading several tragedies of Eschylus in Stolberg's
translation. "Not for years," he wrote to Körner, after
finishing them, "have I been penetrated with so much
respect as by these highly poetic works." "The Bride of
Messina" appeared on the 19th of March 1803; and,
according to Schiller's report to Körner, the impression
it made was CC
unusually strong." "For myself," he
wrote, "I may venture to say, that in this representa-
tion I received for the first time the impression of a true
tragedy." A month afterwards "The Maid of Orleans'
was produced for the first time in Weimar, and Körner
was informed that "the piece had gone charmingly."
>>
In the interval between the appearance of these two
plays, Schiller was delighted by the representation of
"The Natural Daughter"-a play at which Goethe had
worked in silence, wishing to surprise his friend with
it. Had they not known each other, it would never
have been written: Goethe had ceased to do anything
for the stage, and his old desire for this kind of distinc-
F.C.-XV.
M
178
SCHILLER.
tion was revived by hiller's enthusiasm. Schiller him-
self, after finishing "The Bride of Messina," could not at
once undertake another great work, but gave a German
form to two comedies by Picard-"Encore des Mén-
echmes," and "Médiocre et Rampant; ou le moyen de
Parvenir." The latter he called “The Parasite;" the
former, "The Nephew as Uncle."
In the autumn of 1803 Schiller was presented in the
Weimar Palace to the King of Sweden, who begged him
to accept a diamond ring as an expression of gratitude for
the manner in which he had spoken of the Swedes in his
history of the Thirty Years' War. His historical writ-
ings were now, however, far from his thoughts; imagina-
tive work alone deeply interested him. And at this time
he was engaged on a drama in which he was striving to
attain to heights loftier than any to which he had hitherto
"William Tell." When Goethe visited Switzer-
land in 1797, he was so impressed by the scenes associated
with William Tell that he resolved to make the legend
the subject of an epic poem. The whole scheme rapidly
took shape, and on his return he talked of it frequently
to Schiller. "In Schiller's mind," he said to Eckermann,
"my landscapes and acting figures formed themselves to
a drama; and as I had other things to do, I resigned
my subject to him, whereupon he wrote his admirable
poem." In reality Schiller does not seem to have thought
of making Tell the hero of a tragedy before 1802; and
Goethe's memory may have been misled by the fact that
Schiller had then many questions to ask him about the
scenes which were to form the background of the play.
When, late in 1803, he had fairly entered on his work,
he was oppressed by its difficulties: he had, however,
Sta
IN WEIMAR.
181
Weimar, alarmed at the prospect of losing him, readily
agreed to double his salary.
Before going to Berlin, Schiller had decided that the
history of the false Demetrius should form the subject
of his next drama. In summer, however, during a
visit to Jena (when his youngest daughter was born), he
caught so severe a cold that "Demetrius" and all other
work had to be laid aside for a time. At the beginning
of winter another cold prostrated him, and feeling too
ill to undertake original writing, he began a translation
of "
Phèdre," which he successfully accomplished in
about four weeks.
During this last period of Schiller's life his mind was so
absorbed by the drama that other forms of poetry occupied
him only at rare intervals. In these intervals, however,
he produced a considerable number of poems that are
in every way worthy of his genius. To the best of his
ballads he made two additions-" Hero and Leander "
(1801), and "The Count of Hapsburg" (1803). In the
first of these pieces he scarcely succeeds in rendering
the charm of youthful passion, but he rises to true great-
ness of tone in depicting the ruthless play of natural
forces with human happiness. The second ballad pre-
sents a scene in which Rudolph of Hapsburg yields his
favourite horse to a priest who is hurrying with the
sacrament to a dying man. The horse thus honoured
is afterwards considered too sacred to be used for less
noble objects, and the priest foretells that the pious
Count will be brilliantly rewarded. At the coronation
of Rudolph in Aix-la-Chapelle this incident is celebrated
by a poet whom the new monarch recognises as the priest
that had prophesied his future greatness. The poem has
182
SCHILLER.
all the energy and colour of Schiller's early ballads, and
is marked by a fine appreciation of the romance and the
mysticism of the medieval spirit.
Of Schiller's other poems belonging to this period, the
most elaborate is "The Homage of the Arts" ("Die
Huldigung der Künste "), a "lyrical play" presented at
the Weimar theatre in 1804, in honour of the Russian
Princess who had just been married to the heir of the
Duke of Weimar. It is an allegory in which the genius.
of beauty appears, surrounded by figures representing
the various arts. The genius of beauty indicates the
source of all art in the human mind; and then the arts,
each in a few brilliant lines, celebrate the part which
they severally play in adorning and dignifying ordinary
life. Schiller here expresses in noble forms his sense of
the lofty destinies of art, and his conviction that in
order to fulfil these destinies it must not limit itself to
reality, but range freely and joyfully in an ideal world.
In lines addressed to Goethe (1801) on the completion.
of his translation of "Mahomet" ("An Goethe "),
Schiller had touched on other aspects of art, generously
recognising the debt which the world owes to the high
thought and stately march of the French classic drama.
The effect of this poem was balanced by another, "The
German Muse" ("Die Deutsche Muse"), also written in
1801, rejoicing in the freedom with which German
poetry had been able to develop itself through its inde-
pendence of the patronage of great Courts.
A more imaginative poem than any of these, although
not purer in form, is "Cassandra" (1802), in which
Schiller gives a new and deeper meaning to the legend
that Cassandra was doomed to misery in consequence
IN WEIMAR.
183
of the neglect of her warnings. He develops with
remarkable power the conception that misery is the
inevitable accompaniment of a deep observation of the
world, if not associated with the perception of an ideal
life in which alone man is free and happy. This
was the prevailing thought of the lyrics which sprang
from the first rush of feeling after his abandonment of
philosophy and history for poetry; and it is the prevail-
ing thought of nearly all the most striking lyrics pro-
duced in his latest period. It recurs in his lines "At
the Beginning of the new Century" ("Am Antritt des
neuen Jahrhunderts "), "Longing" ("Sehnsucht "), and
in "The Pilgrim" ("Der Pilgrim ")—the latter written
in 1803, the two former in 1801. In these and other
lyrics he shows a profound consciousness of the limi-
tations, the contradictions, the vain struggles of daily
existence; but high above all gleams the ideal realm
untouched by earthly imperfection. The contrast is
drawn in lines as firm as those of former years, but with
calmer feeling and a more delicate touch.
