* * * * *
From The Novices at Saïs (1798)
Long ages ago there lived in the far west a guileless youth. He was very good, but at the same time peculiar beyond measure. He constantly grieved over nothing at all, always went about alone and silent, sat down by himself whenever the others played and were happy, and was always thinking about strange things. Woods and caves were his favorite haunts, and there he talked constantly with birds and animals, with rocks and trees—naturally not a word of sense, nothing but stuff silly enough to make one die a-laughing. Yet he continued to remain morose and grave in spite of the fact that the squirrel, the long-tailed monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch took great pains to distract him and lead him into the right path. The goose would tell fairy-tales, and in the midst of them the brook would tinkle a ballad; a great heavy stone would caper about ludicrously; the rose stealing up affectionately behind him would creep through his locks, and the ivy stroke his careworn forehead. But his melancholy and his gravity were obstinate. His parents were greatly grieved; they did not know what to do. He was healthy and ate well. His parents had never hurt his feelings, nor until a few years since had any one been more cheerful and lively than he; always he had been at the head of every game, and was well liked by all the girls. He was very handsome indeed, looked like a picture, danced beautifully. Among the girls there was one sweet and very pretty child.
[Illustration: #NOVALIS# (Friedrich von Hardenberg) EDUARD EICHENS]
She looked as though she were of wax, with hair like silk spun of gold, lips as red as cherries, a figure like a little doll, eyes black as the raven. Such was her charm that whoever saw her might have pined away with love. At that time Roseblossom, that was her name, cherished a heart-felt affection for the handsome Hyacinth, that was his name, and he loved her with all his life. The other children did not know it. A little violet had been the first to tell them; the house-cats had noticed it, to be sure, for their parents' homes stood near each other. When, therefore, Hyacinth was standing at night at his window and Roseblossom at hers, and the pussies ran by on a mouse-hunt, they would see both standing, and would often laugh and titter so loudly that the children would hear them and grow angry. The violet had confided it to the strawberry, she told it to her friend, the gooseberry, and she never stopped taunting when Hyacinth passed; so that very soon the whole garden and the goods heard the news, and whenever Hyacinth went out they called on every side: "Little Roseblossom is my sweetheart!" Now Hyacinth was vexed, and again he could not help laughing from the bottom of his heart when the lizard would come sliding up, seat himself on a warm stone, wag his little tail, and sing
Little Roseblossom, good and kind,
Suddenly was stricken blind.
Her mother Hyacinth she thought
And to embrace him forthwith sought.
But when she felt the face was strange,
Just think, no terror made her change!
But on his cheek pressed she her kiss,
And she had noted naught amiss.
Alas, how soon did all this bliss pass away! There came along a man from foreign lands; he had traveled everywhere, had a long beard, deep-set eyes, terrible eyebrows, a strange cloak with many folds and queer figures woven in it. He seated himself in front of the house that belonged to Hyacinth's parents. Now Hyacinth was very curious and sat down beside him and fetched him bread and wine. Then the man parted his white beard and told stories until late at night and Hyacinth did not stir nor did he tire of listening. As far as one could learn afterward the man had related much about foreign lands, unknown regions, astonishingly wondrous things, staying there three days and creeping down into deep pits with Hyacinth. Roseblossom cursed the old sorcerer enough, for Hyacinth was all eagerness for his tales and cared for nothing, scarcely even eating a little food. Finally the man took his departure, not, however, without leaving Hyacinth a booklet that not a soul could read. The youth had even given him fruit, bread, and wine to take along and had accompanied him a long way. Then he came back melancholy and began an entirely new mode of life. Roseblossom grieved for him very pitifully, for from that time on he paid little attention to her and always kept to himself.
Now it came about that he returned home one day and was like one new-born. He fell on his parents' neck and wept. "I must depart for foreign lands," he said; "the strange old woman in the forest told me that I must get well again; she threw the book into the fire and urged me to come to you and ask for your blessing. Perhaps I shall be back soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Roseblossom for me. I should have liked to speak to her, I do not know what is the matter, something drives me away; whenever I want to think of old times, mightier thoughts rush in immediately; my peace is gone, my courage and love with it, I must go in quest of them. I should like to tell you whither, but I do not know myself; thither where dwells the mother of all things, the veiled virgin. For her my heart burns. Farewell!"
