"Don't shoot! don't shoot! I'm a lonely man," wailed Nose Star piteously, pressing his face against the wall, and trembling and murmuring prayers in this position.

"But say, what has happened?" cried Jaekel the Fool, with all the impatient curiosity which was even then characteristic of the Frankfort Jews.

But the Rabbi impatiently broke loose from them, and went his way along the Jews' Street. "See, Sara!" he exclaimed, "how badly guarded is our Israel. False friends guard its gates without, and within its watchers are Folly and Fear."

They wandered slowly through the long empty street, where only here and there the head of some young girl showed itself in a window, against the polished panes of which the sun was brilliantly reflected. At that time the houses in the Jewish quarter were still neat and new, and much lower than they now are, since it was only later on that the Jews, as their number greatly increased, while they could not enlarge their quarter, built one story over another, squeezed themselves together like sardines, and were thus stunted both in body and soul. That part of the Jewish quarter which remained standing after the great fire, and which is called the Old Lane, those high blackened houses, where a grinning, sweaty race of people bargains and chaffers, is a horrible relic of the Middle Ages. The older synagogue exists no more; it was less capacious than the present one, which was built later, after the Nuremberg exiles were taken into the community, and lay more to the north.

The Rabbi had no need to ask where it was. He recognized it from afar by the buzz of many loud voices. In the court of the House of God he parted from his wife, and after washing his hands at the fountain there, he entered the lower part of the synagogue where the men pray, while Sara ascended a flight of stairs and entered the place reserved for women. The latter was a kind of gallery with three rows of seats painted a reddish brown, whose backs were fitted with a hanging board, which held the prayer-books, and which could be raised and lowered. Here the women either sat gossiping or stood up in deep prayer. They often went and peered with curiosity through the large grating on the eastern side, through the thin, green lattice of which one could look down on the lower floor of the synagogue. There, behind high praying-desks, stood the men in their black cloaks, their pointed beards shooting out over white ruffs, and their skull-capped heads more or less concealed by a four-cornered scarf of white wool or silk, furnished with the prescribed tassels, and in some instances also adorned with gold lace. The walls of the synagogue were uniformly white-washed, and no ornament was to be seen other than the gilded iron grating around the square stage, where extracts from the Law were read, and the holy ark, a costly embossed chest, apparently supported by marble columns with gorgeous capitals, whose flower-and leaf-work shot up in beautiful profusion, and covered with a curtain of purple velvet, on which a pious inscription was worked in gold spangles, pearls, and many colored gems. Here hung the silver memorial-lamp, and there also rose a trellised dais, on whose crossed iron bars were all kinds of sacred utensils, among them the seven-branched candlestick. Before the latter, his countenance toward the ark, stood the choir-leader, whose song was accompanied, as if instrumentally, by the voices of his two assistants, the bass and the treble. The Jews have banished all instrumental music from their church, maintaining that hymns in praise of God are more edifying when they rise from the warm breast of man, than from the cold pipes of an organ.

Beautiful Sara felt a childish delight when the choir-leader, an admirable tenor, raised his voice and sounded forth the ancient, solemn melodies, which she knew so well, in a fresher loveliness than she had ever dreamed of, while the bass sang in harmony the deep, dark notes, and, in the pauses, the treble's voice trilled sweetly and daintily. Such singing Beautiful Sara had never heard in the synagogue of Bacharach, where the presiding elder, David Levi, was the leader; for when this elderly, trembling man, with his broken, bleating voice, tried to trill like a young girl, and in his forced effort to do so, shook his limp and drooping arm feverishly, it inspired laughter rather than devotion.

A sense of pious satisfaction, not unmingled with feminine curiosity, drew Beautiful Sara to the grating, where she could look down on the lower floor, or the so-called men's division. She had never before seen so many of her faith together, and it cheered her heart to be in such a multitude of those so closely allied by race, thought, and sufferings. And her soul was still more deeply moved when three old men reverentially approached the sacred ark, drew aside the glittering curtain, raised the lid, and very carefully brought forth the Book which God wrote with His own hand, and for the maintenance of which Jews have suffered so much—so much misery and hate, disgrace and death—a thousand years' martyrdom. This Book—a great roll of parchment—was wrapped like a princely child in a gaily embroidered scarlet cloak of velvet; above, on both wooden rollers, were two little silver shrines, in which many pomegranates and small bells jingled and rang prettily, while before, on a silver chain, hung gold shields with many colored gems. The choir-leader took the Book, and, as if it really were a child—a child for whom one has greatly suffered, and whom one loves all the more on that account—he rocked it in his arms, skipped about with it here and there, pressed it to his breast, and, thrilled by its holy touch, broke forth into such a devout hymn of praise and thanksgiving, that it seemed to Beautiful Sara as if the pillars under the holy ark began to bloom; and the strange and lovely flowers and leaves on the capitals shot ever higher, the tones of the treble were converted into the notes of the nightingale, the vaulted ceiling of the synagogue resounded with the tremendous tones of the bass singer, while the glory of God shone down from the blue heavens. Yes, it was a beautiful psalm. The congregation sang in chorus the concluding verse, and then the choir-leader walked slowly to the raised platform in the middle of the synagogue bearing the holy Book, while men and boys crowded about him, eager to kiss its velvet covering, or even to touch it. On the platform, the velvet cover, as well as the wrappings covered with illuminated letters, were removed, and the choir-leader, in the peculiar intonation which in the Passover service is still more peculiarly modulated, read the edifying narrative of the temptation of Abraham.

Beautiful Sara had modestly withdrawn from the grating, and a stout, much ornamented woman of middle age, with a forward, but benevolent manner, had with a nod invited her to share her prayer-book. This lady was evidently no great scholar, for as she mumbled to herself the prayers as the women do, not being allowed to take part in the singing, Sara observed that she made the best she could of many words, and skipped several good lines altogether. But after a while the watery blue eyes of the good woman were languidly raised, an insipid smile spread over her red and white porcelain face, and in a voice which she strove to make as genteel as possible, she said to Beautiful Sara, "He sings very well. But I have heard far better singing in Holland. You are a stranger, and perhaps do not know that the choir-leader is from Worms, and that they will keep him here if he will be content with four hundred florins a year. He is a charming man, and his hands are as white as alabaster. I admire beautiful hands; they make one altogether beautiful." Having said this, the good lady laid her own hand, which was really a fine one, on the shelf before her, and with a polite nod which intimated that she did not like to be interrupted while speaking, she added, "The little singer is a mere child, and looks very much worn out. The basso is too ugly for anything; our Star once made the witty remark: 'The bass singer is a bigger fool than even a basso is expected to be!' All three eat in my restaurant—perhaps you don't know that I'm Elle Schnapper?"

Beautiful Sara expressed thanks for this information, whereupon Schnapper-Elle proceeded to narrate in detail how she had once been in Amsterdam, how she had been subjected to the advances of men on account of her beauty, how she had come to Frankfort three days before Whit-suntide and married Schnapper, how he had died, and what touching things he had finally said on his deathbed, and how hard it was to carry on the restaurant business and keep one's hands nice. Several times she glanced aside with a contemptuous air, apparently at some giggling girls, who seemed to be eyeing her clothes. And the latter were indeed remarkable enough—a very loose skirt of white satin, on which all the animals of Noah's Ark were embroidered in gaudy colors; a jacket of gold cloth, like a cuirass, with sleeves of red velvet, yellow slashed; a very high cap on her head, with a mighty ruff of stiff white linen around her neck, which also had around it a silver chain hung with all kinds of coins, cameos, and curiosities, among them a large picture of the city of Amsterdam, which rested on her bosom.

But the dresses of the other women were no less remarkable. They consisted of a variety of fashions of different ages, and many a woman there was so covered with gold and diamonds as to look like a wandering jeweler's shop. It is true that there was at that time a fashion of dress prescribed by law to the Frankfort Jews, and to distinguish them from Christians the men had to wear yellow rings on their cloaks, and the women very stiff, blue-striped veils on their caps. However, in the Jewish quarter the law was little observed, and there, in the synagogue, especially on festival days, the women put on as much magnificent apparel as they could—partly to arouse envy of others, and partly to advertise the wealth and credit of their husbands.

While passages from the Books of Moses are being read on the lower floor of the synagogue, the devotion is usually somewhat lulled. Many make themselves comfortable and sit down, whispering perhaps business affairs with a friend, or go out into the court to get a little fresh air. Small boys take the liberty of visiting their mothers in the women's balcony; and here worship is still more loosely observed, as there is gossiping, chattering, and laughing, while, as always happens, the young quizz the old, and the latter censure the light-headedness of the girls and the general degeneracy of the age.

And just as there was a choir-leader on the floor below, so was there a gossip-leader in the balcony above. This was Puppy Reiss, a vulgar, greenish woman, who found out about everybody's troubles, and always had a scandal on her tongue. The usual butt of her pointed sayings was poor Schnapper-Elle, and she could mock right well the affected genteel airs and languishing manner with which the latter accepted the insincere compliments of young men.

"Do you know," cried Puppy Reiss, "Schnapper-Elle said yesterday, 'If I were not beautiful and clever, and beloved, I had rather not be alive.'"

