The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 463

On these grounds I might safely leave the chorus to be its own advocate, if we had ever seen it presented in an appropriate manner. But it must be remembered that a dramatic composition first a.s.sumes the character of a whole by means of representation on the stage. The poet supplies only the words, to which, in a lyrical tragedy, music and rhythmical motion are essential accessories. It follows, then, that if the chorus is deprived of accompaniments appealing so powerfully to the senses, it will appear a superfluity in the economy of the drama--a mere hinderance to the development of the plot--destructive to the illusion of the scene, and wearisome to the spectators.

To do justice to the chorus, more especially if our aims in poetry be of a grand and elevated character, we must transport ourselves from the actual to a possible stage. It is the privilege of art to furnish for itself whatever is requisite, and the accidental deficiency of auxiliaries ought not to confine the plastic imagination of the poet. He aspires to whatever is most dignified, he labors to realize the ideal in his own mind--though in the execution of his purpose he must needs accommodate himself to circ.u.mstances.

The a.s.sertion so commonly made that the public degrades art is not well founded. It is the artist that brings the public to the level of his own conceptions; and, in every age in which art has gone to decay, it has fallen through its professors. The people need feeling alone, and feeling they possess. They take their station before the curtain with an unvoiced longing, with a multifarious capacity. They bring with them an apt.i.tude for what is highest--they derive the greatest pleasure from what is judicious and true; and if, with these powers of appreciation, they deign to be satisfied with inferior productions, still, if they have once tasted what is excellent, they will in the end insist on having it supplied to them.

It is sometimes objected that the poet may labor according to an ideal-- that the critic may judge from ideas, but that mere executive art is subject to contingencies, and depends for effect on the occasion.

Managers will be obstinate; actors are bent on display--the audience is inattentive and unruly. Their object is relaxation, and they are disappointed if mental exertion be required, when they expected only amus.e.m.e.nt. But if the theatre be made instrumental towards higher objects, the diversion, of the spectator will not be increased, but enn.o.bled. It will be a diversion, but a poetical one. All art is dedicated to pleasure, and there can be no higher and worthier end than to make men happy. The true art is that which provides the highest degree of pleasure; and this consists in the abandonment of the spirit to the free play of all its faculties.

Every one expects from the imaginative arts a certain emanc.i.p.ation from the bounds of reality: we are willing to give a scope to fancy, and recreate ourselves with the possible. The man who expects it the least will nevertheless forget his ordinary pursuits, his everyday existence and individuality, and experience delight from uncommon incidents:--if he be of a serious turn of mind he will acknowledge on the stage that moral government of the world which he fails to discover in real life. But he is, at the same time, perfectly aware that all is an empty show, and that in a true sense he is feeding only on dreams. When he returns from the theatre to the world of realities, he is again compressed within its narrow bounds; he is its denizen as before--for it remains what it was, and in him nothing has been changed. What, then, has he gained beyond a momentary illusive pleasure which vanished with the occasion?

It is because a pa.s.sing recreation is alone desired that a mere show of truth is thought sufficient. I mean that probability or vraisemblance which is so highly esteemed, but which the commonest workers are able to subst.i.tute for the true.

Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely free; and this it accomplishes by awakening, exercising, and perfecting in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world; (which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down with a brute influence;) to transform it into the free working of our spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas.

For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth. It rears its ideal edifice on truth itself--on the solid and deep foundations of nature.

But how art can be at once altogether ideal, yet in the strictest sense real; how it can entirely leave the actual, and yet harmonize with nature, is a problem to the mult.i.tude; and hence the distorted views which prevail in regard to poetical and plastic works; for to ordinary judgments these two requisites seem to counteract each other.