He tore himself away and departed. His parents lamented and shed tears. Roseblossom kept in her chamber and wept bitterly. Hyacinth now hastened as fast as he could through valleys and wildernesses, across mountains and streams, toward the mysterious country. Everywhere he asked men and animals, rocks and trees, for the sacred goddess (Isis). Some laughed, some were silent, nowhere did he receive an answer. At first he passed through wild, uninhabited regions, mist and clouds obstructed his path, it was always storming; later he found unbounded deserts of glowing hot sand, and as he wandered his mood changed, time seemed to grow longer, and his inner unrest was calmed. He became more tranquil and the violent excitement within him was gradually transformed to a gentle but strong impulse, which took possession of his whole nature. It seemed as though many years lay behind him. Now, too, the region again became richer and more varied, the air warm and blue, the path more level; green bushes attracted him with their pleasant shade but he did not understand their language, nor did they seem to speak, and yet they filled his heart with verdant colors, with quiet and freshness. Mightier and mightier grew within him that sweet longing, broader and softer the leaves, noisier and happier the birds and animals, balmier the fruits, darker the heavens, warmer the air and more fiery his love; faster and faster passed the Time, as though it knew that it was approaching the goal.
One day he came upon a crystal spring and a bevy of flowers that were going down to a valley between black columns reaching to the sky. With familiar words they greeted him kindly. "My dear countrymen," he said, "pray, where am I to find the sacred abode of Isis? It must be somewhere in this vicinity, and you are probably better acquainted here than I." "We, too, are only passing through this region," the flowers answered; "a family of spirits is traveling and we are making ready the road and preparing lodgings for them; but we came through a region lately where we heard her name called. Just walk upward in the direction from which we are coming and you will be sure to learn more." The flowers and the spring smiled as they said this, offered him a drink of fresh water, and went on.
Hyacinth followed their advice, asked and asked, and finally reached that long-sought dwelling concealed behind palms and other choice plants. His heart beat with infinite longing and the most delicious yearning thrilled him in this abode of the eternal seasons. Amid heavenly fragrance he fell into slumber, since naught but dreams might lead him to the most sacred place. To the tune of charming melodies and in changing harmonies did his dream guide him mysteriously through endless apartments filled with curious things. Everything seemed so familiar to him and yet amid a splendor that he had never seen; then even the last tinge of earthliness vanished as though dissipated in the air, and he stood before the celestial virgin. He lifted the filmy, shimmering veil and Roseblossom fell into his arms. From afar a strain of music accompanied the mystery of the loving reunion, the outpourings of their longing, and excluded all that was alien from this delightful spot. After that Hyacinth lived many years with Roseblossom near his happy parents and comrades, and innumerable grandchildren thanked the mysterious old woman for her advice and her fire; for at that time people got as many children as they wanted.
By NOVALIS
Where no gods are, spectres rule.
The best thing that the French achieved by their Revolution, was a portion of Germanity.
Germanity is genuine popularity, and therefore an ideal.
Where children are, there is the golden age.
Spirit is now active here and there: when will Spirit be active in the whole? When will mankind, in the mass, begin to consider?
Nature is pure Past, foregone freedom; and therefore, throughout, the soil of history.
The antithesis of body and spirit is one of the most remarkable and dangerous of all antitheses. It has played an important part in history.
Only by comparing ourselves, as men, with other rational beings, could we know what we truly are, what position we occupy.
The history of Christ is as surely poetry as it is history. And, in general, only that history is history which might also be fable.
The Bible begins gloriously with Paradise, the symbol of youth, and ends with the everlasting kingdom, with the holy city. The history of every man should be a Bible.
Prayer is to religion what thinking is to philosophy. To pray is to make religion.
The more sinful man feels himself, the more Christian he is.
Christianity is opposed to science, to art, to enjoyment in the proper sense.
It goes forth from the common man. It inspires the great majority of the limited on earth.
It is the germ of all democracy, the highest fact in the domain of the popular.
Light is the symbol of genuine self-possession. Therefore light, according to analogy, is the action of the self-contact of matter. Accordingly, day is the consciousness of the planet, and while the sun, like a god, in eternal self-action, inspires the centre, one planet after another closes one eye for a longer or shorter time, and with cool sleep refreshes itself for new life and contemplation. Accordingly, here, too, there is religion. For is the life of the planets aught else but sun-worship?
The Holy Ghost is more than the Bible. This should be our teacher of religion, not the dead, earthly, equivocal letter.
All faith is miraculous, and worketh miracles.
Sin is indeed the real evil in the world. All calamity proceeds from that. He who understands sin, understands virtue and Christianity, himself and the world.
The greatest of miracles is a virtuous act.
If a man could suddenly believe, in sincerity, that he was moral, he would be so.
We need not fear to admit that man has a preponderating tendency to evil. So much the better is he by nature, for only the unlike attracts.
Everything distinguished (peculiar) deserves ostracism. Well for it if it ostracizes itself. Everything absolute must quit the world.
A time will come, and that soon, when all men will be convinced that there can be no king without a republic, and no republic without a king; that both are as inseparable as body and soul. The true king will be a republic, the true republic a king.