Then there was loud tittering, and Schnapper-Elle, who was not far distant, noting that this was all at her expense, lifted her nose in scorn, and sailed away, like a proud galley, to some remote corner. Then Birdie Ochs, a plump and somewhat awkward lady, remarked compassionately that Schnapper-Elle might be a little vain and small of mind, but that she was an honest, generous soul, and did much good to many folk in need.

"Particularly to Nose Star," snapped Puppy Reiss. And all who knew of this tender relation laughed all the louder.

"Don't you know," added Puppy spitefully, "that Nose Star now sleeps in Schnapper-Elle's house! But just look at Susy Floersheim down there, wearing the necklace which Daniel Flaesch pawned to her husband! Flaesch's wife is vexed about it—that is plain. And now she is talking to Mrs. Floersheim. How amiably they shake hands!—and hate each other like Midian and Moab! How sweetly they smile on each other! Oh, you dear souls, don't eat each other up out of pure love! I'll just steal up and listen to them!"

And so, like a sneaking wildcat, Puppy Reiss crept up and listened to the two women bewailing to each other how they had worked all the past week to clean up the house and scour the kitchen things, and complaining about all they had to do before Passover, so that not a crumb of leavened bread should stick to anything. And such troubles as they had baking the unleavened bread! Mrs. Flaesch had special cause for complaint—for she had had no end of trouble over it in the public bakery, where, according to the ticket she drew, she could not bake till the afternoon of the very last day, just before Passover Eve; and then old Hannah had kneaded the dough badly, and the maids had rolled it too thin, and half of it was scorched in baking, and worst of all, rain came pouring through the bake-house roof; and so, wet and weary, they had had to work till late in the night.

"And, my dear Mrs. Floersheim," said Mrs. Flaesch, with gracious friendliness most insincere, "you were a little to blame for that, because you did not send your people to help me in baking."

"Ah! pardon," replied the other. "My servants were so busy—the goods for the fair had to be packed—my husband"—

"Yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. Flaesch, with cutting irony in her speech. "I know that you have much to do—many pledges and a good business, and necklaces"—

And a bitter word was just about to slip from the lips of the speaker, and Dame Floersheim had turned as red as a lobster, when Puppy Reiss cried out loudly, "For God's sake!—the strange lady lies dying—water! water!"

Beautiful Sara lay in a faint, as pale as death, while a swarm of excited women crowded around her, one holding her head, another her arm, while some old women sprinkled her with the glasses of water which hung behind their prayer desks for washing the hands in case they should by accident touch their own bodies. Others held under her nose an old lemon full of spices, which was left over from the last feast-day, when it had served for smelling and strengthening the nerves. Exhausted and sighing deeply, Beautiful Sara at last opened her eyes, and with mute glances thanked them for their kind care. But now the eighteen-prayer, which no one dared neglect, was being solemnly chanted below, and the busy women hurried back to their places and offered the prayer as the rite ordains, that is, standing up with their faces turned toward the east, which is that part of the heavens where Jerusalem lies. Birdie Ochs, Schnapper-Elle, and Puppy Reiss stayed to the last with Beautiful Sara—the first two to aid her as much as possible, the other two to find out why she had fainted so suddenly.

Beautiful Sara had swooned from a singular cause. It is a custom in the synagogue that any one who has escaped a great danger shall, after the reading of the extracts from the Law, appear in public and return thanks for his divine deliverance. As Rabbi Abraham rose to his feet to make his prayer, and Beautiful Sara recognized her husband's voice, she noticed that his voice gradually subsided into the mournful murmur of a prayer for the dead. She heard the names of her dear kinsfolk, accompanied by the words which convey the blessing on the departed; and the last hope vanished from her soul, for it was torn by the certainty that those dear ones had really been slain, that her little niece was dead, that her little cousins Posy and Birdy were dead, that little Gottschalk too was dead—all murdered and dead! And she, too, would have succumbed to the agony of this realization, had not a kind swoon poured forgetfulness over her senses.

CHAPTER III

When Beautiful Sara, after divine service was ended, went down into the courtyard of the synagogue, the Rabbi stood there waiting for her. He nodded to her with a cheerful expression, and accompanied her out into the street, where there was no longer silence but a noisy multitude. It was like a swarm of ants—bearded men in black coats, women gleaming and fluttering like gold-chafers, boys in new clothes carrying prayer-books after their parents, young girls who, because they could not enter the synagogue, now came bounding to their parents, bowing their curly heads to receive their blessing—all gay and merry, and walking up and down the street in the happy anticipation of a good dinner, the savory odor of which—causing their mouths to water—rose from many black pots, marked with chalk, and carried by smiling girls from the large community kitchens.

In this multitude particularly conspicuous was the form of a Spanish cavalier, whose youthful features bore that fascinating pallor which ladies generally attribute to an unfortunate—and men, on the contrary, to a very fortunate—love affair. His gait, although naturally carefree, had in it, however, a somewhat affected daintiness. The feathers in his cap were agitated more by the aristocratic motion of his head than by the wind; and his golden spurs, and the jeweled hilt of his sword, which he bore on his arm, rattled rather more than was necessary. A white cavalier's cloak enveloped his slender limbs in an apparently careless manner, but, in reality, betrayed the most careful arrangement of the folds. Passing and repassing, partly with curiosity, partly with an air of a connoisseur, he approached the women walking by, looked calmly at them, paused when he thought a face was worth the trouble, gave to many a pretty girl a passing compliment, and went his way heedless as to its effect. He had met Beautiful Sara more than once, but every time had seemed to be repelled by her commanding look, or else by the enigmatical smile of her husband. Finally, however, proudly conquering all diffidence, he boldly faced both, and with foppish confidence made, in a tenderly gallant tone, the following speech: "Senora!—list to me!—I swear—by the roses of both the kingdoms of Castile, by the Aragonese hyacinths and the pomegranate blossoms of Andalusia! by the sun which illumines all Spain, with its flowers, onions, pea-soups, forests, mountains, mules, he-goats, and Old Christians! by the canopy of heaven, on which this sun is merely a golden tassel! and by the God who abides in heaven and meditates day and night over the creation of new forms of lovely women!—I swear that you, Senora, are the fairest dame whom I have seen in all the German realm, and if you please to accept my service, then I pray of you the favor, grace, and leave to call myself your knight and bear your colors henceforth in jest or earnest!"

A flush of pain rose in the face of Beautiful Sara, and with one of those glances which cut the deeper when they come from gentle eyes, and with a tone such as is bitterest coming from a beautiful voice, the lady answered, as one deeply hurt:

"My noble lord, if you will be my knight you must fight whole races, and in the battle there will be little thanks to win and less honor; and if you will wear my colors, then you must sew yellow rings on your cloak, or bind yourself with a blue-striped scarf, for such are my colors—the colors of my house, the House of Israel, which is wretched indeed, one mocked in the streets by the sons of fortune."

A sudden purple red shot into the cheeks of the Spaniard; an inexpressible confusion seemed to have seized him as he stammered—

"Senora, you misunderstood me—an innocent jest—but, by God, no mockery, no scorn of Israel. I myself am sprung from that house; my grandfather was a Jew, perhaps even my father."

"And it is very certain, Senor, that your uncle is one," suddenly exclaimed the Rabbi, who had calmly witnessed this scene; and with a merry, quizzical glance, he added, "And I myself will vouch that Don Isaac Abarbanel, nephew of the great Rabbi, is sprung from the best blood of Israel, if not from the royal race of David!"

The chain of the sword rattled under the Spaniard's cloak, his cheeks became deadly white, his upper lip twitched as with scorn in which there was pain, and angry death grinned in his eyes, as in an utterly changed, ice-cold, keen voice he said:

"Senor Rabbi, you know me. Well, then, you know also who I am. And if the fox knows that I belong to the blood of the lion, let him beware and not bring his fox-beard into danger of death, nor provoke my anger. Only he who feels like the lion can understand his weakness."

"Oh, I understand it well," answered the Rabbi, and a melancholy seriousness came over his brow. "I understand it well, how the proud lion, out of pride, casts aside his princely coat and goes about disguised in the scaly armor of the crocodile, because it is the fashion to be a grinning, cunning, greedy crocodile! What can you expect the lesser beasts to be when the lion denies his nature? But beware, Don Isaac, thou wert not made for the element of the crocodile. For water—thou knowest well what I mean—is thy evil fortune, and thou shalt drown. Water is not thy element; the weakest trout can live in it better than the king of the forest. Hast thou forgotten how the current of the Tagus was about to draw thee under—?"

Bursting into loud laughter, Don Isaac suddenly threw his arms round the Rabbi's neck, covered his mouth with kisses, leapt with jingling spurs high into the air, so that the passing Jews shrank back in alarm, and in his own natural hearty and joyous voice cried—

"Truly thou art Abraham of Bacharach! And it was a good joke, and more than that, a friendly act, when thou, in Toledo, didst leap from the Alcantara bridge into the water, and grasp by the hair thy friend, who could drink better than he could swim, and drew him to dry land. I came very near making a really deep investigation as to whether there is actually gold in the bed of the Tagus, and whether the Romans were right in calling it the golden river. I assure you that I shiver even now at the mere thought of that water-party."

Saying this the Spaniard made a gesture as if he were shaking water from his garments. The countenance of the Rabbi expressed great joy as he again and again pressed his friend's hand, saying every time—

"I am indeed glad."