?
184
CHAPTER XIII.
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
THE dramatic genius of Schiller manifests itself with
such splendid power in "Wallenstein," that we naturally
take up his next work, "Mary Stuart," with high expecta-
tions. Of all his later dramas, however, this is the one
in which we find fewest traces of his free creative
energy. In the treatment of the closing scenes of Mary's
career, it would be possible to depict her as the most
brilliant representative of the forces which fought so
hard in the sixteenth century for Catholic and mediæval
institutions against the advancing tide of modern ideas:
Schiller appears to have deliberately neglected this
element of interest, but he does not compensate us by
fine conceptions of individual character. Whatever side
we may take in the controversies regarding Mary, her
name inevitably suggests to modern readers the Queen
Mary of 'The Abbot'—the fascinating woman who con-
quers all hearts, and who is never more romantic than
when, with generous confidence in her rival, she steps
on board the vessel that is to bear her to her fate. In
Schiller's play she has no characteristics of mind or heart
that appeal strongly to the imagination. We see only a
1
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
185
natural longing for liberty; her actions, her feelings, her
thoughts, are without distinction of any kind, and some-
times they indicate astonishing poverty of resource.
In
the scene, for instance, at the end of the third act, one
listens with amazement to her violent tirade against
Elizabeth. It was a bold stroke to depart so far from
history as to bring the two queens together; but it might
have been justified had the opportunity been brilliantly
made use of. But ave expect from Queen Mary something
better than the wild rage of a virago. Had she been
such a character as confronts us in this interview, Queen
Elizabeth would have had little reason for imprisoning
her, and none at all for putting her to death. Queen
Elizabeth is not more happily presented. She is ani-
mated throughout by spite and jealousy; and the death
of the Queen of Scots is therefore deprived of every
element of grandeur with which it was in reality as-
sociated. It is hardly going too far to say that the two
queens produce a less poetic impression in the poet's
interpretation of their struggle than in the bare facts of
their history.
There is more of Schiller's dramatic power in his pre-
sentation of the gloomy Burleigh and the statesmanlike
Shrewsbury. Many fine traits are also discernible in
the wavering resolves of Leicester; but his character, on
the whole, is too shadowy-the conduct attributed to
him is sometimes too arbitrary-to sustain the interest
which he arouses in the early part of the play. In Mor-
timer, Schiller attempted to introduce a truly tragic
figure; but his love for Mary has the appearance of
being forced upon him by the poet, and his death is
slightly melodramatic.
نه
186
SCHILLER.
These defects are much more visible when the play
is represented in a foreign language than when it is
given in the original, for in the latter its faults are for
the moment concealed by the splendour of its diction.
When Schiller wrote "Mary Stuart," he had perfectly
mastered the "mighty line" by which, like Marlowe
among English dramatists, he is distinguished among the
dramatists of Germany. The effect is magnificent when
his rhetoric is associated with lofty thought and feeling;
and while we are under its influence, it seems almost to
communicate some of its own swelling pomp to thought
and feeling which are by no means lofty. Another
characteristic of this play is the almost perfect technical
skill with which its materials are combined.
In no
other play by Schiller does the tale unfold itself with a
movement so regular and so steadily progressive. The
scenes in each act, while varied enough to keep curiosity
awake, are grouped around a central point of interest, and
one act is fitted accurately into another so as to produce
a symmetrical whole. In the first act the elements of the
tragic conflict are all, either directly or indirectly, indi-
cated; in the second, we see the struggle in progress; in
the third, it is driven rapidly to the crisis; in the fourth,
in strict accordance with Aristotelian rule, there is the
change of circumstance which prepares for the end; in
the last, the catastrophe. A deeper source of interest,
however, is an occasional outburst of true poetic feeling,
as in the pathetic scene where Mary, liberated for a mo-
ment, runs forward from among the trees, and rejoices
like a child in her freedom.
In this scene she is accompanied by her maid, Hannah
Kennedy, who, when Mary utters passionate exclama-
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
187
(6
tions of delight, reminds her that she is not really free,
and that she does not see the walls of her prison simply
because they are concealed by trees. Mary interrupts
her: 1
P
Thanks, kind thanks, to you, ye trees,
That hide my prison walls so well!
I dream of liberty and joy—
Oh why so sweet a dream dispel?
Above me spreads the azure sky,
And there, unfettered, roves the eye
Through endless spaces happily.
Far off, where grey hills pierce the inist,
Towards my kingdom's bounds I glance;
And yonder clouds, that southward drive,
They seek the distant sea of France.
Ye ships of air that freely roam,
Oh greet for me my youth's dear home:
Beneath the yoke I sadly bend,
I cannot other herald send !
Your path hath ever open been,—
Not ruled are ye by this stern queen!"
Kennedy still expostulates, but Mary again turns aside
her warnings, pointing to a fisherman who trims his
boat, and trying to persuade herself that he may perhaps
bear her to her friends. The scene ends with a cry
of joy when the bugle-note of a passing hunting-party
reminds Mary of the days when on Scottish heaths she
too joined the chase.
In "The Maid of Orleans" ("Die Jungfrau von Or
leans ") Schiller found a subject far more congenial to
his powers than in "Mary Stuart." His imagination
was baffled by intricate subtleties of feeling; it worked
1 The translations in this chapter are by the author of the present
volume.
188
SCHILLER.
freely only when the effects at which it aimed were grand
and massive. The sublime simplicity of the Maid of
Orleans was therefore well adapted to his genius, and
his conception of her character is surpassed by none of
his creations in dramatic truth and force. Many char-
acters pass over the stage, and the stir of battle is as
frequent as in any of Shakespeare's historical dramas:
but we never lose sight of the central figure; every in-
cident has some relation to her heroic destinies. The
dramatic prologue places us in the midst of the rustic
scenes where she has passed her youth, and where she
receives the helmet which is to her the sign that the
time has come for the deliverance of her people. Around
her stand her father, Raimund (her lover), and Bertrand,
by whose means the miraculous helmet has come to her
hands; and they talk of the French being forced to
yield. For a time she listens silently, but at last her
enthusiasm finds expression; and in these her first ut-
terances the key-note of the play is struck.