In cheerful souls there is no wit. Wit shows a disturbance of the equipoise.
Most people know not how interesting they are, what interesting things they really utter. A true representation of themselves, a record and estimate of their sayings, would make them astonished at themselves, would help them to discover in themselves an entirely new world.
Man is the Messiah of Nature.
The soul is the most powerful of all poisons. It is the most penetrating and diffusible stimulus.
Every sickness is a musical problem; the cure is the musical solution.
Inoculation with death, also, will not be wanting in some future universal therapy.
The idea of a perfect health is interesting only in a scientific point of view. Sickness is necessary to individualization.
If God could be man, he can also be stone, plant, animal, element, and perhaps, in this way, there is a continuous redemption in Nature.
Life is a disease of the spirit, a passionate activity. Rest is the peculiar property of the spirit. From the spirit comes gravitation.
As nothing can be free, so, too, nothing can be forced, but spirit.
A space-filling individual is a body; a time-filling individual is a soul.
It should be inquired whether Nature has not essentially changed with the progress of culture.
All activity ceases when knowledge comes. The state of knowing is eudæmonism, blest repose of contemplation, heavenly quietism.
Miracles, as contradictions of Nature, are amathematical. But there are no miracles in this sense. What we so term, is intelligible precisely by means of mathematics; for nothing is miraculous to mathematics.
In music, mathematics appears formally, as revelation, as creative idealism. All enjoyment is musical, consequently mathematical. The highest life is mathematics.
There may be mathematicians of the first magnitude who cannot cipher.
One can be a great cipherer without a conception of mathematics.
Instinct is genius in Paradise, before the period of self-abstraction (self-recognition).
The fate which oppresses us is the sluggishness of our spirit. By enlargement and cultivation of our activity, we change ourselves into fate. Everything appears to stream in upon us, because we do not stream out. We are negative, because we choose to be so; the more positive we become, the more negative will the world around us be, until, at last, there is no more negative, and we are all in all. God wills gods.
All power appears only in transition. Permanent power is stuff.
Every act of introversion—every glance into our interior—is at the same time ascension, going up to heaven, a glance at the veritable outward.
Only so far as a man is happily married to himself, is he fit for married life and family life, generally.
One must never confess that one loves one's self. The secret of this confession is the life-principle of the only true and eternal love.
We conceive God as personal, just as we conceive ourselves personal.
God is just as personal and as individual as we are; for what we call
I is not our true I, but only its off glance.
By NOVALIS
Who, that hath life and the gift of perception, loves not more than all the marvels seen far and wide in the space about him Light, the all-gladdening, with its colors, with its beams and its waves, its mild omnipresence as the arousing day? The giant world of restless stars breathes it, as were it the innermost soul of life, and lightly floats in its azure flood; the stone breathes it, sparkling and ever at rest, and the dreamy, drinking plant, and the savage, ardent, manifold-fashioned beast; but above all the glorious stranger with the thoughtful eyes, the airy step, and the lightly-closed, melodious lips. Like a king of terrestrial nature it calls every power to countless transformations, it forms and dissolves innumerable alliances and surrounds every earthly creature with its heavenly effulgence. Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the realms of the world.
Downward I turn my eyes to Night, the holy, ineffable, mysterious. Far below lies the world, sunk in a deep vault; void and lonely is its place. Deep melancholy is wafted through the chords of the breast. In drops of dew I'd fain sink down and mingle with the ashes. Far-off memories, desires of youth, dreams of childhood, long life's brief joys and vain hopes appear in gray garments like the evening mist after sunset. Light has pitched its gay tents in other regions. Will it perchance never return to its children, who are waiting for it with the faith of innocence?
What is it that suddenly wells up so forebodingly from beneath the heart and smothers the gentle breath of melancholy? Dark Night, dost thou also take pleasure in us? What hast thou beneath thy mantle which touches my soul with invisible force? Precious balsam drops from the bunch of poppies in thy hand. Thou raisest up the heavy wings of the soul; vaguely and inexpressibly we feel ourselves moved. Joyously fearful, I see an earnest face, which gently and reverently bends over me, and amid endlessly entangled locks shows the sweet youth of the mother. How poor and childish does Light seem to me now! How joyful and blessed the departure of day! Only for that reason, then, because Night turns thy servants from thee, didst thou scatter in the wide expanse of space the shining stars, to make known thine omnipotence and thy return, during the periods of thine absence? More heavenly than those twinkling stars seem to us the everlasting eyes which Night has opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those numberless hosts; not needing light, they fathom the depths of a loving heart, filling a higher space with unspeakable delight.