"And so, indeed, am I," answered the other. "It is seven years now since we met, and when we parted I was as yet a mere greenhorn, and thou—thou wert already a staid and serious man. But whatever became of the beautiful Dona who in those days cost thee so many sighs, which thou didst accompany with the lute?"

"Hush, hush! the Dona hears us—she is my wife, and thou thyself hast given her today proof of thy taste and poetic skill."

It was not without some trace of his former embarrassment that the Spaniard greeted the beautiful lady, who amiably regretted that she, by expressing herself so plainly, had pained a friend of her husband.

"Ah, Senora," replied Don Isaac, "he who grasps too clumsily at a rose must not complain if the thorns scratch. When the star of evening reflects its golden light in the azure flood"—

"I beg of you!" interrupted the Rabbi, "to cease! If we wait till the star of evening reflects its golden light in the azure flood, my wife will starve, for she has eaten nothing since yesterday, and suffered much in the mean-while."

"Well, then, I will take you to the best restaurant of Israel," said Don Isaac, "to the house of my friend Schnapper-Elle, which is not far away. I already smell the savory odors from the kitchen! Oh, didst thou but know, O Abraham, how this odor appeals to me. This it is which, since I have dwelt in this city, has so often lured me to the tents of Jacob. Intercourse with God's people is not a hobby of mine, and truly it is not to pray, but to eat, that I visit the Jews' Street."

"Thou hast never loved us, Don Isaac."

"Well," continued the Spaniard, "I like your food much better than your creed—which wants the right sauce. I never could rightly digest you. Even in your best days, under the rule of my ancestor David, who was king over Judah and Israel, I never could have held out, and certainly I should some fine morning have run away from Mount Zion and emigrated to Phoenicia or Babylon, where the joys of life foamed in the temple of the gods."

"Thou blasphemest, Isaac, blasphemest the one God," murmured the Rabbi grimly. "Thou art much worse than a Christian—thou art a heathen, a servant of idols."

"Yes, I am a heathen, and the melancholy, self-tormenting Nazarenes are quite as little to my taste as the dry and joyless Hebrews. May our dear Lady of Sidon, holy Astarte, forgive me, that I kneel before the many sorrowed Mother of the Crucified and pray. Only my knee and my tongue worship death—my heart remains true to life. But do not look so sourly," continued the Spaniard, as he saw what little gratification his words seemed to give the Rabbi. "Do not look at me with disdain. My nose is not a renegade. When once by chance I came into this street at dinner time, and the well-known savory odors of the Jewish kitchen rose to my nose, I was seized with the same yearning which our fathers felt for the fleshpots of Egypt—pleasant tasting memories of youth came back to me. In imagination I saw again the carp with brown raisin sauce which my aunt prepared so sustainingly for Friday eve; I saw once more the steamed mutton with garlic and horseradish, which might have raised the dead, and the soup with dreamily swimming dumplings in it—and my soul melted like the notes of an enamored nightingale—and since then I have been eating in the restaurant of my friend Dona Schnapper-Elle."

Meanwhile they had arrived at this highly lauded place, where Schnapper-Elle stood at the door cordially greeting the strangers who had come to the fair, and who, led by hunger, were now streaming in. Behind her, sticking his head out over her shoulder, was the tall Nose Star, anxiously and inquisitively observing them. Don Isaac with an exaggerated air of dignity approached the landlady, who returned his satirical reverence with endless curtsies. Thereupon he drew the glove from his right hand, wrapped it, the hand, in the fold of his cloak, and grasping Schnapper-Elle's hand, slowly drew it over his moustache, saying:

"Senora! your eyes rival the brilliancy of the sun! But as eggs, the longer they are boiled the harder they become, so vice versa my heart grows softer the longer it is cooked in the flaming flashes of your eyes. From the yolk of my heart flies up the winged god Amor and seeks a confiding nest in your bosom. And oh, Senora, wherewith shall I compare that bosom? For in all the world there is no flower, no fruit, which is like to it! It is the one thing of its kind! Though the wind tears away the leaves from the tenderest rose, your bosom is still a winter rose which defies all storms. Though the sour lemon, the older it grows the yellower and more wrinkled it becomes, your bosom rivals in color and softness the sweetest pineapple. Oh, Senora, if the city of Amsterdam be as beautiful as you told me yesterday, and the day before, and every day, the ground on which it rests is far lovelier still."

The cavalier spoke these last words with affected earnestness, and squinted longingly at the large medallion which hung from Schnapper-Elle's neck. Nose Star looked down with inquisitive eyes, and the much-bepraised bosom heaved so that the whole city of Amsterdam rocked from side to side.

"Ah!" sighed Schnapper-Elle, "virtue is worth more than beauty. What use is my beauty to me? My youth is passing away, and since Schnapper is gone—anyhow, he had handsome hands—what avails beauty?"

With that she sighed again, and like an echo, all but inaudible, Nose Star sighed behind her. "Of what avail is your beauty?" cried Don Isaac. "Oh, Dona Schnapper-Elle, do not sin against the goodness of creative Nature! Do not scorn her most charming gifts, or she will reap most terrible revenge. Those blessed, blessing eyes will become glassy balls, those winsome lips grow flat and unattractive, that chaste and charming form be changed into an unwieldy barrel of tallow, and the city of Amsterdam at last rest on a spongy bog." Thus he sketched piece by piece the appearance of Schnapper-Elle, so that the poor woman was bewildered, and sought to escape the uncanny compliments of the cavalier. She was delighted to see Beautiful Sara appear at this instant, as it gave her an opportunity to inquire whether she had quite recovered from her swoon. Thereupon she plunged into lively chatter, in which she fully developed her sham gentility, mingled with real kindness of heart, and related with more prolixity than discretion the awful story of how she herself had almost fainted with horror when she, as innocent and inexperienced as could be, arrived in a canal boat at Amsterdam, and the rascally porter, who carried her trunk, led her—not to a respectable hotel, but oh, horrors!—to an infamous brothel! She could tell what it was the moment she entered, by the brandy-drinking, and by the immoral sights! And she would, as she said, really have swooned, if it had not been that during the six weeks she stayed in the disorderly house she only once ventured to close her eyes.

"I dared not," she added, "on account of my virtue. And all that was owing to my beauty! But virtue will stay—when good looks pass away."

Don Isaac was on the point of throwing some critical light on the details of this story when, fortunately, Squinting Aaron Hirschkuh from Homburg-on-the-Lahn came with a white napkin on his arm, and bitterly bewailed that the soup was already served, and that the boarders were seated at table, but that the landlady was missing.

(The conclusion and the chapters which follow are lost, not from any fault of the author.)



THE LIFE OF FRANZ GRILLPARZER

BY WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.

Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University

Franz Grillparzer is the greatest poet and dramatist among the Austrians. Corresponding to the Goethe Society at Weimar, the Grillparzer Society at Vienna holds its meetings and issues its annual; and the edition of Goethe's works instituted by the Grand Duchess Sophie of Weimar is paralleled by an edition of Grillparzer's works now in process of publication by the city of Vienna. Not without a sense of local pride and jealousy do the Viennese extol their fellow-countryman and hold him up to their kinsmen of the north as worthy to stand beside Goethe and Schiller. They would be ungrateful if they did not cherish the memory of a man who during his life-time was wont to prefer them, with all their imperfections upon their heads, to the keener and more enterprising North Germans, and who on many occasions sang the praises of their sociability, their wholesome naturalness, and their sound instinct. But even from the point of view of the critical North German or of the non-German foreigner, Grillparzer abundantly deserves his local fame—and more than local fame; for a dozen dramas of the first class, two eminently characteristic short stories, numerous lyrical poems, and innumerable studies and autobiographical papers are a man's work entitling their author to a high place in European, not merely German, literature.

It is, however, as an Austrian that Grillparzer is primarily to be judged. Again and again he insisted upon his national quality as a man and as a poet, upon the Viennese atmosphere of his plays and his poems. He was never happy when away from his native city, and though his pieces are now acceptably performed wherever German is spoken, they are most successful in Vienna, and some of them are to be seen only on the Viennese stage.

What are, then, the distinguishing features of the Austrians, and of Grillparzer as one of them? Grillparzer said these features are an open heart and a single mind, good sense and reliable intuition, frankness, naivete, generosity, modest contentment with being while others are up and doing. The Austrians are of mixed blood, and partake of South European characteristics less prominent among the purer blooded Teutons of the north. They have life on easier terms, are less intellectual, are more sensuous, emotional, more fanciful, fonder of artistic enjoyment, more sensitive to color and to those effects called "color," by contrast to form, in other arts than that of painting. The art of music is most germane to the Austrian spirit; and we have a ready key to the peculiarities of the Austrian disposition in the difference between Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, and Johann Strauss, on the one hand, and Haendel, Beethoven, Schumann, and Wagner on the other. Moreover, the Austrians are in all respects conservative, in literary taste no less than in politics and religion. The pseudo-classicism of Gottsched maintained its authority in Austria not merely after the time of Lessing, but also after the time of Schiller. Wieland was a favorite long before Goethe began to be appreciated; and as to the romantic movement, only the gentle tendencies of such a congenial spirit as Eichendorff found a sympathetic echo on the shores of the Danube. Romance influences, however, more particularly Spanish, were manifest there even before the time when they became strong upon Grillparzer.