"Joan. Surrender! Treaties! Speak not of them more!
Equipped for fight, the sure deliverer comes!
At Orleans the fortune of the foe
Shall be destroyed: for judgment he is ripe.
The Maid draws nigh, her sickle in her hand,
To mow the lordly harvest of his pride;
And she with scorn shall pluck from heaven's heights
The fame which he has hung upon the stars.
Despair not! Fly not! Ere the fields are touched
To gold, ere yonder crescent moon is full,
The English steeds shall elsewhere slake their thirst
Than in the waters of the bright Loire.
Bertrand. Alas! no more are miracles performed.
Joan. Still shines the day of miracles! A dove,
Snow-white, with eagle's force, shall bold attack
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
189
These vultures, birds of doom that rend our land.
Proud Burgundy, a traitor to the State,
She shall with might strike down; and Talbot, too,
The hundred-handed Titan, storming heaven,
And Salisbury, blasphemer of the Church,
And with them all these shameful islanders,
Like flocks of lambs, she shall before her drive.
The Lord will be her aid, the God of battles ;
His trembling creature He will choose, and show
His power and glory by a tender maid.
Thibaut. What spirit agitates the lass?
Raimund.
It is
The helmet makes her speak in warlike tones.
Behold your daughter! See, her eye is flashing,
And glowing fire doth sparkle from her cheeks.
Joan. Who says this realm shall fall? This land of fame,
The loveliest land on which the sun doth shine,
The paradise of lands, beloved of God,
As if it were the apple of His eye-
Shall it endure the chains of foreign lords?
Here broke the pagans' might; here first was raised
The wonder-working Cross; and in this soil
St Louis' sacred dust in calmness rests
From here the Holy City was o'ercome.
Bertrand. What means her speech? And whence has she
received
This revelation? God has given you,
Thibaut, a marvellous child.
Joan.
Henceforth, 'tis said,
Our native kings shall not rule over us;
The king, who never dies, must disappear—
The king, who guards the sacred plough, protects
The common land, and fruitful makes the earth,
Who leads downtrodden serfs to liberty,
Who gladly ranges cities round his throne,
Assists the weak, and terrifies the base,
Who envy knows not, since he is the chief,
Who is a man, yet feels an angel's pity.
190
SCHILLER.
The throne of kings in golden splendour shines,
The refuge of the lost; beside it Power
And Mercy stand; the guilty dread its might,
The just in confidence approach, and safe
Do with the lions play that guard its base.
The foreign king, whose father's bones repose
In other lands, can he our country love?
And can her sons in him a father find,
Whose heart responds not to her kindly speech,
Who grew not with her youths to manhood's strength?"
In the first act we see Charles VII., his councillors and
courtiers; and a few well-selected circumstances reveal
the utter exhaustion of their resources, and the depth
of their despair. Suddenly the Maid appears, not, as
in history, after much painful effort, but as one before
whom the enemy has already begun to fly in wild terror.
By the grandeur of her character, and by manifest tokens
of divine favour, she instantly obtains the confidence of
the chiefs of the nation, and infuses into them some of
her own indomitable courage. Between the first and
second acts the English are supposed to be driven from
Orleans; then during the whole of the second and the
greater part of the third act, the war continues, the
Maid leading the French armies from victory to victory.
L At the close of the third act she overtakes Lionel, one
of the English commanders; and suddenly her inward
life undergoes a complete transformation. She cannot
slay him as she has slain all other Englishmen who have
fallen into her power, for he fills her heart with an ab-.
sorbing love. It must be admitted that this sudder.
change is a little perplexing. Hitherto she has been an
epic rather than a dramatic figure, sublime in the con-
sciousness of her mission, with superhuman energy, but
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
191
calm and self-controlled. It seems scarcely in keeping
with her character, apparently so remote from earthly
passions, to descend by a bound from her serene heights
to the humbler level of ordinary women, especially as
we have not been permittted to see anything in Lionel
that would make her love intelligible. If, however, we
concede to Schiller the right to attribute this experience
to his heroine, it is impossible not to admire the art
with which he traces its effects on her nature. All
at once she becomes shy, self-conscious, a creature of
passing fears and hopes; we find it difficult to realise
that she can ever have been the guiding genius of a
mighty nation. When Agnes Sorel, whom the king
loves, comes to confide in her, assuming that she belongs
to another sphere, the Maid shows for the first time, by
many little touches, that she too has need of sympathy.
Accused by her father of witchcraft, she hangs down her
head before the assembled court, unable to give the true
meaning of a career from which in her heart she has
turned aside. And so, accompanied by the faithful
rustic who loved her in the days of her obscurity, she
flies, and wanders in misery through the land, until she
is taken prisoner by the English. In the English camp
she endures bitter indignity; but, gradually surrounded
by the enemy, she recovers her self-possession; and at
last, when she sees the French defeated and King Charles
in danger, her heroism shines forth anew in all its star-
like radiance. The next scenes are so full of vitality
and poetry that only a pedant would object to Schiller's
free handling of history. With the strength of a god-
dess, she snaps her bonds asunder, snatches a sword
from a soldier, and hurries to the field, where she saves
192
SCHILLER.
the king, turns the tide of victory, and dies in peace,
enjoying the restored confidence and reverence of her
countrymen.
This is a thoroughly poetical creation, grandly formed,
and breathing the breath of life. The other characters,
although necessarily very subordinate, are not less true
to nature. To name only a few, there is genuine vitality
in the weak but kindly king, in the valiant Dunois, in
the wayward Burgundy, whom, in a scene full of grace
and vivacity, the Maid reconciles to the friends with
whom he has been contending; and a striking contrast
is presented in the characters of the tender and generous
Agnes Sorrel and the treacherous Isabeau, the king's
mother. The Maid's father and sisters, rough, supersti-
tious, but with affection at the bottom of their hearts,
are such characters as would be naturally formed in the
quiet country with its simple customs and half-heathenish
faith. Of the English characters, by far the most im-
pressive is Talbot; and the ideal passions of the Maid
find their most effective foil in the mood of bitter
cynicism in which he dies.