It is commonly supposed that one may be attained by the sacrifice of the other;--the result is a failure to arrive at either. One to whom nature has given a true sensibility, but denied the plastic imaginative power, will be a faithful painter of the real; he will adapt casual appearances, but never catch the spirit of nature. He will only reproduce to us the matter of the world, which, not being our own work, the product of our creative spirit, can never have the beneficent operation of art, of which the essence is freedom. Serious indeed, but unpleasing, is the cast of thought with which such an artist and poet dismisses us; we feel ourselves painfully thrust back into the narrow sphere of reality by means of the very art which ought to have emanc.i.p.ated us. On the other hand, a writer endowed with a lively fancy, but dest.i.tute of warmth and individuality of feeling, will not concern himself in the least about truth; he will sport with the stuff of the world, and endeavor to surprise by whimsical combinations; and as his whole performance is nothing but foam and glitter, he will, it is true, engage the attention for a time, but build up and confirm nothing in the understanding. His playfulness is, like the gravity of the other, thoroughly unpoetical. To string together at will fantastical images is not to travel into the realm of the ideal; and the imitative reproduction of the actual cannot be called the representation of nature. Both requisites stand so little in contradiction to each other that they are rather one and the same thing; that art is only true insomuch as it altogether forsakes the actual, and becomes purely ideal. Nature herself is an idea of the mind, and is never presented to the senses. She lies under the veil of appearances, but is herself never apparent. To the art of the ideal alone is lent, or rather absolutely given, the privilege to grasp the spirit of the all and bind it in a corporeal form.

Yet, in truth, even art cannot present it to the senses, but by means of her creative power to the imaginative faculty alone; and it is thus that she becomes more true than all reality, and more real than all experience. It follows from these premises that the artist can use no single element taken from reality as he finds it--that his work must be ideal in all its parts, if it be designed to have, as it were, an intrinsic reality, and to harmonize with nature.

What is true of art and poetry, in the abstract, holds good as to their various kinds; and we may apply what has been advanced to the subject of tragedy. In this department it is still necessary to controvert the ordinary notion of the natural, with which poetry is altogether incompatible. A certain ideality has been allowed in painting, though, I fear, on grounds rather conventional than intrinsic; but in dramatic works what is desired is allusion, which, if it could be accomplished by means of the actual, would be, at best, a paltry deception. All the externals of a theatrical representation are opposed to this notion; all is merely a symbol of the real. The day itself in a theatre is an artificial one; the metrical dialogue is itself ideal; yet the conduct of the play must forsooth be real, and the general effect sacrificed to a part. Thus the French, who have utterly misconceived the spirit of the ancients, adopted on their stage the unities of tine and place in the most common and empirical sense; as though there were any place but the bare ideal one, or any other time than the mere sequence of the incidents.

By the introduction of a metrical dialogue an important progress has been made towards the poetical tragedy. A few lyrical dramas have been successful on the stage, and poetry, by its own living energy, has triumphed over prevailing prejudices. But so long as these erroneous views are entertained little has been done--for it is not enough barely to tolerate as a poetical license that which is, in truth, the essence of all poetry. The introduction of the chorus would be the last and decisive step; and if it only served this end, namely, to declare open and honorable warfare against naturalism in art, it would be for us a living wall which tragedy had drawn around herself, to guard her from contact with the world of reality, and maintain her own ideal soil, her poetical freedom.

It is well-known that the Greek tragedy had its origin in the chorus; and though in process of time it became independent, still it may be said that poetically, and in spirit, the chorus was the source of its existence, and that without these persevering supporters and witnesses of the incident a totally different order of poetry would have grown out of the drama. The abolition of the chorus, and the debas.e.m.e.nt of this sensibly powerful organ into the characterless subst.i.tute of a confidant, is by no means such an improvement in the tragedy as the French, and their imitators, would have it supposed to be.

The old tragedy, which at first only concerned itself with G.o.ds, heroes and kings introduced the chorus as an essential accompaniment. The poets found it in nature, and for that reason employed it. It grew out of the poetical aspect of real life. In the new tragedy it becomes an organ of art, which aids in making the poetry prominent. The modern poet no longer finds the chorus in nature; he must needs create and introduce it poetically; that is, he must resolve on such an adaption of his story as will admit of its retrocession to those primitive times and to that simple form of life.