Franz Grillparzer was born in Vienna on the fifteenth of January, 1791. His father, Wenzel Grillparzer, a self-made man, was a lawyer of the strictest probity, who occupied a respectable position in his profession; but, too scrupulous to seize the opportunities for profit that lawyers easily come upon, he lived a comparatively poor man and in 1809 died in straitened circumstances. At home he was stern and repressive.



Both his legal habit of mind and also his true discipleship of the age of enlightenment in which he grew up disposed him to intellectual tyranny over everything that looked like sentimentality or foolish fantasy in wife or children. His own hobbies, however, such as long walks in the country and the cultivation of flowers or—strangely enough—the reading of highly romantic novels, he indulged in as matters of course. It is with some surprise that we find him married to a woman of abnormal nervousness, who was given to mysticism and was feverishly devoted to music. Marianne Grillparzer, born Sonnleithner, belonged to a substantial middle-class family. Her father was a friend of Haydn and Mozart and was himself a composer of music; her brothers became men of note in the history of the Viennese operatic stage; and she herself shared in the artistic temperament of the family, but with ominously pathological over-development in one direction. She took her own life in 1819 and transmitted to her sons a tendency to moodiness and melancholy which led to the suicide of one and the haunting fear of insanity in that other who is the subject of this sketch.

That Franz Grillparzer was destined to no happy childhood is obvious, and it is equally clear that he needed a strong will to overcome not merely material obstacles to progress but also inherited dispositions of such antithetical sort. The father and the mother were at war in his breast. Like the mother in sensitiveness and imaginativeness, he was the son of his father in a stern censoriousness that was quick to ridicule what appeared to be nonsense in others and in himself; but he was the son of his father also in clearness of understanding and devotion to duty as he saw it.

Grillparzer once said that his works were detached fragments of his life; and though many of their themes seem remote from him in time and place, character and incident in them are unmistakably enriched by being often conceived in the light of personal experience. Outwardly, however, his life was comparatively uneventful. After irregular studies with private tutors and at school, Grillparzer studied law from 1807 to 1811 at the University of Vienna, gave instruction from 1810 to 1813 to the sons of various noblemen, and in 1813 began in the Austrian civil service the humdrum career which, full of disappointments and undeserved setbacks, culminated in his appointment in 1832 to the directorship of the Hofkammerarchiv, and lasted until his honorable retirement in 1856. He was a conscientious official; but throughout this time he was regarded, and regarded himself, primarily as Grillparzer the poet; and in spite of loyalty to the monarchy, he was entirely out of sympathy with the antediluvian administration of Metternich and his successors. Little things, magnified by pusillanimous apprehension, stood in his way. In 1819 he expressed in a poem The Ruins of Campo Vaccino esthetic abhorrence of the cross most inappropriately placed over the portal of the Coliseum in Rome, and was thereafter never free of the suspicion of heresy. In 1825 membership in a social club raided by the police subjected him to the absurd suspicion of plotting treason. Only once do we find him, during the first half of the century, persona gratissima with the powers that be. Grillparzer firmly disapproved the disintegrating tendencies of the revolution of 1848, and uttered his sense of the duty of loyal cooeperation under the Habsburgs in a spirited poem, To Field-Marshal Count Radetzky. For the moment he became a national hero, especially in the army. His latter years were indeed years of honor; but the honor came too late. He was given the cross of the order of Leopold in 1849, was made Hofrat and a member of the House of Lords in 1856, and received the grand cross of the order of Franz Josef upon the celebration of his eightieth birthday in 1871. He died on the twenty-first of January, 1872.

Grillparzer led for the most part a solitary life—for the last third of his life he was almost a hermit—and he was rather an observer than an actor in the affairs of men; but nevertheless he saw more of the world than a mere dreamer would have cared to see, and the circle of his friends was not inconsiderable. Besides making the trip to Italy, already alluded to, in 1819, he journeyed in 1826 to North Germany, seeing Goethe in Weimar, in 1836 to Paris, in 1837 to London, in 1843 down the Danube to Athens, and in 1847 again to Berlin and to Hamburg. No one of these trips gave him any particular poetic impetus, except perhaps the first, on which he found in the classical atmosphere of Rome a refreshing antidote to the romantic miasma which he hated. Nor did he derive much profit from the men of letters whom he visited in various places, such as Fouque, Chamisso, and Heine. He dined with Goethe, but was too bashful to accept an indirect invitation to spend an evening with Goethe alone. He paid his respects to Uhland, whom he esteemed as the greatest German poet of that time (1837); but Uhland was then no longer productive and was never a magnetic personality. Indeed, there was hardly more than one man, even in Vienna, who exerted a strong personal influence upon Grillparzer, and this was Josef Schreyvogel, journalist, critic, playwright, from 1814 to 1831 secretary of the Burgtheater. A happy chance gained for Grillparzer in 1816 the friendship of this practical theatre manager, and under Schreyvogel's auspices he prepared his first drama for the stage.

On another side, Grillparzer's character is illumined for us by the strange story of his relations with four Viennese women. He was not a handsome man, but tall, with an abundance of blond hair, and bewitching blue eyes that made him very attractive to the other sex. He, too, was exceedingly sensitive to sexual attraction and in early youth suffered torments from the pangs of unsatisfied longing. From the days when he knew that he was in love, but did not yet know with whom, to the time of final renunciation we find him irresolute, ardent, but apparently selfish in the inability to hazard the discovery that the real might prove inferior to his ideal. Thus his critical disposition invaded even the realm of his affections and embroiled him not merely with the object of them, but also with himself. Charlotte von Paumgarten, the wife of a cousin of Grillparzer's, Marie Daeffinger, the wife of a painter, loved him not wisely, but too well; and a young Prussian girl, Marie Piquot, confessed in her last will and testament to such a devotion to him as she was sure no other woman could ever attain, wherefore she commended "her Tasso" to the fostering care of her mother. Grillparzer had experienced only a fleeting interest in Marie Piquot; so much the more lasting was the attachment which bound him to her successful rival, Katharina Froehlich. Katharina, one of four daughters of a Viennese manufacturer who had seen better days, and, like her sisters, endowed with great artistic talent and practical energy, might have proved the salvation of Grillparzer's existence as a man if he had been more capable of manly resolution, and she had been less like him in impetuosity and stubbornness. They became engaged, they made preparations for a marriage which was never consummated and for years was never definitely abandoned; mutual devotion is ever and anon interrupted by serious or trivial quarrels, and the imperfect relation drags on to the vexation of both, until Grillparzer as an old man of sixty takes lodgings with the Froehlich sisters and, finally, makes Katharina his sole heir.

Grillparzer's development as a poet and dramatist follows the bent of his Austrian genius. One of the first books that he ever read was the text to Mozart's Magic Flute. Music, opera, operetta, and fairy drama gave the earliest impulse to his juvenile imagination. Even as a boy he began the voluminous reading which, continued throughout his life, made him one of the best informed men of his time in European literature. History, natural history, and books of travel are followed by the plays of Shakespeare, Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, while Gesner's idyls charm him, and he absorbs the stories and romances of Wieland. In 1808 he reads the early works of Schiller and admires the ideal enthusiasm of Don Carlos.



In 1810 he revolts from Schiller and swears allegiance to Goethe. In the ensuing years he learns English, Greek, and Spanish; Shakespeare supplants Goethe in his esteem, and he is attracted first to Calderon and then to Lope de Vega in whom, ere long, he discovers the dramatic spirit most closely akin to his.

We read of Grillparzer, as of Goethe, that as a child he was fond of improvising dramatic performances with his playmates. Occasionally he was privileged to attend an operetta or a spectacular play at one of the minor theatres. When he reached adolescence he experimented with a large number of historical and fantastic subjects, and he left plans and fragments that, unoriginal as most of them are, give earnest of a talent for scenic manipulation and for the representation of character. These juvenile pieces are full of reminiscences of Schiller and Shakespeare. Grillparzer's first completed drama of any magnitude, Blanca of Castile (1807-09), is almost to be called Schiller's Don Carlos over again, both as to the plot and as to the literary style—though of course the young man's imitation seems like a caricature. The fragments Spartacus (1810) and Alfred the Great (1812), inspired by patriotic grief for Austria humiliated by Napoleon, are Shakespearean in many scenes, but are in their general disposition strongly influenced by Schiller's Robbers and Maid of Orleans. In all three of these pieces, the constant reference to inscrutable fate proves that Grillparzer is a disciple of Schiller and a son of his time.

There is, therefore, a double significance in the earliest play of Grillparzer's to be performed on the stage, The Ancestress (1816)—first, in that, continuing in the direction foreshadowed by its predecessors, it takes its place beside the popular dramas of fate written by Werner and Muellner; and secondly, because at the same time the poet, now yielding more to the congenial impulse of Spanish influences, establishes his independence even in the treatment of a more or less conventional theme. Furthermore, The Ancestress marks the beginning of Grillparzer's friendship with Schreyvogel. Grillparzer had translated some scenes of Calderon's Life is a Dream which, published in 1816 by an enemy of Schreyvogel's who wished to discredit the adaptation which Schreyvogel had made for the Burgtheater, served only to bring the two men together; for Schreyvogel was generous and Grillparzer innocent of any hostile intention. As early as 1813 Grillparzer had thought of The Ancestress. Schreyvogel encouraged him to complete the play, and his interest once again aroused and soon mounting to enthusiasm, he wrote in less than a month the torrent of Spanish short trochaic verses which sweeps through the four acts of this romantic drama. Schreyvogel was delighted; but he criticized the dramatic structure; and in a revised version in five acts Grillparzer so far adopted his suggestions as to knit up the plot more closely and thus to give greater prominence to the idea of fate and retribution. The play was performed on the thirty-first of January, 1817, and scored a tremendous success.