Praise be to the queen of the world, to the high harbinger of holy worlds, to the fostress of blissful love! She sends thee to me, gentle sweetheart, lovely sun of the night. Now I am awake, for I am thine and mine; thou hast proclaimed to me that night is life and made a man of me. Consume my body with spiritual fire, that I may ethereally blend with thee, and then the bridal night may last forever.
Though none Thy Name should cherish,
My faith shall be the same,
Lest gratitude should perish
And earth be brought to shame.
With meekness Thou did'st suffer
The pangs of death for me,
With joy then I would offer
This heart for aye to Thee.
[Illustration: #THE QUEEN OF NIGHT# From the painting by Moritz von
Schwind]
I weep with strong emotion
That death has been Thy lot,
And yet that Thy devotion
Thy people have forgot.
The blessings of salvation
Thy perfect love has won,
Yet who in any nation
Regards what Thou hast done 3
With love Thou hast protected
Each man his whole life through;
Though all Thy care rejected,
No less would'st Thou be true.
Such love as Thine must vanquish
The proudest soul at last,
'Twill turn to Thee in anguish
And to Thy knees cling fast.
Thine influence hath bound me;
Oh, if it be Thy will,
Be evermore around me,
Be present with me still!
At length too shall the others
Look up and long for rest,
And all my loving brothers
Shall sink upon Thy breast.
A thousand hands, devoutly tender,
Have sought thy beauty to express,
But none, oh Mary, none can render,
As my soul sees, thy loveliness.
I gaze till earth's confusion fadeth
Like to a dream, and leaves behind
A heaven of sweetness which pervadeth
My whole rapt being—heart and mind.
* * * * *
Ye wander there in the light
On flower-soft fields, ye blest immortal Spirits.
Radiant godlike zephyrs
Touch you as gently
As the hand of a master might
Touch the awed lute-string.
Free of fate as the slumbering
Infant, breathe the divine ones.
Guarded well
In the firm-sheathed bud
Blooms eternal
Each happy soul;
And their rapture-lit eyes
Shine with a tranquil
Unchanging lustre.
But we, 'tis our portion,
We never may be at rest.
They stumble, they vanish,
The suffering mortals,
Hurtling from one hard
Hour to another,
Like waves that are driven
From cliff-side to cliff-side,
Endlessly down the uncertain abyss.
Before his but reposes in restful shade The ploughman; wreaths of smoke from his hearth ascend. And sweet to wand'rers comes the tone of Evening bells from the peaceful village.
[Illustration: #FRIEDRICH HÖLDERLIN# E. HADER]
The sailor too puts into the haven now,
In distant cities cheerily dies away
The busy tumult; in the arbor
Gleams the festal repast of friendship.
But whither I? In labor, for slight reward
We mortals live; in alternate rest and toil
Contentment dwells; but why then sleeps not
Hid in my bosom the thorn unsparing?
The ev'ning heaven blooms as with springtime's hue;
Uncounted bloom the roses, the golden world
Seems wrapt in peace; oh, bear me thither,
Purple-wrought clouds! And may for me there
Both love and grief dissolve in the joyous light!
But see, as if dispelled by the foolish prayer,
The wonder fades! 'Tis dark, and lonely
Under the heaven I stand as erstwhile.
Come then to me, soft Sleep. Overmuch requires
The heart; and yet thou too at the last shalt fade,
Oh youth, thou restless dream-pursuer!
Peaceful and happy shall age then follow.
* * * * *
A fairy-tale for children in three acts, with interludes, a prologue and an epilogue.
THE PRINCESS, his daughter
PRINCE NATHANIEL of Malsinki
LEANDER, Court scholar
HANSWURST, Court fool
A Groom of the Chamber
The Cook
LORENZ }
BARTHEL } Peasant brothers
GOTTLIEB }
Hinze, a tom-cat
A Tavern-keeper
KUNZ }
MICHEL } Peasants
A Bugbear
A Peace-maker
The Playwright
A Soldier
Two Hussars
Two Lovers
Servants
Musicians
A Peasant
The Prompter
A Shoemaker
A Historian
Elephants
Lions
Bears
An officer
Eagles and other birds
A rabbit
Partridges
Jupiter
Terkaleon
The Machinist
Spirits
Monkeys
The Public.
[Illustration: #LUDWIG TIECK# VOGEL VON VOGELSTEIN]
The scene is laid in the pit, the candles are already lighted, the musicians are gathered in the orchestra. The theatre is filled, people talking in confusion, some arriving, etc.
FISCHER, MÜLLER, SCHLOSSER, BÖTTICHER, in the pit
Say, but I am curious, Herr Müller, what do you think of today's play?
I should be more likely to expect the sky to fall in than to see such a play at our theatre.
