The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов
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СКАЧАТЬ of Weimar brought home a Russian bride, Maria Paulovna, and for her reception he wrote The Homage of the Arts—a slight affair which served its purpose well. The reaction from these Russophil festivities left him in a weakened condition, and, feeling unequal to creative effort, he translated Racine's Phèdre into German verse, finishing it in February, 1805. Then he returned with great zest to his Russian play Demetrius, of which enough was written to indicate that it might have become his masterpiece. But the flame had burnt itself out. Toward the end of April he took a cold which led to a violent fever with delirium. The end came on May 9, 1805.

      No attempt can here be made at a general estimate of Schiller's dramatic genius. The serious poetic drama, such as he wrote in his later years, is no longer in favor anywhere. In Germany, as in our own land, the temper of the time is on the whole hostile to that form of art. We demand, very properly, a drama attuned to the life of the present; one occupied, as we say, with living issues. Yet Schiller is very popular on the German stage. After the lapse of a century, and notwithstanding the fact that he seems to speak to us from the clouds, he holds his own. Why is this? It is partly because of a quality of his art that has been called his "monumental fresco-painting"; that is, his strong and luminous portraiture of the great historic forces that have shaped the destiny of nations. These forces are matters of the spirit, of the inner life; and they persist from age to age, but little affected by the changing fashion of the theatre. The reader of Schiller soon comes to feel that he deals with issues that are alive because they are immortal.

      Another important factor in his classicity is the suggestion that goes out from his idealized personality. German sentiment has set him on a high pedestal and made a hero of him, so that his word is not exactly as another man's word. Something of this was felt by those about him even in his lifetime. Says Karoline von Wolzogen: "High seriousness and the winsome grace of a pure and noble soul were always present in Schiller's conversation; in listening to him one walked as among the changeless stars of heaven and the flowers of earth." This is the tribute of a partial friend, but it describes very well the impression produced by Schiller's writings. His love of freedom and beauty, his confidence in reason, his devotion to the idea of humanity, seem to exhale from his work and to invest it with a peculiar distinction. His plays and poems are a priceless memento to the spirit of a great and memorable epoch. Hundreds of writers have said their say about him, but no better word has been spoken than the noble tribute of Goethe:

        For he was ours. So let the note of pride

        Hush into silence all the mourner's ruth;

        In our safe harbor he was fain to bide

        And build for aye, after the storm of youth.

        We saw his mighty spirit onward stride

        To eternal realms of Beauty and of Truth;

        While far behind him lay fantasmally

        The vulgar things that fetter you and me.

* * * * *

      FOOTNOTES:

      [Footnote 1: Translated by Edward, Lord Lytton.]

      [Footnote 2: This Sonnet, by the author of this sketch of Schiller's life, was written for the Chicago Schiller Celebration of 1905, but has not been printed before. EDITOR.]

* * * * *

      POEMS

      [All poems in this section are translations by Edward, Lord Lytton, and appear by permission of George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., London.]

* * * * *

      TO THE IDEAL (1795)

        Then wilt thou, with thy fancies holy—

             Wilt thou, faithless, fly from me?

           With thy joy, thy melancholy,

             Wilt thou thus relentless flee?

           O Golden Time, O Human May,

             Can nothing, Fleet One, thee restraint?

        Must thy sweet river glide away

        Into the eternal Ocean Main?

        The suns serene are lost and vanish'd

          That wont the path of youth to gild,

        And all the fair Ideals banish'd

          From that wild heart they whilome fill'd.

        Gone the divine and sweet believing

          In dreams which Heaven itself unfurl'd!

        What godlike shapes have years bereaving

          Swept from this real work-day world!

        As once, with tearful passion fired,

          The Cyprian Sculptor clasp'd the stone,

        Till the cold cheeks, delight-inspired,

          Blush'd—to sweet life the marble grown:

        So youth's desire for Nature!—round

          The Statue so my arms I wreathed,

        Till warmth and life in mine it found,

          And breath that poets breathe—it breathed;

        With my own burning thoughts it burn'd;—

          Its silence stirr'd to speech divine;—

        Its lips my glowing kiss return'd—

          Its heart in beating answer'd mine!

        How fair was then the flower—the tree!—

          How silver-sweet the fountain's fall!

        The soulless had a soul to me!

          My life its own life lent to all!

        The Universe of things seem'd swelling

          The panting heart to burst its bound,

        And wandering Fancy found a dwelling

          In every shape, thought, deed, and sound.

        Germ'd in the mystic buds, reposing,

          A whole creation slumbered mute,

        Alas, when from the buds unclosing,

          How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!

        How happy in his dreaming error,

          His own gay valor for his wing,

        Of not one care as yet in terror

          Did Youth upon his journey spring;

        Till floods of balm, through air's dominion,

          Bore upward to the faintest star—

        For never aught to that bright pinion

          Could dwell too high, or spread too far.

        Though laden with delight, how lightly

          The wanderer heavenward still could soar,

        And aye the ways of life how brightly

          The airy Pageant danced before!

        Love, showering gifts (life's sweetest) down,

          Fortune, with golden garlands gay,

        And Fame, with starbeams for a crown,

          And Truth, whose dwelling is the Day.

        Ah! midway soon lost evermore,

          Afar the blithe companions stray;

        In vain their faithless steps explore,

          As one by one, they glide away.

        Fleet СКАЧАТЬ