The Serapion Brethren, Vol. II

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

"I was very nearly breaking in upon your conversation, as I did once before, with strange words and sayings," answered Cyprian, "which you would not have understood, inasmuch as you were not seeing the images of my waking-dream. Nevertheless, I cry out 'No! Since the days of Shakespeare there never stalked such a Being across the stage as this superhumanly terrible, gruesome old man!' And that you may not remain a moment longer in doubt on the subject, I add at once that no modern poet can congratulate himself on such a loftily tragic and powerful creation as the author of the Söhne des Thales."

The friends looked at each other in amazement. They made a rapid pass-muster of the principal characters in Zacharias Werner's pieces, and then came to the same conclusion--that in every case there was a certain element of the strange and singular, and often of the commonplace, mingled with the truly great, the grandly tragic which seemed to indicate that the author had never come to any really clear seeing of his heroes, and that he was doubtless deficient in that absolute health and soundness of the inner mind which Lothair considered indispensible to every writer of tragedy.

Theodore alone had been laughing within himself, as if he were of another opinion, and now began:

"Halt! Halt! ye worthy Serapion Brethren. Don't be in too great a hurry. I know very well, in fact, I am the only one of you who can know, that Cyprian is speaking of a work which the writer never finished, which is consequently unknown to the world, although friends in the writer's neighbourhood, to whom he communicated sketches of scenes from it, had ample reason to be convinced that it would rise to the position of being amongst the grandest and most powerful, not only that he ever produced, but which have been seen in modern days."

"Of course," said Cyprian, "I was talking of the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' in which it is that the terrible, gruesome, gigantic character to whom I was alluding occurs, the old King of Prussia, Waidewuthis. It may be impossible for me to give you a distinct idea of this character, which the poet, by virtue of some mighty spell at his command, seems to have conjured up from the mysterious depths of the subterranean kingdoms. It must suffice if I enable you to look into the interior mechanism of the springs which the poet has placed within it to set this production of his into due activity of movement. According to historical tradition, the earliest 'culture' of the ancient Prussians was originated by their king, Waidewuthis. He introduced the rights of property. The fields were divided, and agriculture carried on. He also gave the nation a form of religious worship, inasmuch as he himself carved three graven images, to which sacrifices were offered beneath an ancient oak-tree, where they were set up; but a terrible power grasped hold of him (though himself all-powerful, the god of the nation which he ruled), those rude graven images, carved by his own hands, that the people's force and will might bow down before them as embodiments of a higher energy, suddenly awoke into life. And what inflamed those senseless images thus into life was the fire which the Satanic Prometheus stole from Hell. Rebellious thralls of their Lord and Maker, those idols began to wield against himself the weapons with which he had armed them. And thus commences the monstrous conflict of the Superhuman principle with the Human. I do not know if I have been intelligible to you--if I have quite succeeded in representing to you the poet's colossal idea; but, as Serapion Brethren, I would charge you to look deep down, as I have done, into the terrible abyss which the poet has opened and disclosed, and feel the terror and awe which overwhelms me even now as I think of that Waidewuthis."

"And in truth," said Theodore, "our Cyprian has turned quite white; which of course proves how the whole grand sketch of the extraordinary picture which the poet displayed before him--but from which he has shown us only one of the principal groups--has stirred his inner soul. But, as regards Waidewuthis, I think it would have been sufficient to say that the poet, with astonishing power and originality, conceived this Daemon with so much grandeur, power, and might, so gigantic a figure, that he appears quite worthy of the contest, and that the triumph, the glory of Christianity must beam forth all the brighter in consequence. It is true that in many of his characteristics, the old monarch appears to me as if he were--to speak with Dante--the Imperador del Doloroso Regno in person, walking on earth. The catastrophe of his overthrow, that triumph of Christianity, which is the final chord towards which everything strives, in the whole work (which to me, at all events, according to the design of the second part, seems to belong to another world), I have never been able to form a conception of to myself in dramatic form; although in quite other sounds, and in those only, I did conceive the possibility of a conclusion which, in terrific sublimity, would surpass everything else which could be conceived of. But this only became apparent to me when I had read Calderon's great 'Magus.' Moreover, the poet has not uttered himself as to the mode in which he would finish the work; at least nothing of the sort has reached my ears."

"It seems to me," said Vincent, "on the whole very much as though it had gone with the poet, as to his work, as it did with old King Waidewuthis and his graven images. It grew over his head; and that he could not get control of his own power is proved by the very failure of his inward energy, which, at length, does not allow anything sound, healthy, vigorous, to come to the light of day. On the whole, even if Cyprian is right in thinking that the old king had the best possible dispositions for turning out a splendid and powerful Satan, I do not see how he could have got into due relation with humanity again. The Satan would have had to be, at the same time, a grand, powerful kingly hero."

"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly, which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis. occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into the flames."

"I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him; although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not, himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own value, yet possessing a considerable inkling of its worth. The writer seemed to me much like one of those who are victims of that form of insanity of which the predominant symptom is 'fixed idea.' Those unhappy people are, in their lucid intervals, aware of their delusions; but, to soothe the comfortless horror of that consciousness, they strive to convince themselves that in those very delusions their highest and truest existence lives and moves. And this they do by the most ingenious sophisms; striving also to induce themselves to believe that their consciousness of their delusion is nothing but the sick doubting of Humanity immeshed and enslaved in the Earthly. And in the preface which I am speaking of, the writer touches upon the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' admitting this."

"Please don't make such horrible faces, Lothair! Sit still on your chair, Ottmar; don't drum the Russian Grenadiers' March on the elbow of your seat, Vincenz. I really think that the author of the 'Soehne des Thales' deserves to be discussed rationally and quietly by us, and I must confess that my heart is very full of this subject, and I cannot help letting the froth which is seething there boil thoroughly over."