Critics, to be sure, were not slow to point out that the effectiveness of The Ancestress was due less to poetical qualities than to theatrical—unjustly; for even though we regard the play as but the scenic representation of the incidents of a night, the representation is of absorbing interest and is entirely free from the crudities which make Muellner's dramas more gruesome than dramatic. But Grillparzer nevertheless resolved that his next play should dispense with all adventitious aids and should take as simple a form and style as he could give it. A friend chanced to suggest to him that the story of Sappho would furnish a text for an opera. Grillparzer replied that the subject would perhaps yield a tragedy. The idea took hold of him; without delay or pause for investigation he made his plan; and in three weeks his second play was ready for the stage. Written in July, 1817, Sappho was produced at the Hofburgtheater on April 21, 1818. Grillparzer said that in creating Sappho he had plowed pretty much with Goethe's steer. In form his play resembles Iphigenia and in substance it is not unlike Tasso; but upon closer examination Sappho appears to be neither a classical play of the serene, typical quality of Iphigenia nor a Kuenstlerdrama in the sense in which Tasso is one. Grillparzer was not inspired by the meagre tradition of the Lesbian poetess, nor yet by anything more than the example of Goethe; he took only the outline of the story of Sappho and Phaon; his play is almost to be called a romantic love story, and the influence strongest upon him in the writing of it was that of Wieland. The situation out of which the tragedy of Sappho develops is that of a young man who deceives himself into believing that admiration for a superior woman is love, and who is undeceived when a naive maiden awakens in him sentiments that really are those of love. This situation occurs again and again in the voluminous works of Wieland—most obviously perhaps in the novelette Menander and Glycerion (1803), but also in the novel Agathon (1766-1767), and in the epistolary novel Aristippus (1800-1802). Moreover, it is the essential situation in Mme. de Stael's Corinne (1807). In the third place, this situation was Grillparzer's own, and it is so constantly found in his dramas that it may be called the characteristic situation for the dramatist as well as for the man. In this drama, finally, we have a demonstration of Grillparzer's profound conviction that the artistic temperament is ill suited to the demands of practical life, and in the solitary sphere to which it is doomed must fail to find that contentment which only life can afford. Sappho is not assailed by life on all sides as Tasso is; but she makes an egregious mistake in her search for the satisfactions of womanhood, thereby unfitting herself for the priesthood of poetry as well as forfeiting her life.

Sappho was as successful on the stage as The Ancestress had been, and the dramatist became the lion of the hour. He was received in audience by Prince Metternich, was lauded in high social circles in Vienna, and was granted an annual pension of 1000 florins for five years, on condition that the Hofburgtheater should have the right to first production of his forthcoming plays. It was, therefore, with great enthusiasm and confidence that he set to work upon his next subject, The Golden Fleece. The story of Jason and Medea had long been familiar to him, not only in the tragedies of Euripides and Seneca, but also in German dramas and operas of the eighteenth century which during his youth were frequently produced in Vienna. The immediate impulse to treat this story came to him when, in the summer of 1818, he chanced upon the article Medea in a mythological lexicon. His plan was soon formed and was made to embrace the whole history of the relations of Jason and Medea. For so comprehensive a matter Grillparzer, like Schiller in Wallenstein, found the limits of a single drama too narrow; and as Schiller said of Wallenstein—

"His camp alone explains his fault and crime,"

so Grillparzer rightly perceived that the explanation to modern minds of so incredible a crime as Medea's must be sought and presented in the untoward circumstances under which her relations with Jason began. Accordingly, he showed in The Guest Friend how Phryxus, obedient to what he believed to be the will of the gods, bore the Golden Fleece to Colchis, only to meet death at the hands of AEetes, the king of that land, who coveted the precious token. Medea, the king's daughter, vainly tries to prevent the crime, but sees herself included in the dying man's curse; for she shares her father's desire for the treasure and is appalled only by the sense of outraged hospitality, even to a haughty intruder. When, in The Argonauts, Jason comes to recover the Fleece, Medea, still an Amazon and an enchantress, is determined with all her arts to aid her father in repulsing the invaders. But the sight of the handsome stranger soon touches her with an unwonted feeling. Against her will she saves the life and furthers the enterprise of Jason; they become partners in the theft of the Fleece; whereupon Jason, fascinated by the dark-eyed barbarian and gratified with the sense of subjugating an Amazon, assures her of his love and takes her and the Fleece in triumph away from Colchis.



Four years elapse before the action of Medea commences. Medea has borne two sons to Jason; as a husband and father he returns to Greece with the object of his quest. But he is now received rather as the husband of a sorceress than as the winner of the Fleece. Ostracism and banishment accentuate the humiliation of marriage to a barbarian. Medea has sacrificed all to serve him; without her aid his expedition would have been fruitless, but with her he cannot live in the civilized community where she has no place. She frantically endeavors to become a Greek, but to no purpose. Jason strives to overcome a growing repugnance and loyally makes common cause with her; but he cannot follow her in banishment from Corinth, nor appreciate the feelings of the wife who sees him about to marry Creusa, and of the mother who sees her children prefer Creusa to herself. Then the barbarian in Medea reasserts herself and the passion of a just revenge, stifling all other feeling, moves her to the destruction of all her enemies and a final divorce from her heartless husband. To Jason she can give no other words of comfort than that he may be stronger in suffering than he has been in acting.

Such an eminently personal tragedy Grillparzer constructed on the basis of a mythological story. The Fleece, like the hoard of the Nibelungen, is the occasion, but the curse attached to it is not the cause, of crimes; this cause is the cupidity of human nature and the helplessness of the individual who allows the forces of evil to gain sway over him. Jason, in overweening self-indulgence, attaches himself to a woman to whom he cannot be true. Medea, in too confident self-sufficiency, is not proof against the blandishments of an unscrupulous adventurer and progresses from crime to crime, doing from beginning to end what it is not her will to do. An unnatural and unholy bond cannot be severed even to make way for a natural and holy one. And the paths of glory lead not to the grave but to a living death in the consciousness of guilt and the remorse for misdeeds.

Grillparzer never again wrote with such tumultuous passion as swayed him at the time of his work on the first half of The Golden Fleece. His illicit love of Charlotte Paumgarten gave him many a tone which thrills in the narrative of Jason and Medea; the death of his mother brought home to him the tragedy of violence and interrupted his work in the midst of The Argonauts; his visit to Rome enabled him to regain composure and increase his sense of the local color of ancient civilization; so that when he completed Medea, in the fall and early winter of 1819-20, he wrote with the mastery of one who had ventured, suffered, observed, and recovered. In his own person he had experienced the dangers of the vita activa against which The Golden Fleece is a warning.

Mention has already been made of Grillparzer's pride in the history of Austria. In 1809 he wrote in his diary, "I am going to write an historical drama on Frederick the Warlike, Duke of Austria." A few stanzas of a ballad on this hero were written, probably at this time; dramatic fragments have survived from 1818 and 1821. In the first two decades of the nineteenth century vigorous efforts were made, especially by Baron von Hormayr and his collaborators, to stir up Austrian poets to emulate their North-German colleagues in the treatment of Austrian subjects. With these efforts Grillparzer was in hearty sympathy. The Hanoverian A.W. Schlegel declared in a lecture delivered at Vienna in 1808 that the worthiest form of the romantic drama was the historical; and made special mention of the house of Habsburg. In 1817 Matthaeus von Collin's play Frederick the Warlike was published, as one of three (Leopold the Glorious, Frederick the Warlike, and Ottocar) planned as a cycle on the house of Babenberg. Collin's Frederick interested Grillparzer; Ottocar, who married Frederick's sister and whose fate closely resembled Frederick's, appealed to him as a promising character for dramatic treatment; a performance of Kleist's Prince Frederick of Homburg, which Grillparzer witnessed in 1821, may well have stimulated him to do for the first of the Habsburgs, Ottocar's successful rival, what Kleist had done for the greatest of the early Hohenzollerns; and particularly the likeness of Ottocar's career to that of Napoleon gave him the point of view for King Ottocar's Fortune and Fall, composed in 1823.

Ottocar is remarkable for the amount of matter included in the space of a single drama, and it gives an impressive picture of the dawn of the Habsburg monarchy; but only in the first two acts can it be said to be dramatic. The middle and end, though spectacular, are rather epic than dramatic, and our interest centres more in Rudolf the triumphant than in Ottocar the defeated and penitent. The play is essentially the tragedy of a personality. Ottocar is a parvenu, a strong man whom success makes too sure of the adequacy of his individual strength, ruthless when he should be politic, indulgent when stern measures are requisite, an egotist even when he acts for the public weal. Grillparzer treated his case with great fulness of sensuous detail, but without superabundance of antiquarian minutiae, in spite of careful study of historical sources of information. "Pride goeth before destruction," is the theme, but Grillparzer was far from wishing either to demonstrate or illustrate that truth. Ottocar is the tragedy of an individual unequal to superhuman tasks; it does not represent an idea, but a man.