Do you know the play?
Not at all. A strange title that: Puss in Boots. I do hope they're not going to present that child's play at the theatre.
Why, is it an opera?
Anything but that; the bill says: A Fairy-tale for Children.
A fairy-tale? But in Heaven's name, we're not children, are we, that they want to present such pieces for us? They certainly won't put an actual cat on the stage, will they?
It may turn out to be an imitation of the new Arcadians, a sort of
Terkaleon.
Now that wouldn't be bad, for I've been wishing this long while to see some time such a wonderful opera without music.
Without music it is absurd, for, my dear friend, we're beyond such childish nonsense, such superstition; enlightenment has borne its natural fruits.
It may turn out to be a regular picture of domestic life, and the cat is only a joke, something like a jest, so to speak, a motive, if I may call it that.
To tell you my honest opinion, I take the whole thing to be a trick to spread sentiment among the people, give them suggestions. You'll see if I'm not right. A revolutionary play, as far as I can understand.
I agree with you, too, for otherwise the style would be horribly offensive. For my part I must admit I never could believe in witches or spirits, not to mention Puss in Boots.
The age of these phantoms is past. Why, there comes Leutner; perhaps he can tell us more.
[Leutner pushes himself through the crowd.]
Good evening, good evening! Well, how are you?
Do tell us, will you, what sort of play we're having tonight?
[The music begins.]
So late already? Why, I've come in the nick of time. About the play? I have just been speaking with the author; he is at the theatre and helping dress the tom-cat.
Is helping?—The author?—The cat? So a cat will appear, after all?
Yes, indeed, why his name is even on the bill.
I say, who's playing that part?
The strange actor, of course, the great man.
Indeed? But how can they possibly play such nonsense?
For a change, the author thinks.
A fine change, why not Bluebeard too, and Prince Kobold? Indeed! Some excellent subjects for the drama!
But how are they going to dress the cat?—And I wonder whether he wears real boots?
I am just as impatient as all of you.
But shall we really have such stuff played to us? We've come here out of curiosity, to be sure, but still we have taste.
I feel like making a noise.
It's rather cold, too. I'll make a start. (He stamps with his feet, the others fall in.)
WIESENER (on the other side).
What does this pounding mean?
That's to rescue good taste.
Well, then I won't be the last, either. (He stamps.)
Be quiet, or you can't hear the music. (All are stamping.)
But, I say, we really ought to let them go through the play, for, after all, we've given our money anyhow; afterward we'll pound so they'll hear us out doors.
No, they'll now—taste—rules—art—otherwise everything will go to ruin.
Gentlemen, shall the police be sent in?
We have paid, we represent the public, and therefore we will have our own good taste and no farces.
THE PLAYWRIGHT (behind the scenes).
The play will begin immediately.
No play—we want no play—we want good taste—
Good taste! good taste!
I am puzzled—what do you mean, if I may ask?
Good taste! Are you an author and don't even know what good taste means?
Consider a young beginner—
We want to know nothing about beginners—we want to see a decent play-a play in good taste!
What sort? What kind?
Domestic stories—elopements—brothers and sisters from the country—something like that.
[The Author comes out from behind the curtain.]
Gentlemen—
Is that the author?
He doesn't look much like an author.
Impertinent fellow!
His hair isn't even trimmed.
Gentlemen-pardon my boldness.
How can you write such plays? Why haven't you trained yourself?
Grant me just one minute's audience before you condemn me. I know that the honorable public must pass judgment on the author, and that from them there is no appeal, but I know the justice of an honorable public, and I am assured they will not frighten me away from a course in which I so need their indulgent guidance.
He doesn't talk badly.
He's more courteous than I thought.
He has respect for the public, after all.
I am ashamed to present to such illustrious judges the modest inspiration of my Muse; it is only the skill of our actors which still consoles me to some extent, otherwise I should be sunk in despair without further ado.
I am sorry for him.
A good fellow!
When I heard your worthy stamping—nothing has ever frightened me so, I am still pale and trembling and do not myself comprehend how I have attained to the courage of thus appearing before you.
Well, clap, then! (All clap.)
I wanted to make an attempt to furnish amusement by means of humor, by cheerfulness and real jokes, and hope I have been successful, since our newest plays so seldom afford us an opportunity to laugh.
[Illustration: #PUSS IN BOOTS# MORITZ VON SCHWIND]
That's certainly true!
He's right—that man.
Bravo! Bravo!
Bravo! Bravo! (They clap.)
I leave you, honored sirs, to decide now whether my attempt is to be rejected entirely—trembling, I withdraw, and the play will begin. (He bows very respectfully and goes behind the curtain.)
Bravo! Bravo!