"Talbot. Madness, the victory is thine! I yield.
The gods themselves with dulness fight in vain.
Exalted Reason, radiant Daughter sprung
From head divine, wise founder of the world,
Conductor of the stars-what art thou, then,
If, to the tail of Folly's mad horse bound,
With powerless cries, and knowing well thy state,
Thou must with that drunk beast plunge darkly down
To the abyss? Accursèd he who gives
His life to great and worthy ainis, and forms
His plans with prudent mind; the Fools' King rules
The world.
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
193
Lionel.
My lord, the moments of thy life
Are few. To thy Creator turn thy thoughts.
Talbot. Had we as brave men yielded to the brave,
We might have consolation found in this-
That Fortune, ever changing, turns her sphere;
But to be crushed by vulgar jugglery!
Deserved our toilsome life no graver end?
Lionel. My lord, farewell! If I survive the fight,
The meed of tears I owe, I'll freely pay;
But I am summoned to the field by Fate,
Who still uncertain sits and shakes her urn.
In other worlds we meet, but now-farewell!
For friendship long as ours, the parting brief.
Talbot. It soon is past, and now I do give back
To earth and to the everlasting sun
The atoms which in me have been combined
For pain and joy; and of the mighty Talbot,
Who filled the world with his renown, is left
A handful of poor dust. So ends our life;
And all the gain the tedious struggle yields
Is that we heartily despise what once
Appeared to us alluring or sublime,
And learn at last its utter nothingness."
"The Bride of Messina " ("Die Braut von Messina ")
takes us into a wholly different world. Here Schiller
abandons the methods of the modern drama, and repro-
duces antique forms. In close imitation of the Greek
dramatists, he selects an action capable of intense com-
pression, for the development of which few characters
are necessary, while the chorus breaks in from time to
time with its warnings and reflections. Again following
the example of his models, he assumes that before the
opening scenes much has happened that would in a
modern play gradually lead the characters into the cen-
tre of the tragic conflict. In this instance Schiller did
F.C.-XV.
N
--
194
SCHILLER.
not choose a historical subject, because it seemed to him
that it would be easier to force an invented action with-
in the necessary limits. The first character who appears
is Donna Isabella, the Princess of Messina. In a large
pillared hall she addresses the elders of the city, telling
them of her two sons, Don Manuel and Don Cæsar, who
have cherished towards each other from childhood a
bitter hatred, and who, since their father's recent death,
have carried on war. They unite, however, in love for
their mother; and through her intercession they have
agreed to lay down their arms, and are immediately to
return to the palace. Soon they confront each other,
and after some explanations they are frankly reconciled.
While they converse, a messenger arrives and whispers to
Don Cesar that the beautiful woman for whom he has
been searching is in Messina; and he hurries away. The
beautiful woman is Beatrice, whom Don Cæsar had acci-
dentally seen at his father's funeral in a remote convent.
Don Manuel then narrates to the Chorus an adventure
which had brought him to a lovely lady whose heart he
has won:-
P
"Five months have fled, and still my father's power
Did rule the land; beneath his yoke he bent
With tyrannous sway the neck of fiery youth.
I knew no joy but in the clash of arms,
And in the warlike rapture of the chase.
At eve, when we had hunted all the day
Along the wooded heights, I left your train,
And followed close, alone, a snow-white hind.
Through windings of the vale, through rocky clefts,
Thickets, and trackless ground o'ergrown with brier,
The shy and timid beast before me fled:
I saw it ever near, but sought in vain
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
195
A spot that offered chance of happy aim,
Until at length it vanished from my view
Behind a garden-door. Dismounting swift,
With eager steps I ran, my javelin poised;
And lo! the frightened creature trembling lay
Before a nun, who stooped to soothe its fears,
And gently fondled it with tender hands.
I gazed astonished at a scene so strange,
My hunting spear stretched forth in act to strike.
She turned, and in her lustrous eyes I read
A plea for mercy. Silently we stood,
How long I know not, time we both forgot:
Her glance pierced through my soul, and suddenly
An all-absorbing love transformed my heart.
What then I said, and what the lovely maid
Replied, let no man ask; it floats before
My vision like a dream of childhood's dawn.
When memory returned, her throbbing heart
Beat fast with passionate glow against my own.
With sudden clang a bell the stillness broke—
A call to vespers; and as spirits dart
Through air, she quickly vanished from my sight.
Chorus. Forebodings sad, O Prince, thy words arouse,
For thou hast robbed the awful Powers above;
Heaven's bride thou hast approached with sinful love;
Most sacred are the holy cloister's vows.
Don Manuel. I had but one dear path henceforth to tread,
My wayward, restless longings were subdued;
From life I had its precious secret plucked.
And as the pilgrim seeks the distant East,
Where on his face the Sun of Promise shines,
So turned my heart with longing and with hope
Towards the spot where brightly glowed its star.
Each day that dawned and sank behind the wave,
Two happy lovers met in secret wove
Our hearts the bonds that bound them each to each.
:
The all-beholding eye of Heaven alone
Was trusted witness of our hidden joy;
196
SCHILLER.
We neither sought nor needed other aid.
Oh, these were golden hours, most happy days!
The awful Powers above I had not robbed,
For she who had become for ever mine
Had not enthralled her heart and will with vows."
Don Manuel having explained that an old man some-
times brought messages to her from her unknown
mother, the passage continues :-
"Don Man. For months the old man hinted that the day
Which would restore her to her kin drew near;
But yesterday he plainly bade her hope
For full disclosure of her destiny
1.
With this day's dawn; my purpose swift I formed,
And swift fulfilled; by night I sought the maid,
And brought her to Messina secretly.
Chorus. A deed of robbery and violence!
Forgive, O Prince, the word of bold reproof;
The right to warn belongs to prudent age,
When reckless youth by passion is misled.
Don Man. Beside the convent of the Merciful,
Amid a peaceful garden's tranquil scenes,
Which cannot be by curious eyes o'erlooked,
I parted from her, hastening to this place
To be unto my brother reconciled.
With timid heart she waits, expecting not
That soon with queenly splendour she shall come,
And on a lofty pedestal of fame
Be placed before all proud Messina's gaze.