The chorus thus renders more substantial service to the modern dramatist than to the old poet--and for this reason, that it transforms the commonplace actual world into the old poetical one; that it enables him to dispense with all that is repugnant to poetry, and conducts him back to the most simple, original, and genuine motives of action. The palaces of kings are in these days closed--courts of justice have been transferred from the gates of cities to the interior of buildings; writing has narrowed the province of speech; the people itself--the sensibly living ma.s.s--when it does not operate as brute force, has become a part of the civil polity, and thereby an abstract idea in our minds; the deities have returned within the bosoms of mankind. The poet must reopen the palaces--he must place courts of justice beneath the canopy of heaven--restore the G.o.ds, reproduce every extreme which the artificial frame of actual life has abolished--throw aside every fact.i.tious influence on the mind or condition of man which impedes the manifestation of his inward nature and primitive character, as the statuary rejects modern costume:--and of all external circ.u.mstances adopts nothing but what is palpable in the highest of forms--that of humanity.

But precisely as the painter throws around his figures draperies of ample volume, to fill up the s.p.a.ce of his picture richly and gracefully, to arrange its several parts in harmonious ma.s.ses, to give due play to color, which charms and refreshes the eye--and at once to envelop human forms in a spiritual veil, and make them visible--so the tragic poet inlays and entwines his rigidly contracted plot and the strong outlines of his characters with a tissue of lyrical magnificence, in which, as in flowing robes of purple, they move freely and n.o.bly, with a sustained dignity and exalted repose.

In a higher organization, the material, or the elementary, need not be visible; the chemical color vanishes in the finer tints of the imaginative one. The material, however, has its peculiar effect, and may be included in an artistical composition. But it must deserve its place by animation, fulness and harmony, and give value to the ideal forms which it surrounds instead of stifling them by its weight.

In respect of the pictorial art, this is obvious to ordinary apprehension, yet in poetry likewise, and in the tragical kind, which is our immediate subject, the same doctrine holds good. Whatever fascinates the senses alone is mere matter, and the rude element of a work of art:-- if it takes the lead it will inevitably destroy the poetical--which lies at the exact medium between the ideal and the sensible. But man is so const.i.tuted that he is ever impatient to pa.s.s from what is fanciful to what is common; and reflection must, therefore, have its place even in tragedy. But to merit this place it must, by means of delivery, recover what it wants in actual life; for if the two elements of poetry, the ideal and the sensible, do not operate with an inward mutuality, they must at least act as allies--or poetry is out of the question. If the balance be not intrinsically perfect, the equipoise can only be maintained by an agitation of both scales.

This is what the chorus effects in tragedy. It is in itself, not an individual but a general conception; yet it is represented by a palpable body which appeals to the senses with an imposing grandeur. It forsakes the contracted sphere of the incidents to dilate itself over the past and the future, over distant times and nations, and general humanity, to deduce the grand results of life, and p.r.o.nounce the lessons of wisdom.

But all this it does with the full power of fancy--with a bold lyrical freedom which ascends, as with G.o.dlike step, to the topmost height of worldly things; and it effects it in conjunction with the whole sensible influence of melody and rhythm, in tones and movements.

The chorus thus exercises a purifying influence on tragic poetry, insomuch as it keeps reflection apart from the incidents, and by this separation arms it with a poetical vigor, as the painter, by means of a rich drapery, changes the ordinary poverty of costume into a charm and ornament.

But as the painter finds himself obliged to strengthen the tone of color of the living subject, in order to counterbalance the material influences--so the lyrical effusions of the chorus impose upon the poet the necessity of a proportionate elevation of his general diction. It is the chorus alone which ent.i.tles the poet to employ this fulness of tone, which at once charms the senses, pervades the spirit, and expands the mind. This one giant form on his canvas obliges him to mount all his figures on the cothurnus, and thus impart a tragical grandeur to his picture. If the chorus be taken away, the diction of the tragedy must generally be lowered, or what is now great and majestic will appear forced and overstrained. The old chorus introduced into the French tragedy would present it in all its poverty, and reduce it to nothing; yet, without doubt, the same accompaniment would impart to Shakspeare's tragedy its true significance.