Da capo!—
[All are laughing. The music begins again; meanwhile the curtain rises.]
Small room in a peasant's cottage
LORENZ, BARTHEL, GOTTLIEB. The tom-cat HINZE, is lying on a bench by the stove.
I think that after the death of our father, our little fortune can be divided easily. You know the deceased has left only three pieces of property—a horse, an ox, and that cat there. I, as the eldest, will take the horse; Barthel, second after me, gets the ox, and so the cat is naturally left for our youngest brother.
LEUTNER (in the pit).
For Heaven's sake! Did any one ever see such an exposition! Just see how far dramatic art has degenerated!
But I understand everything perfectly well.
That's just the trouble, you should give the spectator a cunning suggestion, not throw the matter right into his teeth.
But now you know, don't you, where you are?
Yes, but you certainly mustn't know that so quickly; why, the very best part of the fun consists in getting at it little by little.
I think, brother Gottlieb, you will also be satisfied with this division; unfortunately you are the youngest, and so you must grant us some privileges.
Yes, to be sure.
But why doesn't the court of awards interfere in the inheritance? What improbabilities!
So then we're going now, dear Gottlieb; farewell, don't let time hang heavy on your hands.
Good-bye.
[Exit the brothers.]
GOTTLIEB (alone).
They are going away—and I am alone. We all three have our lodgings. Lorenz, of course, can till the ground with his horse, Barthel can slaughter and pickle his ox and live on it a while—but what am I, poor unfortunate, to do with my cat? At the most, I can have a muff for the winter made out of his fur, but I think he is even shedding it now. There he lies asleep quite comfortably—poor Hinze! Soon we shall have to part. I am sorry I brought him up, I know him as I know myself—but he will have to believe me, I cannot help myself, I must really sell him. He looks at me as though he understood. I could almost begin to cry.
[He walks up and down, lost in thought.]
Well, you see now, don't, you, that it's going to be a touching picture of family life? The peasant is poor and without money; now, in the direst need, he will sell his faithful pet to some susceptible young lady, and in the end that will be the foundation of his good fortune. Probably it is an imitation of Kotzebue's Parrot; here the bird is replaced by a cat and the play runs on of itself.
Now that it's working out this way, I am satisfied too.
HINZE, the tom-cat (rises, stretches, arches his back, yawns, then speaks).
My dear Gottlieb—I really sympathize with you.
GOTTLIEB (astonished).
What, puss, you are speaking?
THE CRITICS (in the pit).
The cat is talking? What does that mean, pray?
It's impossible for me to get the proper illusion here.
Rather than let myself be disappointed like this I never want to see another play all my life.
Why should I not be able to speak, Gottlieb?
I should not have suspected it; I never heard a cat speak in all my life.
Because we do not join in every conversation, you think we're nothing but dogs.
I think your only business is to catch mice.
If we had not, in our intercourse with human beings, got a certain contempt for speech, we could all speak.
Well, I'll own that! But why don't you give any one an opportunity to discover you?
That's to avoid responsibility, for if once the power of speech were inflicted on us so-called animals, there wouldn't be any joy left in the world. What isn't the dog compelled to do and learn! The horse! They are foolish animals to show their intelligence, they must give way entirely to their vanity; we cats still continue to be the freest race because, with all our skill, we can act so clumsily that human beings quite give up the idea of training us.
But why do you disclose all this to me?
Because you are a good, a noble man, one of the few who take no delight in servility and slavery; see, that is why I disclose myself to you completely and fully.
GOTTLIEB (gives him his hand).
Good friend!
Human beings labor under the delusion that the only remarkable thing about us is that instinctive purring which arises from a certain feeling of comfort; for that reason they often stroke us awkwardly and then we usually purr to secure ourselves against blows. But if they knew how to manage us in the right way, believe me, they would accustom our good nature to everything, and Michel, your neighbor's tom-cat, would even at times be pleased to jump through a hoop for the king.
You're right in that.
I love you, Master Gottlieb, very much. You have never stroked me the wrong way, you have let me sleep when I felt like it, you have objected whenever your brothers wanted to take me up, to go with me into the dark, and see the so-called electrical sparks—for all this I now want to show my gratitude.
Noble-hearted Hinze! Ah, how unjustly do they speak ill of you and scornfully, doubting your loyalty and devotion! My eyes are being opened—how my knowledge of human nature is increasing and so unexpectedly!
Friends, where has our hope for a picture of family life gone to?
Why it is almost too nonsensical.
I feel as though I were in a dream.
You are a good man, Master Gottlieb; but, do not take it ill of me, you are somewhat narrow, confined—to speak out freely, not one of the best heads.
Alas, no!
You don't know now, for example, what you want to do.
You read my thoughts perfectly.