For not again shall she her lover see
Save in the high magnificence of State,
Surrounded by the chorus of his knights.
I wish not that Don Manuel's beloved
Should as a homeless fugitive appear
Before his mother; as a royal bride
She shall with royal dignity approach
The palace of my fathers.
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
197
.
ind
Prince, we wait
Chorus.
For thy commands.
Don Man.
Reluctantly I left
Her arms, but she shall still my thoughts employ.
Now ye shall go with me to where the Moors
The merchandise of Eastern lands display,—
Their fabrics rare and works of delicate art.
And lovely sandals first select, her feet
To guard and grace; and for her flowing robe
The tissue of the Indies choose, gleaming
As gleams the snow that lies on Etna's top,
Nearest the sun; and let it lightly float,
Like morning mist, around her youthful limbs.
And purple let her girdle be, with lines
Of gold inwoven, binding witchingly
The tunic underneath her modest breast.
Her mantle, too, of dazzling silk, shall shine
In purple hues; and ye shall not forget
To furnish bracelets for her graceful arms,
And pearls, and corals, wondrous gifts bestowed
By ocean's goddess. Let a diadem
Of costly gems entwine her waving locks,
The fiery, glowing ruby, emulous,
Contending with the emerald's flashing rays.
Her ample veil, like bright and airy clouds,
Shall circle round her splendid form;
And the enchanting whole ye shall complete
By myrtle wreathed upon her virgin brows.
Chorus. All shall be done, O prince, as thou command'st.
Don Man. Then from my stables lead a palfrey forth,
White as Apollo's steeds, with purple cloth,
Its bridle and its trappings rich adorned
With precious stones, for it shall bear my queen!
And ye yourselves shall ready be, amid
The joyous clang of trumpets, with the pomp
Of knightly state, to guide your princess home."
Both brothers love the same person; and ultimately
198
SCHILLER.
she proves to be their sister. Before Beatrice's birth
Donna Isabella had a dream which was interpreted to
mean that a daughter would cause the ruin of their
house. Her husband had therefore ordered the child
to be killed; but Donna Isabella had secretly sent her
to the convent where she had since lived. Finding
Don Manuel with her, Don Caesar, not yet knowing her
relation to them, stabs his brother; and over the body
the Chorus, represented by its leaders, Cajetan and
Berengar, prepares the mother for tidings of the dis-
aster that has befallen her:-
CAJETAN.
"Through the streets of the cities,
By sorrow attended,
Marches misfortune;
Darkly it lurks near
The dwellings of men.
Here is its summons
Sounded to-day,
There on the morrow;
Never is any portal passed by.
The dark, unwished-for,
Dolorous message,
Sooner or later
Reaches each threshold-
Threshold alike of lowly and high.
BERENGAR.
When in autumn the leaves
From the trees fall away,
When the powers of worn age
Slowly fade and decay,
Nature but calmly submits
To its own ancient law,
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199
To its own changeless wont,-
We watch not its course with shuddering awe.
But horror, too, O man,
Prepare to meet in earthly life!
With a violent hand
Breaketh fell murder the holiest band;
To its boat of doom
Snatches grim death
Even youth in its earliest bloom.
CAJETAN.
When clouds in masses sweep the sky,
And bellowing thunder peals,
The power of awful destiny
The boldest heart in secret feels.
But crushing bolts may man destroy
From bright and spotless azure deeps;
He, then, alone is wise who keeps
A moderate heart in hours of joy.
Attempt not lasting peace to find
In fortune's transitory dower:
In thy most prosperous, happy hour,
The secret learn-to be resigned."
The play ends with the death of Don Cæsar, who, learn-
ing the truth, slays himself in horror.
In this tragedy we feel throughout, even more strongly
than in "Wallenstein," the mysterious working of des-
tiny. Man appears as a being subject to dark influences
which he cannot sway, and which, if he be doomed to
disaster, do not swerve from their course until he has been
destroyed. So far, the play maintains the true Hellenic
conception; and Schiller is also consistent in the manner
in which he depicts his characters. There is no attempt.
at fine portraiture: Donna Isabella, her sons, and
200
SCHILLER.
Beatrice, are broad types rather than individuals. Don
Manuel and Don Cæsar, indeed, can hardly be spoken.
of as separate types, since in both there is essentially the
same note. In other respects, however, the play diverges
widely from the antique spirit. The love of the brothers
for Beatrice, its sentiment, its romance, are entirely
modern; and we feel that for the cravings of so deep a
passion the restrained forms of Greek art do not suffice.
Another difficulty is that, while the Greek religion is be-
hind the action, and determines its course, the characters
profess Christianity. This confusion would not of itself
have greatly impaired the antique character of the play,
for the Christian element is only on the surface, and
does not in any way come into conflict with the Hellenic
doctrine. It is a more serious objection that Schiller
does not exactly reproduce the Greek Chorus, which
stood apart from the action, commenting on it with
perfect impartiality. The Chorus in "The Bride of
Messina" consists of the followers of the two brothers;
and the followers of each represent in some degree the
conflicting aims of their chief. The cause of this
error was probably, as Wilhelm von Humboldt sug-
gested, the modern demand that everything in art shall
have a motive. Schiller could not bring himself to in-
troduce the Chorus simply for its own sake: it was
necessary, he thought, that there should be a reason in
the scheme of his play for its appearance. To the Greeks
the Chorus in a play was a matter of course; it was "like
the sky in a landscape."
It cannot, then, be said that "The Bride of Messina
is a play either in the genuinely antique or in the genu-
inely modern spirit. Both elements are combined; and
ر,
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
201
their union is only mechanical. Nevertheless, the work
is one of enduring interest, for its style is almost uni-
formly grand and melodious. The rhetorical force of
many passages, especially of those uttered by the Chorus,
could not probably be matched by anything either in the
rest of Schiller's writings or in German literature.