After having been retained by the censors for two years, lest Bohemian sensibilities should be offended, Ottocar was finally freed by order of the emperor himself, and was performed amid great enthusiasm on February nineteenth, 1825. In September of that year the empress was to be crowned as queen of Hungary, and the imperial court suggested to Grillparzer that he write a play on a Hungarian subject in celebration of this event. He did not immediately find a suitable subject; but his attention was attracted to the story of the palatin Bancbanus, a national hero who had found his way to the dramatic workshop of Hans Sachs in Nuremberg, had been recommended to Schiller, and had recently been treated in Hungarian by Joseph Katona. Grillparzer knew neither of the plays of his predecessors. In connection with this subject he thought rather of Shakespeare's King Lear and Othello, of Byron's Marino Faliero—he had early experimented with this hero himself—and this was the time of his first thorough study of Lope de Vega. In November and December, 1826, he wrote A Faithful Servant of His Master. This is a drama of character triumphant in the severest test to which the sense of duty can be put. Bancbanus, appointed regent while his sovereign goes to war, promises to preserve peace in the kingdom, and keeps his promise even when his own relatives rise in arms against the queen's brother who has insulted Bancbanus' wife and, they think, has killed her. We have to do, however, not merely with a brilliant example of unselfish loyalty; we have a highly special case of individualized persons. Bancbanus is a little, pedantic old man, almost ridiculous in his personal appearance and in his over-conscientiousness. Erny, his wife, is a childlike creature, not displeased by flattery, too innocent to be circumspect, but faithful unto death. And Otto von Meran, the princely profligate, is one of Grillparzer's boldest creations—not bad by nature, but utterly irresponsible; crafty, resourceful, proud as a peacock and, like a monkey in the forest, wishing always to be noticed. He cannot bear disregard; contempt makes him furious; and a sense of disgrace which would drive a moral being to insanity reduces him to a state of stupidity in which, doing good deeds for the first time and unconsciously, he gradually acquires consciousness of right and wrong. It is Bancbanus who brings about this transformation in the character of Otto, who holds rebellious nobles and populace in check, who teaches his master how to be a servant of the State, and who, by saving the heir to the throne and praying that he may deserve the loyalty shown his father, points forward to the better day when feudalism shall give way to unselfish enlightened monarchy.



This play, a glorification of patriotic devotion and, in spite of the self-repressive character of the hero, as full of stirring action as any German historical play whatever, was presented on the twenty-eighth of February, 1828, and was received with applause by high and low. The emperor caused a special word of appreciation to be conveyed to the poet. How great was Grillparzer's astonishment, therefore, when, on the following day, the president of police summoned him and informed him that the emperor was so well pleased with the play that he wished to have it all to himself; wherefore the dramatist would please hand over the manuscript, at his own price! Dynastic considerations probably moved the emperor to this preposterous demand. The very futility of it—since a number of copies of the manuscript had already been made, and one or the other was sure to escape seizure—is a good example of the trials to which the patience of Austrian poets was subjected during the old regime. Grillparzer was at this time depressed enough on his own account, as his poems Tristia ex Ponto bear witness. This new attempt at interference almost made him despair of his fatherland. "An Austrian poet," he said, "ought to be esteemed above all others. The man who does not lose heart under such circumstances is really a kind of hero."

Grillparzer was not a real hero. But in the midst of public frictions, personal tribulations, apprehension that his powers of imagination were declining, and petulant surrenders to discouragement, he kept pottering along with compositions long since started, and by 1831 he had completed two more plays, A Dream is Life and Waves of the Sea and of Love.

Like The Ancestress, A Dream is Life is written in short trochaic verses of irregular length and with occasional rhyme. The idea was conceived early, the first act was written at the time of The Ancestress, and the title, though chosen late, being a reversal of Calderon's Life is a Dream, suggests the connection with that Spanish drama. Grillparzer's principal source for the plot, was, however, Voltaire's narrative entitled White and Black. In the psychology of dreams he had long been interested, and life in the dream state formed a large part of the opera text Melusina which, in 1821-23, he wrote for Beethoven. A particular flavor was doubtless given to the plot by the death of Napoleon on May fifth, 1821, and the beginning of Grillparzer's friendship with Katharina Froehlich shortly before; for A Dream is Life represents in the dream of a harmless but ambitious young man such a career of conquest as Napoleon was thought to have exemplified, and the hero, waking after a nightmare of deceits and crimes that were the stepping stones to success, is warned of the dangers that beset enterprise and taught to prefer the simple life in union with a rustic maiden. There are two actions, corresponding to the waking and sleeping states, the actors in the latter being those of real life fantastically transformed; but there is no magic or anything else super-natural, and the most fascinating quality in the drama is the skill with which the transformation is made in accordance with the irrational logic of dreams. Accompanied by the weird music of Gyrowetz and exquisitely staged, this is the most popular of Grillparzer's plays in Vienna. But it is by no means merely theatrical. There is profound truth in the theory upon which it is constructed: a dream is the awakening of the soul; dreams do not create wishes, they reveal them, and the actions of a dreamer are the potentialities of his character. Moreover, the quietistic note of renunciation for the sake of peace to the soul and integrity of personality is the final note of The Golden Fleece no less than of this fantasmagoria. Waves of the Sea and of Love is a far-fetched and sentimental title for a dramatization of the story of Hero and Leander. Grillparzer chose the title, he said, because he wished to suggest a romantic treatment that should humanize the matter. The play really centres in the character of Hero and might much better be called by her name. In it Grillparzer's experiences with Charlotte von Paumgarten and Marie Daeffinger are poetically fructified, and his capacity for tracing the incalculable course of feminine instincts attains to the utmost of refinement and delicacy. The theme is the conflict between duty to a solemn vow of sacerdotal chastity and the disposition to satisfy the natural desire for love. But Grillparzer has represented no such conflict in the breast of Hero. Her antagonist is not her own conscience but the representative of divine law in the temple of which she is priestess. The action of the play therefore takes the form of an intrigue on the part of this representative to thwart the intrigue of Hero and Leander. This external collision is, however, far from supplying the chief interest in a drama unquestionably dramatic, although its main action is internal. Hero is at the beginning a Greek counterpart to the barbarian Medea. She has the same pride of station and self-assurance. Foreordained to asceticism, she is ready to embrace it because she thinks it superior to the worldliness of which she has no knowledge. When worldliness presents itself to her in the attractive form of Leander, she is first curious, then offended, apprehensive of danger to herself and to him, only soon to apprehend nothing but interruption of the new rapture to which she yields in oblivion of everything else in the world. Only a poet of the unprecedented naivete of Grillparzer could so completely obliterate the insurgency of moral scruples against this establishment of the absolute monarchy of love.

In spite of admirable dramatic qualities and the most exquisite poetry even in the less dramatic passages, this play on Hero and Leander disappointed both audience and playwright when it was put upon the stage in April, 1831. Other disappointments were rife for Grillparzer at this time. But he put away his desires for the unattainable, and with the publication of Tristia ex Ponto in 1835, took, as it were, formal leave of the past and its sorrow. Indeed, he seemed on the point of beginning a new epoch of ready production; for he now succeeded, for the first time since 1818, in the quick conception and uninterrupted composition of an eminently characteristic play, the most artistic of German comedies, Woe to the Liar. It was the more lamentable that when the play was enacted, on the sixth of March, 1838, the brutal behavior of an unappreciative audience so wounded the sensitive poet that he resolved never again to subject himself to such ignominy—and kept his word. In 1840 he published Waves of the Sea and of Love, A Dream is Life, and Woe to the Liar; but the plays which he wrote after that time he kept in his desk.

The year 1838, accordingly, sharply divides the life of Grillparzer into two parts—the first, productive and more or less in the public eye; the second, contemplative and in complete retirement from the stage. To be sure, the poet became conspicuous once more with his poem to Radetzky in 1848; in 1851 Heinrich Laube, recently appointed director of the Hofburgtheater, instituted a kind of Grillparzer revival; and belated honors brought some solace to his old age. But he had become an historical figure long before he ceased to be seen on the streets of his beloved Vienna, and the three completed manuscripts of plays that in 1872 he bequeathed to posterity had lain untouched for nearly twenty years.

Two of these posthumous pieces, Brothers' Quarrels in the House of Habsburg and Libussa, undoubtedly reveal the advancing years of their author, in a good and in a bad sense. They lack the theatrical self-evidence of the earlier dramas. But on the other hand, they are rich in the ripest wisdom of their creator, and in significance of characterization as well as in profundity of idea they amply atone for absence of the more superficial qualities. Kaiser Rudolf II. in Brothers' Quarrels is one of the most human of the men who in the face of inevitable calamity have pursued a Fabian policy. Even to personal predilections, like fondness for the dramas of Lope, he is a replica of the mature Grillparzer himself. Libussa presents in Primislaus a somewhat colorless but nevertheless thoroughly masculine representative of practical cooeperation and progress, and in Libussa, the heroine, a typical feminine martyr to duty.