As the chorus gives life to the language--so also it gives repose to the action; but it is that beautiful and lofty repose which is the characteristic of a true work of art. For the mind of the spectator ought to maintain its freedom through the most impa.s.sioned scenes; it should not be the mere prey of impressions, but calmly and severely detach itself from the emotions which it suffers. The commonplace objection made to the chorus, that it disturbs the illusion, and blunts the edge of the feelings, is what const.i.tutes its highest recommendation; for it is this blind force of the affections which the true artist deprecates--this illusion is what he disdains to excite. If the strokes which tragedy inflicts on our bosoms followed without respite, the pa.s.sion would overpower the action. We should mix ourselves with the subject-matter, and no longer stand above it. It is by holding asunder the different parts, and stepping between the pa.s.sions with its composing views, that the chorus restores to us our freedom, which would else be lost in the tempest. The characters of the drama need this intermission in order to collect themselves; for they are no real beings who obey the impulse of the moment, and merely represent individuals--but ideal persons and representatives of their species, who enunciate the deep things of humanity.

Thus much on my attempt to revive the old chorus on the tragic stage. It is true that choruses are not unknown to modern tragedy; but the chorus of the Greek drama, as I have employed it--the chorus, as a single ideal person, furthering and accompanying the whole plot--if of an entirely distinct character; and when, in discussion on the Greek tragedy, I hear mention made of choruses, I generally suspect the speaker's ignorance of his subject. In my view the chorus has never been reproduced since the decline of the old tragedy.

I have divided it into two parts, and represented it in contest with itself; but this occurs where it acts as a real person, and as an unthinking mult.i.tude. As chorus and an ideal person it is always one and entire. I have also several times dispensed with its presence on the stage. For this liberty I have the example of Aeschylus, the creator of tragedy, and Sophocles, the greatest master of his art.

Another license it may be more difficult to excuse. I have blended together the Christian religion and the pagan mythology, and introduced recollections of the Moorish superst.i.tion. But the scene of the drama is Messina--where these three religions either exercised a living influence, or appealed to the senses in monumental remains. Besides, I consider it a privilege of poetry to deal with different religions as a collective whole. In which everything that bears an individual character, and expresses a peculiar mode of feeling, has its place. Religion itself, the idea of a Divine Power, lies under the veil of all religions; and it must be permitted to the poet to represent it in the form which appears the most appropriate to his subject.

SCHILLER'S POEMS

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE FIRST PERIOD

Hector and Andromache Amalia A Funeral Fantasie Fantasie--To Laura To Laura at the Harpsichord Group from Tartarus Rapture--To Laura To Laura (The Mystery of Reminiscence) Melancholy--To Laura The Infanticide The Greatness of the World Fortune and Wisdom Elegy on the Death of a Young Man The Battle Rousseau Friends.h.i.+p Elysium The Fugitive To Minna The Flowers The Triumph of Love (A Hymn) To a Moralist Count Eberhard, the Groaner of Wurtemburg To the Spring Semele

POEMS OF THE SECOND PERIOD

Hymn to Joy The Invincible Armada The G.o.ds of Greece Resignation The Conflict The Artists The Celebrated Woman Written in a Young Lady's Alb.u.m