In "William Tell" Schiller returned to the path
from which he had diverged in "The Bride of Mes-
sina;" and as it was the last, so it is in some respects
the best, of his complete writings. Some scenes in
"Wallenstein" have greater dramatic energy than any
in "William Tell," but the latter, as a whole, is more
artistically conceived. Here, as in
in "The Maid of
Orleans," Schiller represents passions and struggles
which engaged his strongest sympathies; but, even
more successfully than in that play, he compels himself
to stand aside and to allow his figures to develop in
accordance with their own deepest tendencies. The
sublime background of the action presented a formidable
difficulty, for Schiller had never been in Switzerland,
nor had he enjoyed an opportunity elsewhere of study-
ing mountain scenery. Working, however, from his
knowledge of the Swabian hills, and combining with
this the impressions derived from books, and especially
from Goethe's descriptions, he was able not only to see
the Alps in fancy, but to catch the spirit of the scenes.
in which his characters were to unfold themselves.
Everywhere we feel the presence of the mountains; we
are taken to their high, peaceful valleys, and see the
light flash from the distant glaciers; the narrow gorge,
the deep abyss, the rushing torrent, the dark pines-all
are remembered, and the imagination is stimulated to
202
SCHILLER.
combine them in a picture at which the poet only hints.
The familiar sounds are heard, -the far-off "jodel," the
bells "of the high-pasturing kine;" and the Lake of
Lucerne we see in storm and in calm, and are made to
appreciate the charm of its quiet shores. Although in
one brief passage the action is represented as taking
place in early winter, the weather throughout is that of
summer, and the scenery stands forth in many different
aspects,-in bright moonlight, in the splendour of dawn,
in the freshness of the morning, in the full glow of day.
These varied elements, prominent as they are, are not
forced on the attention; they are depicted, not for their
own sake, but because without them the course of events
would be unintelligible.
The mountaineers, as Schiller describes them, accord
perfectly with the land in which they dwell. Here no
contrast is suggested between the world within and
the world without; there is no trace of the fever of
Obermann's "wounded spirit," of Manfred's rage and
agony. The people are calm, simple, and strong, loving
their mountains and passes, their lakes and valleys, but
hardly conscious of them as beautiful or grand-hardly,
indeed, thinking of them at all, only feeling that no-
where else could they be at home or at peace. They
cling to ancient rights, beliefs, and customs; and so
peaceful is their temper that they would not, probably,
resist slight aggression; but Gessler, the imperial bailiff,
gives them no alternative. Under his despotic govern-
ment, the honour of their wives and daughters is un-
safe; they are threatened with the loss of their posses-
sions; they do not enjoy the right of unrestricted move-
ment. Against such tyranny they cannot but fling
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
203
themselves; and we feel from the beginning that,
whatever may be the influences behind their harsh
ruler, he must sooner or later go down before the de-
termination of a brave and free race.
Tell does not take the lead in the movement; he is
not even one of the band who secretly vow to deliver
their country. Schiller's aim was to exhibit the heroism
of a whole people, not merely that of an individual; and
this aim would have been defeated had Tell or any one
else been made their chief. Tell, however, in an ideal
form, represents all the essential qualities of the popular
character. His words breathe the spirit of liberty; and
his manly bearing shows that to be "cabined, cribbed,
confined," would be to him worse than a thousand
deaths. His limbs have the strength and suppleness
that properly belong to the daring climber and hunts-
man; he is absolutely fearless, and passes unharmed
through dangers that could be faced only by one
of his firm nerve and inflexible will. Yet he has
the tenderness of a woman, and will risk his life to
rescue a lamb that has strayed from the flock. The
helpless and the suffering never appeal to him for aid
in vain; and his boys find in him a gentle companion
as well as a wise counsellor. His modesty is such that
no one ever hears except from common fame of his
romantic feats; and he is so conciliatory that even when
reproached for not doing reverence to the insulting
symbol of authority set up by Gessler, he is ready to
express regret and to promise compliance in future.
He does not indulge in extravagant declamation; nor
does he at any time determine his conduct in accord-
ance with large and deeply meditated schemes. When
204
SCHILLER.
he has anything to do, he dislikes to think much of
it beforehand, preferring to trust to the promptings
of his pure and loyal instincts. Although deeply sad-
dened by the position of his countrymen, he forms no
resolution for their deliverance until the full measure of
their wrongs is brought home to him by the mocking
injustice with which he himself is treated. He then
goes straight to the mark, and rids the cantons of
their oppressor, but without any pretension of heroic
virtue. As he takes his aim, he thinks not only
of himself and of his family, but of his people; and
when his mission is accomplished, he mounts to his
home in peace, untroubled by a single regret or doubt.
In order to bring out the contrast between his deed
and mere revolutionary violence, Schiller introduces
towards the end the murderer of the Emperor Albert,
a man overcome by remorse. The scene is unfortunate,
for it suggests that, after all, Tell's action presents a
problem about which opinions may differ; but the dis-
cord lasts only for a moment. As his countrymen sur-
round his cottage, and offer him the tribute of their
gratitude and love, his heroism reveals itself in its full
splendour. We see in him a type of lofty patriotism,
the incarnation of the energy, simplicity, and truth
befitting a man who lives in daily communion with
Nature in her noblest as well as her loveliest aspects.
Of the other characters, the three heads of the secret
confederation, Stauffacher, Walther Fürst, and Arnold
von Melchthal, are the most vigorously conceived,-the
first representing the steady impulses of mature life, the
second the prudent counsels of old age, the third the
vehemence of youth which has been wounded through
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
205
the affections. There is an admirable type of the old
class of Swiss nobles in Freiherr von Attinghausen, an
aged man conscious of his dignity, yet ruling his house
with patriarchal kindness, and making the cause of his
neighbours his own. Gessler has few individual traits,
but his violence and brutality are sufficiently displayed
to enable us to understand the hatred with which even
quiet country-folk conspire against him. Hedwig, Tell's
wife, anxious, narrow, and querulous, is an effective foil
to her husband's boldness and reserve; yet she is so
presented that we cannot dislike her, since her very
faults spring in some degree from her love. Bertha,
the rich heiress, interests us by the patriotic enthusiasm
through which she succeeds in striking a generous spark
in her selfish, irresolute lover, Rudenz, the nephew of
Attinghausen, who has in vain striven to win him for
his country's service. Best of all the female characters,
however, is Gertrude, Stauffacher's wife, who has some-
thing of Tell's heroic quality. It is she who, in an
early scene, suggests to Stauffacher the necessity of re-
sisting the tyrant :-
"Gertrude. So grave, my friend? I scarce do know thee
now.