The third of the posthumous pieces, however, The Jewess of Toledo, may perhaps be said to mark the climax of Grillparzer's productive activity. It is an eminently modern drama of passion in classical dignity of form. Grillparzer noted the subject as early as 1813. In 1824 he read Lope de Vega's play on it, and wrote in trochees two scenes of his own; in 1848-49—perhaps with Lola Montez and the king of Bavaria in mind—he worked further on it, and about 1855 brought the work to an end. The play is properly called The Jewess of Toledo; for Rachel, the Jewess, is at the centre of the action, and is a marvelous creation—"a mere woman, nothing but her sex"; but the king, though relatively passive, is the most important character. He is attracted to Rachel by a charm that he has never known in his coldly virtuous English consort, and, after an error forgivable because made comprehensible, is taught the duty of personal sacrifice to morality and to the state. In doctrine and in inner form this drama is comparable to Hebbel's Agnes Bernauer; it is a companion piece to A Faithful Servant of his Master, and the sensuality of Rachel contrasts instructively with the spirituality of Hero. The genuine dramatic collision of antithetical forces produces, furthermore, a new synthesis, the effect of which is to make us wish morality less austere and the sense of obligation stronger than they at first are in two persons good by nature but caused to err by circumstances. In the series of dramas thus passed in review there is a great variety of setting and incident, and an abundance of dramatic motifs that show Grillparzer to have been one of the most opulent of playwrights. The range of characters, too, each presented with due regard for milieu, is seen to be considerable, and upon closer examination would be seen to be more considerable still. The greatest richness is found in the characters of women. Grillparzer himself lacked the specifically masculine qualities of courageous enterprise and tenacity of purpose. His men are rather affected by the world than active creators of new conditions, and their contact with conditions as they are leaves them with the scars of battle instead of the joy of victory. No one, however, could attribute a feministic spirit to Grillparzer; or, if so, it must be said that the study of reaction is no less instructive than the study of action and that being is at least as high an ideal as doing. Being, existence in a definite place amid the tangible surroundings of personal life, Grillparzer gives us with extraordinary abundance of sensuous details. The drama was for him what Goethe said it should always be, a present reality; and for the greater impressiveness of this reality he is fond of the use of visible objects—whether they be symbols, like the Golden Fleece in Medea, the lyre in Sappho, the medallion in The Jewess of Toledo, or characteristic weapons, accoutrement, and apparel. Everything expressive is welcome to him, gesture or inarticulate sound reinforces the spoken word or replaces it. Unusually sensuous language and comparative fulness of sententious passages go hand in hand with a laconic habit which indulges in many ellipses and is content to leave to the actor the task of making a single word convey the meaning of a sentence.

Grillparzer's plays were written for the stage. He abhorred what the Germans call a book drama, and had, on the other hand, the highest respect for the judgment of a popular audience as to the fact whether a play were fit for the stage or not. The popular audience was a jury from which there was no appeal on this question of fact. A passage in The Poor Musician gives eloquent expression to Grillparzer's regard for the sure esthetic instinct of the masses and, indirectly, to his own poetic naivete. But his plays are also poems; they are all in verse; and like the plays of his French prototype, Racine, they reveal their full merit only to connoisseurs. They are the work of a man who was better able than most men of his generation to prove all things, and who held fast to that which he found good. His art is not forward-looking, like that of Kleist, nor backward-looking, like that, say, of Theodor Koerner. It is in the strictest sense complementary and co-ordinate to that of Goethe and Schiller, a classicism modified by romantic tendencies toward individuation and localization. He did not aim at the typical. He felt, and rightly, that a work of art, being something individual, should be created with concentrated attention upon the attainment of its perfection as an individual; this perfection attained, the artist would attain to typical, symbolical connotation into the bargain. From anything like the grotesqueness of exaggerated characterization Grillparzer was saved by his sense of form. He had as fertile an imagination and as penetrating an intellect as Kleist, and he excelled Kleist in the reliability of his common sense. It was no play upon words, but the expression of conviction when he wrote, in 1836: "Poetry is incorporation of the spirit, spiritualization of the body, feeling of the understanding, and thought of the feeling." In its comprehensive appeal to all of these faculties a work of art commends itself and carries its meaning through its existence as an objective reality, like the phenomena of nature herself. A comprehensive sensitiveness to such an appeal, whether of art or of nature, was Grillparzer's ideal of individual nature and culture. He thought the North Germans had cultivated their understanding at the expense of their feeling, and had thereby impaired their esthetic sense. He thought the active life in general inevitably destroyed the harmony of the faculties and substituted an extrinsic for an intrinsic good. In the mad rush of our own time after material wealth and power we may profitably contemplate the picture which Grillparzer drew of himself in the following characteristic verses:

THE ANGLER

Below lies the lake hushed and tranquil, And I sit here with idle hands, And gaze at the frolicking fishes Which glide to and fro o'er the sands.

They come, and they go, and they tarry; But if I now venture a cast, Of a sudden the playground is empty, As my basket remains to the last.

Mayhap if I stirred up the water, My angling might lure the shy prey. But then I must also give over The sight of the fishes at play.



FRANZ GRILLPARZER

* * * * *

MEDEA

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CREON, _King of Corinth

CREUSA, _his daughter

JASON

MEDEA

GORA, Medea's aged nurse

A herald of the Amphictyons

A peasant

Medea's children

Slaves and slave-women, attendants of the King, etc.

MEDEA (1822)



TRANSLATED BY THEODORE A. MILLER, PH.D.



ACT I

_Before the walls of Corinth. At the left, halfway up stage, a tent is pitched; in the background lies the sea, with a point of land jutting out into it, on which is built a part of the city. The time is early morning, before daybreak; it is still dark.

At the right in the foreground a slave is seen standing in a pit digging and throwing up shovelfuls of earth; on the opposite side of the pit stands MEDEA, before a black chest which is strangely decorated with gold; in this chest she keeps laying various utensils during the following dialogue.

MEDEA. Is it, then, done?

SLAVE. A moment yet, my mistress.

[GORA comes out of the tent and stands at a distance.]

MEDEA. Come! First the veil, and then the goddess' staff. I shall not need them more; here let them rest. Dark night, the time for magic, is gone by, And what is yet to come, or good or ill, Must happen in the beamy light of day.— This casket next; dire, secret flames it hides That will consume the wretch who, knowing not, Shall dare unlock it. And this other here, Full-filled with sudden death, with many an herb, And many a stone of magic power obscure, Unto that earth they sprang from I commit.

[She rises.]

So! Rest ye here in peace for evermore. Now for the last and mightiest thing of all!



[The slave, who has meanwhile climbed out of the pit and taken his stand behind the princess awaiting the conclusion of her enterprise, now turns to help her, and grasps at an object covered with a veil and hanging from a lance that has been resting against a tree behind MEDEA; the veil falls, revealing the banner, with the Golden Fleece glowing radiantly through the darkness.]

SLAVE (grasping the Fleece). 'Tis this?

MEDEA. Nay, hold thy hand! Unveil it not.

(Addressing the Fleece.)

Once more let me behold thee, fatal gift Of trusting guest-friend! Shine for one last time, Thou witness of the downfall of my house, Bespattered with my father's, brother's blood, Sign of Medea's shame and hateful crime!

[She stamps upon the lance-haft and breaks it in two.]

So do I rend thee now, so sink thee deep In earth's dark bosom, whence, a bane to men, Thou sprang'st.

[She lays the broken standard in the chest with the other objects and shuts down the cover.]

GORA (comes down).

What does my mistress here?

MEDEA. Thou seest.

GORA. Wilt thou, then, bury in the earth that Fleece, The symbol of thy service to the gods, That saved thee, and shall save thee yet again?

MEDEA (scornfully).

That saved me? 'Tis because it saved me not, That here I lay it. I am safe enough.

GORA (ironically).

Thanks to thy husband's love?

MEDEA (to the slave, ignoring Gora's taunt).

Is all prepared?

SLAVE. Yea, mistress.

MEDEA. Come!

[She grasps one handle of the chest, the slave the other, and together they carry it to the pit.]

GORA (observing them from a distance).

Oh, what a task is this For a proud princess, daughter of a king!

MEDEA. Nay, if it seem so hard, why dost not help?

GORA. Lord Jason's handmaid am I—and not thine! Nor is it meet one slave another serve.

MEDEA (to the slave).

Now lay it in, and heap the earth upon it.

[The slave lets the chest down into the pit and shovels in the earth upon it. MEDEA kneels at one side of the pit as he works.]

GORA (standing in the foreground).

Oh, let me die, ye gods of Colchis, now, That I may look no more on such a sight! Yet, first hurl down your lightning-stroke of wrath Upon this traitor who hath wrought us woe. Let me but see him die; then slay me too!

MEDEA (to the slave).

'Tis finished. Stamp the earth about it close, And go.—I charge thee, guard my secret well. Thou art a Colchian, and I know thee true.

[The slave departs.]

GORA (calling after him with grim scorn).

If thou shalt tell thy master, woe to you both!

(To MEDEA.)

Hast finished?

MEDEA. Ay. At last I am at peace!

GORA. The Fleece, too, didst thou bury?

MEDEA. Even the Fleece.

GORA. Thou didst not leave it in Iolcos, with Thine husband's uncle?