POEMS OF THE THIRD PERIOD

The Meeting The Secret The a.s.signation Longing Evening (After a Picture) The Pilgrim The Ideals The Youth by the Brook To Emma The Favor of the Moment The Lay of the Mountain The Alpine Hunter Dithyramb The Four Ages of the World The Maiden's Lament To My Friends Punch Song Nadowessian Death Lament The Feast of Victory Punch Song The Complaint of Ceres The Eleusinian Festival The Ring of Polycrates The Cranes of Ibycus (A Ballad) The Playing Infant Hero and Leander (A Ballad) Ca.s.sandra The Hostage (A Ballad) Greekism The Diver (A Ballad) The Fight with the Dragon Female Judgment Fridolin; or, the Walk to the Iron Foundry The Genius with the Inverted Torch The Count of Hapsburg (A Ballad) The Forum of Women The Glove (A Tale) The Circle of Nature The Veiled Statue at Sais The Division of the Earth The Fairest Apparition The Ideal and the Actual Life Germany and her Princes Dangerous Consequences The Maiden from Afar The Honorable Parables and Riddles The Virtue of Woman The Walk The Lay of the Bell The Power of Song To Proselytizers Honor to Woman Hope The German Art Odysseus Carthage The Sower The Knights of St. John The Merchant German Faith The s.e.xes Love and Desire The Bards of Olden Time Jove to Hercules The Antiques of Paris Thekla (A Spirit Voice) The Antique to the Northern Wanderer The Iliad Pompeii and Herculaneum Naenia The Maid of Orleans Archimedes The Dance The Fortune-Favored Bookseller's Announcement Genius Honors The Philosophical Egotist The Best State Const.i.tution The Words of Belief The Words of Error The Power of Woman The Two Paths of Virtue The Proverbs of Confucius Human Knowledge Columbus Light and Warmth Breadth and Depth The Two Guides of Life The Immutable

VOTIVE TABLETS Different Destinies The Animating Principle Two Descriptions of Action Difference of Station Worth and the Worthy The Moral Force Partic.i.p.ation To---- The Present Generation To the Muse The Learned Workman The Duty of All A Problem The Peculiar Ideal To Mystics The Key The Observer Wisdom and Prudence The Agreement Political Precept Majestas Populi The Difficult Union To a World-Reformer My Antipathy Astronomical Writings The Best State To Astronomers My Faith Inside and Outside Friend and Foe Light and Color Genius Beauteous Individuality Variety The imitator Geniality The Inquirers Correctness The Three Ages of Nature The Law of Nature Choice Science of Music To the Poet Language The Master The Girdle The Dilettante The Babbler of Art The Philosophies The Favor of the Muses Homer's Head as a Seal

Goodness and Greatness The Impulses Naturalists and Transcendental Philosophers German Genius Theophania

TRIFLES The Epic Hexameter The Distich The Eight-line Stanza The Obelisk The Triumphal Arch The Beautiful Bridge The Gate St. Peter's

The Philosophers The Homerides G. G.

The Moral Poet The Danaides The Sublime Subject The Artifice Immortality Jeremiads Shakespeare's Ghost The Rivers Zenith and Nadir Kant and his Commentators The Philosophers The Metaphysician Pegasus in harness Knowledge The Poetry of Life To Goethe The Present Departure from Life Verses written in the Alb.u.m of a Learned Friend Verses written in the Alb.u.m of a Friend The Sunday Children The Highest The Puppet-show of Life To Lawgivers False Impulse to Study To the Prince of Weimar The Ideal of Woman (To Amanda) The Fountain of Second Youth William Tell To a Young Friend Devoting Himself to Philosophy Expectation and Fulfilment The Common Fate Human Action Nuptial Ode The Commencement of the New Century Grecian Genius The Father The Connecting Medium The Moment German Comedy Farewell to the Reader

Dedications to Death Preface

SUPPRESSED POEMS

The Journalists and Minos Bacchus in the Pillory Spinosa To the Fates The Parallel Klopstock and Wieland The Muses' Revenge The Hypochondriacal Pluto (A Romance) Book I Book II Book III Reproach. To Laura The Simple Peasant Actaeon Man's Dignity The Messiah Thoughts on the 1st October, 1781 Epitaph Quirl The Plague (A Phantasy) Monument of Moor the Robber The Bad Monarchs The Satyr and My Muse The Peasants The Winter Night The Wirtemberger The Mole Hymn to the Eternal Dialogue Epitaph on a Certain Physiognomist Trust in Immortality Appendix to Poems

POEMS OF SCHILLER.

POEMS OF THE FIRST PERIOD.