For many days I have in silence watched
How sorrow ploughs deep furrows on thy brow.
Upon thy soul a secret burden weighs;
Oh, hide it not! I am thy faithful wife,
And rightfully may claim to share thy grief :
Confide to me what care doth gnaw thy heart.
Thy industry is blessed, and on thee smiles
Prosperity: thy barns are full, and troops
Of cattle, and of horses nourished well,
Have from the mountains safe returned, to pass
206
SCHILLER.
In pleasant stalls the coming winter months.
There stands thy house, rich as a noble's seat;
Of trunk-wood fair it has been lately reared,
And planned by proper rule; and graciously
Its many windows gleam, and on its walls.
Are coats of arms designed in varied hues,
And adages which travellers, lingering, read.
Stauffacher. Well planned and reared the dwelling stands,
but, ah!
'Twas built, methinks, upon a tottering base.
Gert. My Werner, say, what mean thy words?
Stauff.
Before
This lime-tree late I sat, as now, well pleased
To gaze upon the work we had achieved.
From Küssnacht rode the bailiff with his men,
And paused in wonder opposite the house.
I rose, and with respect approached the lord
Who represents the Emperor in our midst.
'Whose house is this?' he mocking cried, for well
He knew; a prudent answer I returned:-
This house, sir, is my lord the Emperor's,
And yours, and mine in fief;' and he replied,
"I rule this province in the Emperor's name,
And do not choose that peasants should have power
To build fair houses when they please, and live
As if they were the masters of the land;
I will presume to take that power away.'
Defiantly he then rode on; but I
Remained with anxious heart, and sadly weighed
His threat.
Gert. Dear lord and husband, wilt thou take
A word of honest counsel from thy wife?
Oft to my father, noble Iberg, came
The leaders of the people, and while they spoke,
We sisters sat and span, and heard them road
The parchments of the ancient emperors,
And carefully discuss the country's weal.
Many a word I marked, expressing that
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
207
1
;
Which is the wise man's thought, the good man's wish
And still I guard it safe within my heart.
The bailiff hates and seeks to injure thee,
Because by thy advice the men of Schwytz
Refuse to bend beneath the Hapsburg's yoke,
And do with stout and loyal hearts maintain,
As did their ancestors in days of old,
That to the Emperor alone they owe
Allegiance. Say, Werner, if I err.
Stauff. Such is indeed the source of Gessler's hate.
Gert. He envies thee because thou livest free
And happy on thine own inheritance,
For he has none. The Emperor himself
Grants thee thy house in fief, and thou display'st
Thy dwelling as a prince displays his lands:
No power on earth can claim thy reverence
Except the highest power in Christendom.
But haughty Gessler is a younger son,
And save his knightly mantle nought can show:
With jealous eyes he therefore contemplates
The better fortune of each honest man.
Thy ruin long ago he swore; unscathed
Thou still dost stand; but wilt thou tamely wait
Till he matures his plans, and safe can strike?
The prudent man prepares.
Stauff.
What can be done?
Gert. My counsel hear thou knowest how in Schwytz
All men detest the bailiff's greed and rage.
The men of Uri and of Unterwald,
Be sure, are not less weary of the yoke,
For Landenberg, like Gessler here, misrules
The people of the lands above the lake—
Intelligence of horrid outrage comes
With every boat that touches at our shores.
1. were, then, well that some of you, whose thought
Is firm and true, did secretly confer,
And plan to shake this dire oppression off :
High Heaven would not forsake you in your need,—
208
SCHILLER.
It would show favour to your righteous cause.
In Uri hast thou ne'er a friend to whom
In confidence thou mightst thy heart reveal?
Stauff. I know in Uri many valiant men,
And men of station, held in good esteem,
Whose loyal friendship I may freely trust.
Oh, what a storm of dangerous thoughts, my wife,
Dost thou awaken in my quiet breast!
To my unwilling gaze thou dost unfold
My inmost mind in open light of day ;
What I in secret ventured not to think,
Thou boldly dost with ready speech express.
But hast thou well considered thy advice?
The clang of arms, the rage of bitter strife,
Into this peaceful vale thou summonest.
Shall we, a feeble band of shepherds, dare
To war against the sovereign of the world?
They wait but for a show of right to send
Their hordes abroad on our unhappy land,
To rule us with a savage conqueror's power,
And with pretence of righteous punishment.
To tear the charters of our liberty.
Gert. Ye, too, are men, with strength to grasp and wield
The battle-axe; and God doth help the brave.
Stauff. O wife, a horror wild and mad is war;
The shepherd and his flocks alike it smites.
Gert. Misfortunes Heaven sends must be endured;
A noble heart will ne'er submit to wrong.
Stauff. Thou hast with pleasure seen our dwelling rise ;
The monster, War, would burn it to the ground.
Gert. Could I believe that temporal goods possessed
My heart, I would myself apply the brand.
Stauff. Thou art humane, and yet devouring war
Spares not the infant in its mother's arms.
Gert. From heaven a Friend looks down on innocence:
Direct thy gaze before thee, not behind!
Stauff. We men may perish, fighting to the last,
But thou, my Gertrude, what might be thy fate ?
A
1
SCHILLER'S LAST DRAMAS.
209
Gert. The weakest, too, may find, perchance, escape;
A leap from off this bridge, and I am free.
Stauff. (throwing himself into her arms.) Who such a
heart may to his bosom press,
He can for hearth and home with pleasure fight;
No king exists whose warlike hosts he fears."
"William Tell" was received with deeper and more
general enthusiasm than any of Schiller's other writings.
Germany was passing through one of the darkest periods
of her history; and the light of this great drama seemed
to flame across her sky, giving her hope of brighter days.
It is not merely, however, a drama of a particular era;
its matter appeals to permanent elements of human
nature, and the qualities of its form are independent of
the accidents of place and time.
Schiller left several dramatic plans, at one of which,
"Warbeck," he often worked; and after the completion
of "William Tell" he hesitated for some time between
it and "Demetrius." Of the latter play we possess (in
an incomplete form) the first act, and part of the
second. Nothing that Schiller wrote is more full of
life than the scene in the Polish Diet with which
"Demetrius " opens. There is also a finely poetic spirit
in the soliloquy in which Marfa, the widow of Czar
Ivan, persuades herself that Demetrius is her son, and
rejoices in his approach. These were the last lines
written by Schiller, and were found after his death in
his portfolio.