MEDEA. Nay, thou saw'st it here.

GORA. Thou hadst it still—and now hast buried it! Gone, gone! And naught is left; all thy past life Vanished, like wreaths of vapor in the breeze! And naught's to come, and naught has been, and all Thou seest is but this present fleeting hour! There was no Colchis! All the gods are dead! Thou hadst no father, never slew thy brother I Thou think'st not of it; lo, it never happened!— Think, then, thou art not wretched. Cheat thyself To dream Lord Jason loves thee yet. Perchance It may come true!

MEDEA (angrily).

Be silent, woman!

GORA. Nay! Let her who knows her guilty lock her lips, But I will speak. Forth from my peaceful home There in far Colchis, thou hast lured me here, To be thine haughty paramour's meek slave. Freeborn am I, yet see! mine arms are chained!— Through the long, troubled nights, upon my couch I lie and weep; each morn, as the bright sun Returns, I curse my gray hairs and my weight Of years. All scorn me, flout me. All I had Is gone, save heavy heart and scalding tears.— Nay, I will speak, and thou shalt listen, too!

MEDEA. Say on.

GORA. All I foretold has come to pass. 'Tis scarce one moon since the revolted sea Cast you ashore, seducer and seduced; And yet e 'en now these folk flee from thy face, And horror follows wheresoe'er thou goest. The people shudder at the Colchian witch With fearful whispers of her magic dark. Where thou dost show thyself, there all shrink back And curse thee. May the same curse smite them all!— As for thy lord, the Colchian princess' spouse, Him, too, they hate, for his sake, and for thine. Did not his uncle drive him from his palace? Was he not banished from his fatherland What time that uncle perished, none knows how? Home hath he none, nor resting-place, nor where To lay his head. What canst thou hope from him?

MEDEA. I am his wife!

GORA. And hop'st—?

MEDEA. To follow him In need and unto death.

GORA. Ay, need and death! AEtes' daughter in a beggar's hut!

MEDEA. Let us pray Heaven for a simple heart; So shall our humble lot be easier borne.

GORA. Ha!—And thy husband—?

MEDEA. Day breaks. Let us go.

GORA. Nay, thou shalt not escape my questioning!—One comfort still is left me in my grief, And only one: our wretched plight shows clear That gods still rule in Heaven, and mete out To guilty men requital, late or soon. Weep for thy bitter lot; I'll comfort thee. Only presume not rashly to deny The gods are just, because thou dost deny This punishment they send, and all this woe.— To cure an evil, we must see it clear. Thy husband—tell me—is he still the same?

MEDEA. What should he be?

GORA. O, toy not so with words! Is he the same impetuous lover still Who wooed thee once; who braved a hundred swords To win thee; who, upon that weary voyage, Laughed at thy fears and kissed away thy grief, Poor maid, when thou wouldst neither eat nor drink, But only pray to die? Ay, all too soon He won thee with his passionate, stormy love. Is he thy lover still?—I see thee tremble. Ay, thou hast need; thou knowest he loves thee not, But shudders at thee, dreads thee, flees thee, hates thee! And as thou didst betray thy fatherland, So shalt thou be betrayed—and by thy lover. Deep in the earth the symbols of thy crime Lie buried;—but the crime thou canst not hide.

MEDEA. Be silent!

GORA. Never!

MEDEA (grasping her fiercely by the arm ).

Silence, dame, I say! What is this madness? Cease these frantic cries! 'Tis our part to await whate'er may come, Not bid it hasten.—Thou didst say but now There is no past, no future; when a deed Is done, 'tis done for all time; we can know Only this one brief present instant, Now. Say, if this Now may cradle a dim future, Why may it not entomb the misty past? My past! Would God that I could change it—now! And bitter tears I weep for it, bitterer far Than thou dost dream of.—Yet, that is no cause To seek destruction. Rather is there need Clearly to know myself, face honestly The thing I am. Here to these foreign shores And stranger folk a god hath driven us; And what seemed right in Colchis, here is named Evil and wickedness; our wonted ways Win hatred here in Corinth, and distrust. So, it is meet we change our ways and speech; If we may be no longer what we would, Let us at least, then, be e'en what we can.— The ties that bound me to my fatherland Here in earth's bosom I have buried deep; The magic rites my mother taught me, all Back to the Night that bare them I have given. Now, but a woman, weak, alone, defenseless, I throw me in my husband's open arms! He shuddered at the Colchian witch! But now I am his true, dear wife; and surely he Will take me to his loving, shelt'ring arms.— Lo, the day breaks, fair sign of our new life Together! The dark past has ceased to be, The happy future beckons!—Thou, O Earth, The kind and gentle mother of us all, Guard well my trust, that in thy bosom lies.

[As she and GORA approach the tent, it opens, and JASON appears, talking with a Corinthian rustic, and followed by a slave.]

JASON. Thou saw'st the king himself?

RUSTIC. I did, my lord.

JASON. How went thy tale?

RUSTIC. I Said, "One waits without, A guest-friend of thy house, well-known to thee, Yet so hedged round is he with traitorous foes, He dares not enter, ere thou promise him Peace and protection."

JASON. And his answer?—Speak!

RUSTIC. He comes, my lord, to meet thee. All this folk Make pious offering to Poseidon here Upon the seashore. Soon in festal train They come with garlands and fair gifts, the king Leading his daughter by the hand. 'Tis then, As they pass by, that he will speak with thee.

JASON. Thou hast done well. I thank thee.

MEDEA (coming up to him).

Jason, hail!

JASON. Hail to thee, too!

(To the slave.)

Go, thou, and all the others, And pluck green branches from the budding trees To mark you suppliants. 'Tis the custom here. And keep a quiet, peaceful mien. Dost hear? Now go.

[They depart.]

MEDEA. Thou'rt full of thought?

JASON. Ay, full.

MEDEA. Thou givest Thyself no rest.

JASON. A fugitive—and rest? There is no rest for such, but only flight.

MEDEA. Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep, But wand'redst forth in the murky night, alone.

JASON. I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes.

MEDEA. And thou hast sent a message to the king. Will he receive us kindly?

JASON. That I wait To hear.

MEDEA. He is thy friend?

JASON. He was.

MEDEA. Then sure His heart will soften.

JASON. Even the kindest men Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know How all the world doth flee us, since the death Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus The people whisper that I slew him, I, Thy husband, from that land of magic come. Dost thou not know this?

MEDEA. Yea.

JASON. Here's cause enough To wake and wander all the dark night through.— But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour? Calling old friends from Colchis?

MEDEA. Nay.

JASON. Speak truth!

MEDEA. I say, I am not.

JASON. And I say to thee, Better for thee if thou forget all such. Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks, Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts This folk here love not,—and I hate them, too! This is not Colchis dark,—but sunny Greece; Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know, Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells; I have thy promise, and I know thee true.— That crimson wimple bound about thy hair Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory. Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress? I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil; Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home. The past is dead. Why call it back to life? Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!

[MEDEA silently removes the veil and gives it to GORA.]

GORA (whispering).

Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus—and all for him?

JASON (catching sight of GORA).

What! Art thou here, thou ancient beldame? Ha! I hate thee most of all this Colchian crew. One glance at thy dim eyes and wrinkled brow, And lo! before my troubled sight there swims The dusky shore of Colchis! Why must thou Be ever hovering close beside my wife? Begone!

GORA (grumblingly).

Why should I?

JASON. Go!

MEDEA. Begone, I pray.

GORA (sullenly to JASON).

Am I thy purchased slave, that thou shouldst speak So lordly?

JASON. Go! My hand, of its own will, Is on my sword! Go, while there yet is time! Often ere this I have thought to make essay If that stern brow be softer than it seems!

[MEDEA leads the reluctant GORA away, whispering words of comfort as they go. JASON throws himself on a grass-bank, and strikes his breast.]

JASON. O, heart of mine, burst from thy prison-house, And drink the air!— Ay, there they lie, fair Corinth's lofty towers, Marshalled so richly on the ocean-strand, The cradle of my happy, golden youth! Unchanging, gilded by the selfsame sun As then. 'Tis I am altered, and not they. Ye gods! The morning of my life was bright And sunny; wherefore is my eventide So dark and gloomy? Would that it were night!

[MEDEA has brought the two children out of the tent, and now leads them by the hand to JASON.]

MEDEA. See, Jason, thy two babes, who come to greet thee. Come, children, give your sire your little hands.

[The children draw back, and stand shyly at one side.]

JASON (stretching out his hands yearningly toward the little group.)

Is this the end, then? Do I find myself Husband and father of a savage brood?

MEDEA. Go, children.

ONE CHILD. Father, is it true thou art A Greek?

JASON. And why?

CHILD. Old Gora says thou art, And calls the Greeks bad names.

JASON. What names, my boy?

CHILD. Traitors she says they are, and cowards, too.

JASON (to MEDEA).

Dost hear?

MEDEA. 'Tis Gora's foolish tales that they Have heard, and treasured, child-like. Mark them not.

[She kneels beside the two children, whispering in the ear now of one, now of the other.]

JASON. I will not.

[He rises from the grass.]

There she kneels—unhappy fate!— Bearing two burdens, hers, and mine as well.

[He paces up and down, then addresses MEDEA.]

There, leave the babes awhile, and come to me.