If you had a muff made out of my fur—
Do not take it amiss, comrade, that this idea just passed through my mind.
Why, no, it was an altogether human thought. Can you think of no way of managing?
Not a thing!
You might carry me around and show me for money; but that is never a sure means of support.
No.
You might publish a journal or a German paper, with the motto, Homo sum—or a novel; I should be willing to collaborate with you—but that is too much bother.
Yes.
Well, I'll see that I take even better care of you. Depend upon it, you are yet to become very happy through me.
O, best, most noble man. (He embraces him tenderly.)
But you must also trust me.
Entirely. Why, now I realize your honorable spirit.
Well, then, do me a favor and bring the shoemaker immediately to take my measure for a pair of boots.
The shoemaker? Boots?
You are surprised, but in accomplishing what I intend to do for you, I have to walk and run so much that I have to wear boots.
But why not shoes?
Master Gottlieb, you do not understand the matter; they must lend me some dignity, an imposing air, in short, a certain manliness to which one never attains in shoes.
Well, as you think best; but the shoemaker will be surprised.
Not at all; we must act only as if it were nothing remarkable that I should wish to wear boots; one gets used to everything.
Yes, indeed; why, my conversation with you has actually become quite easy! But another thing; now that we have become such good friends, do call me by my first name, too; why do you still want to stand on ceremony with me?
As you like, Gottlieb.
There's the shoemaker passing. Hey! Pst! Friend Leichdorn! Will you please stop a moment?
[The shoemaker comes in.]
God bless you! What's the news?
I have ordered no work from you for a long time.
No, my friend, all in all, I have very little to do now.
I should like to have another pair of boots made—
Please take a seat. I have a measure with me.
Not for myself, but for my young friend there.
For this one here? Very well.
HINZE (sits on a chair and holds out his right leg).
Now how should you like it, pussy?
In the first place, good soles, then brown flaps, and, above all things, stiff.
Very well. (He takes the measure.) Will you be so kind as to draw your claws in a bit—or rather nails? I have already scratched myself. (He takes the measure.)
And they must be finished quickly. (As his leg is being stroked he begins to purr involuntarily.)
The pussy is comfortable.
Yes, he's a good-humored fellow. He has just come from school, what they usually call a "smarty."
Well, good-bye.
[Exit.]
Wouldn't you perhaps like to have your whiskers trimmed too?
On no account, I look so much more respectable, and you certainly must know that cats immediately become unmanly after that. A tom-cat without whiskers is but a contemptible creature.
If I only knew what you are planning!
You'll find out in due time. Now I want to take a little walk on the roofs; there's a fine, open view there and you're likely to catch a dove too.
As a good friend, I want to warn you not to let yourself be caught at it.
Don't worry, I'm not a novice. Meanwhile, good-bye.
[Exit.]
GOTTLIEB (alone).
Natural history always says that cats cannot be trusted and that they belong to the lion family, and I am in such fearful dread of a lion. Now if the cat had no conscience, he could run away from me afterward with the boots for which I must now give my last penny and then sell them somewhere for nothing, or it's possible that he wants to make a bid for favor with the shoemaker and then go into his service. But he has a tom-cat already. No, Hinze, my brothers have betrayed me, and now I will try my luck with you. He spoke so nobly, he was so touched—there he sits on the roof yonder, stroking his whiskers—forgive me, my fine friend, that I could even for a moment doubt your magnanimity.
[Exit.]
What nonsense!
What does the cat need those boots for?—to be able to walk better?
Silly stuff!
But it seems as though I saw a cat before me.
Be still, the scene is changing.
Hall in the royal palace
The KING with crown and sceptre. The PRINCESS, his daughter
A thousand handsome princes, my precious daughter, have already sued for your hand and laid their kingdoms at your feet, but you have continued to refuse them. Tell us the reason for this, my treasure.
My most gracious father, I have always believed that my heart must first feel certain emotions before my neck would bow under the yoke of marriage. For a marriage without love, they say, is truly hell upon earth.
That is right, my dear daughter. Ah, indeed, indeed, have you spoken words of truth: a hell on earth! Alas, if only I were not qualified to discuss it! Indeed I should have preferred to remain ignorant! But as it is, dear treasure, I have my tale to tell, as they say. Your mother, my consort of blessed memory—ah, Princess, see, the tears rush to my eyes even in my old age—she was a good queen, she wore the crown with an indescribable air of majesty—but she gave me very little peace. Well, may her ashes rest in peace among her royal relatives.
Your majesty excites yourself too much.