F.C.-XV.
A
O
210
CHAPTER XIV.
THE END,
IT was the habit of Schiller and Goethe to send each
other letters of greeting at the opening of each year.
On New-Year's Day 1805, Goethe, on glancing at the
letter he had written, saw he had dated it, "The Last
New Year." He at once tore the sheet, and beginning
another, found to his dismay that he could scarcely
resist the impulse to write "The Last New Year"
again. With all his enlightenment, there was in
Goethe, as in most people, a touch of superstition;
and he told Frau von Stein that he had a presentiment
that in the course of the year either he or Schiller
would die.
心
​Schiller had never quite recovered from the effects of
his illness in Jena in the summer of 1804.
"The
colour of his features changed," says his sister-in-law,
Caroline von Wolzogen, "becoming of a greyish hue, so
that it often alarmed me." In February 1805 he suf-
fered severely from a series of feverish attacks, which
in his weak state of health could not but have disastrous
consequences. It happened that Goethe was very ill
at the same time; and a young man, Heinrich Voss, a
11
}
1
"

Gott sei
gelobt!

C
THE END.
son of the well-known writer, watched sometimes during
the night with one or other of the poets, both of whom
liked him. He records that Goethe was a rather im-
patient sufferer, while Schiller was "gentleness itself."
Schiller would not willingly admit his weakness, and
tried hard to soften his wife's distress. On one occa-
sion, about midnight, when she and Voss were with
him, he begged her not to remain longer. As she hesi-
tated, he repeated the request earnestly, and then
almost with passion. She had hardly left the room
when he fainted; and on recovering he was consoled
by remembering that he had been able to send her
away in time.
When he became a little better, his
delight, Voss says, was almost childlike; and nothing
pleased him so much as to have his children beside
him, especially his youngest daughter, Emilie, at whom
he would sometimes gaze for a long time,
as if he
wished to think out to the end his infinite happiness in
the possession of such a child." In these last months,
according to Caroline von Wolzogen, "an unspeakable
mildness penetrated his whole being, and revealed itself.
in all his thought and feeling: he enjoyed a truly divine.
peace." New capacities of appreciation seemed to un-
fold themselves. Herder's Philosophy of the History
of Humanity' had never been quite to his taste; but
"now," he said to Caroline,—“I know not how it is,-
this book speaks to me in an entirely new way, and has
become very dear to me." Music, which did not for-
merly give him much enjoyment, he began to love; and
on hearing an air by Zingarelli from "Romeo and
Juliet" well sung, he was deeply moved. "Never,"
he declared, "has a song overpowered me in this way."
CC
211
212
SCHILLER.
His calm and hopeful spirit revealed itself in his manner
of talking about all subjects, serious and unimportant.
"Death," he said, in conversation with his sister-in-law,
"cannot be an evil, since it is universal.”
When he had sufficiently recovered to visit Goethe,
he sent Voss to announce his coming, in case Goethe
should not be strong enough to see him. "They fell on
each other's necks," says Voss, "and kissed one another,
before speaking a word. Neither mentioned his own ill-
ness, or that of the other; both gave themselves up to
the unmixed pleasure of meeting again with a cheerful
spirit." Schiller seized the opportunity of a temporary
relief from pain to work at "Demetrius;" and to these
days belong some of his most beautiful letters.
"For
>>
our relation to each other," he wrote to Wilhelm von
Humboldt in Rome, "time and space do not exist. Your
activity cannot so distract you, and mine cannot so limit
and narrow me, as to prevent us from always meeting
each other in what is right and worthy. And after all,
we are both idealists, and should be ashamed to have it
said of us that we did not form things, but that things
formed us.
To his sister Louise he wrote a kind letter,
regretting that their correspondence had been so long
interrupted, but expressing his resolve "to take up the
thread, and not again to let it be broken." Many plans
of travel he formed; and once, talking of a possible trip
to the Mediterranean, he suddenly broke out: "I believe
I shall be in China yet some day; it would be difficult,
no doubt; but I should be unhappy if I were absolutely
deprived of the hope."
All these bright visions were to vanish quickly. On
the 29th of April, Goethe, although ill, called for him
!
THE END.
213
As a promote and
just as Schiller was about to start for the theatre. Goethe
could not accompany him, and would not allow him to
give up the play; and so they parted at Schiller's door,
not again to see each other. Schiller returned from the
theatre in high fever; and next day when Voss, who
had taken him home, returned, he found Schiller, half
asleep, on the sofa. "Here I lie again," he said in a
hollow tone. For some days he was fully conscious,
and did not seem to suspect that he was in danger. On
the evening of the 6th of May he was delirious; but
there were occasional flashes of the old spirit. A sheet
of Kotzebue's periodical, the Freimüthige,' happened to
have been brought into his room.
"Take it away,"
he cried, "so that I may say with truth I have not
seen it give me fairy tales and stories of chivalry;
in them is the stuff for everything beautiful and
great." On the 8th, his sister-in-law having asked
how he was, "Ever better, ever more cheerful!" he
replied. In the evening of the same day, when
the sky was glowing in the sunset, he begged that
the curtains of the window might be drawn back: he
wished to see the sun. He gazed ardently at the spec-
tacle which he had loved so well; and nature smiled
gently on the dying poet. During the night his servant
heard him pray to be delivered from a lingering death;
and once he roused himself to recite a passage from
"Demetrius." Next day (the 9th of May 1805), he
was for the most part unconscious; but in the after-
noon, as his wife bent over him to smooth his pillow,
there was a last kind glance of recognition. She went
to tell her sister of this good sign; but both were soon
summoned to the sick-room. Lotte knelt by his bed
214
SCHILLER.
and pressed his hand, while Caroline, standing beside.
the doctor, laid warm cushions on his icy feet. Sud-
denly an electric shock seemed to flash across his fea-
tures. His head sank back, and the expression of suf-
fering was transformed into the repose of one who had
quietly fallen asleep.
END OF SCHILLER.
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