When the memory of it returns to me, O my child, on my knees I would entreat you—do be careful in marrying! It is a great truth that linen and a bridegroom must not be bought by candle-light, a truth which should be found in every book. What did I suffer! No day passed without a quarrel; I could not sleep peacefully, could not conduct my administrative business quietly, I could not think of anything, could not read a book—I was always interrupted. And still my spirit sometimes yearns for you, my blessed Klothilde! My eyes smart—I am a real old fool.
PRINCESS (tenderly).
My father!
I tremble to think of the dangers that face you, for, even if you do fall in love now, my daughter, ah! you should just see what thick books wise men have filled on this subject—see, your very passion, then, can also make you miserable. The happiest, the most blissful emotion can ruin us; moreover, love is, as it were, a magic cup; instead of nectar we often drink poison; then our pillow is wet with tears; all hope, all consolation are gone. (The sound of a trumpet is heard.) Why, it isn't dinner-time yet, is it? Probably another new prince who wants to fall in love with you. Take care, my daughter; you are my only child, and you do not realize how near my heart your happiness lies. (He kisses her and leaves the hall. Applause is heard in the pit.)
That's a scene for you, in which you can find sound common sense.
I am also moved.
He's an excellent sovereign.
Now he didn't exactly have to appear with a crown.
It entirely spoils the sympathy one feels for him as an affectionate father.
THE PRINCESS (alone).
I do not understand at all; why, not one of the princes has yet touched my heart with love. I always keep in mind my father's warnings; he is a great sovereign and nevertheless a good father too, and is always thinking of my happiness; if only he did not have such a hasty temper! But fortune and misfortune are always coupled thus. My joy I find in the arts and sciences, for books constitute all my happiness.
The PRINCESS, LEANDER, the court scholar.
Well, your Royal Highness! (They sit down.)
Here. Master Leander, is my essay. I have entitled it Thoughts at
Night.
LEANDER (reads).
Excellent! Inspired! Ah! I feel as though I hear the hour of midnight striking. When did you write it?
Yesterday noon, after dinner.
Beautifully conceived! Truly, beautifully conceived! But with your most gracious permission! The moon shines sadly down in the world. If you will not take it amiss, it should read: into the world.
Very well, I will note that for the future; it's too stupid that poetry should be made so hard for us; one can't write five or six lines without making a mistake.
That's the obstinacy of language, so to speak.
Are not the emotions tenderly and delicately phrased!
Indescribably! It is scarcely comprehensible how a feminine mind could write such a thing.
Now I might try my hand at moonlight descriptions. Don't you think so?
Naturally you keep going farther all the time; you keep rising higher.
I have also begun a piece: The Unhappy Misanthrope; or, Lost Peace and Restored Innocence!
Even the title itself is fascinating.
And then I feel an incomprehensible desire within me to write some horrible ghost story. As I said before, if it were not for those grammatical errors!
Do not worry about that, incomparable princess! They are easily corrected.
[Groom from the Chamber enters.]
The Prince of Malsinki, who has just arrived, wishes to wait on your royal highness.
[Exit.]
Your obedient servant.
[Exit.]
Prince NATHANIEL of Malsinki. The KING
Here, Prince, is my daughter, a young, simple creature, as you see her before you. (Aside.) Be polite, my daughter, courteous; he is an illustrious prince from afar; his country is not even on my map, I have already looked it up; I have an amazing amount of respect for him.
I am glad to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.
Beautiful Princess, the report of your beauty has been spread so widely over the whole world that I have come here from a far distant corner for the happiness of seeing you face to face.
Indeed it is astonishing, how many countries and kingdoms there are! You would not believe how many thousand crown-princes have been here already, to pay their addresses to my daughter; sometimes they arrive by dozens, especially when the weather is fine—and now you have come all the way from—I beg your pardon, topography is such a very extensive subject—in what region does your country lie?
Mighty king, if you travel from here first down the great highway, then you turn to the right and go on; but when you reach a mountain, turn to the left again, then you go to the ocean and sail directly north (if the wind is favorable, of course), and so, if the journey is successful, you reach my dominions in a year and a half.
The deuce! I must have my court scholar explain that to me. You are probably a neighbor of the North Pole or Zodiac, or something like that, I suppose!
Not that I know of.
Perhaps somewhere near the savages?
I beg your pardon, all my subjects are very tame.
But you must live confoundedly far away. I can't get a clear idea of it yet.
The geography of my country is still not exactly fixed; I expect to discover more every day; and then it may easily come about that we shall even become neighbors in the end.
That will be splendid! And if, after all, a few countries still stand in our way, I will help you in your discoveries. My neighbor is not a good friend of mine, so to speak, and he has a fine country; all the raisins come from there; why, I should be only too glad to have it! But another thing; do tell me, how, living so far away, can you speak our language so fluently!
Hush!
What?
Hush! hush!
I do not understand.