"Ha!" cried Vincenz, very loudly and pathetically, "how the froth seethes!--now that is a quotation from the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' where the heathen priests sing it in fearful and horrible strains. My dear Serapion-Brother Theodore, you may rage, revile, curse and blaspheme as much as you please, but I must just introduce into this many-sided discussion one little anecdote, which will throw, at all events, a momentary glimpse of sunshine over all those corpse-watchers' countenances. The author of whom we are speaking had got together a few friends that he might read to them the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' from the manuscript. They had heard some passages from it before, which had raised their expectations to the highest pitch. The author had, as usual, seated himself in the centre of the circle, at a small table where two candles were burning in tall candlesticks. He had taken his manuscript out of his breast-pocket, and laid down before him his big snuff-box, and his blue-and-white checked pocket-handkerchief. Profound silence reigned. Not a breath was audible. The author, making one of his extraordinary faces, which defy all description, began as follows:--
"'Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!'
"Of course you remember that, in the opening scene, at the rising of the curtain, the Prussians are discovered, assembled by the seashore, collecting amber; and they invoke the deities who preside over this. Very well. The author, as I have said, began with the words--
"'Bankputtis! Bankputtis!"
"Then there was a short pause; after which there came forth out of a corner the soft voice of a member of the audience, saying: 'My dearest and most beloved friend! Most glorious of all authors; if you have written the whole of this most admirable poem of yours in that infernal language, not one soul of us understands a single syllable of it. For God's sake, be so kind as to start with a translation of it.'"
The friends laughed; but Cyprian and Theodore remained silent and grave. Before the latter could begin to speak, Ottmar said: "It is impossible, in this connection, that I should forget the extraordinary, nay, almost preposterously absurd, meeting of two men who were--at all events as concerned their opinions upon Art and their views about it--absolutely heterogeneous in their natures. Indisputable as it may be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should write a tragedy for the Berlin stage. The 'Soehne des Thales' was then attracting much attention, and perhaps that dramatic writer may have been interested in this newly-developed talent, or he may have thought he saw that this young débutant was capable of being trained to the performance of the systematic round of theatre tricks, and would acquire a skilled 'stage-hand.' However this may be, think of Iffland with the manuscript of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in his hands. Iffland--to whom the tragedies of Schiller (which then, in spite of all opposition, had made their way, chiefly through the great Fleck) were really disgustful, in the depths of his soul; Iffland, who although he did not dare, for dread of that sharp lash which he had felt already, to speak out his real opinion, had put this in print: 'Tragedies which contain grand historical incidents, and a crowd of characters, are the ruin of the stage;' adding, 'on account of the tremendous expenses,' but thinking, in his heart, 'dixi et salvavi.'--Iffland, who would have been too pleased to put upon his privy-councillors, secretaries, and so forth, tragic cothurni made after his own pattern--read the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in the light of its being a tragedy expressly written for the Berlin stage, which he himself should set out into scenes, and in which he should play nothing less than the Ghost of Bishop Adalbert, murdered by the Pagan Prussians, very frequently appearing on the stage as a terror-inspiring character not sparing of partly edifying, partly mystic speeches, while at every mention of the name of Christ a flame breaks out of his forehead, to instantaneously disappear again. It was impossible to throw this piece overboard (as would have been done in a moment in the case of the dii minores), notwithstanding that it was one which was full of improbabilities, and bristling with difficulties (much more real difficulties from the stage-manager's point of view, than many Shakesperian plays, in which those difficulties are more apparent than real). What had to be done was to express great admiration of it; to laud it up to the skies, and then to declare, with deep regret, that the capabilities of the stage were not practically sufficient for the production of a thing so great. It was this which had to be done; and the letter in which Iffland stated all this to the author (the construction of which was on the lines of the well-known form of refusal of the Italians, 'ben parlato-ma'), was, of course, a classical master-piece of theatrical diplomacy. It was not from the nature of the piece itself that the manager deduced the impossibility of representing it on the stage; he merely, in a courteous manner, complained of the stage-manager, the property-men, and the carpenters, to whose magic there were such narrow limits that they were not even capable of making a Saint's glory shine in the air. But, no more on the subject. It is for Theodore to make such excuses as he can for the errors of his friend."
"To defend and excuse this friend of mine," said Theodore, "I fear would be a very unsatisfactory thing to try to do. I should much prefer to set you a psychical problem to solve, which ought, really, to lead you to consider how peculiar influences may work upon the psychical organism; or, indeed (to return to Cyprian's simile, the worm engendered along with the most beautiful flower), on the worm which is to poison and kill. We are told Hysterism in the mother is not transmitted, by heredity, to the son, but that it does produce in him a peculiarly lively imagination, even to the extent of eccentricity; and I believe that there is one of ourselves in whose case the correctness of this theory is confirmed. Now, how might it be with the effect of actual insanity of the mother upon the son, although he does not, as a rule, inherit that either? I am not speaking of that weak, childish sort of mental aberration in women, which is often the result of an enfeebled nervous system; what I have in view is that abnormal mental state in which the psychic principle, volatilized into a sublimate by the operation of the furnace of imagination, has been converted into a poison, which has attacked the vital spirits, so that they have become sick unto death, and the human creature, in the delirium of this malady, believes the dream of another life-condition to be actual waking reality. Now, a woman highly gifted mentally, and largely endowed with imagination and fancy, may in those circumstances be much more like to a heavenly prophet than to an insane creature, and in the excitement of her paroxysms may say things, which to many persons would appear much more like the direct inspiration of higher intelligences than the mere utterances of insanity. Suppose that the fixed idea of such a woman consisted in her believing herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son Christ, and let this be repeated daily to the boy, who is not taken away from her, whilst his powers of comprehension gradually develop themselves. He is over-bountifully endowed with talent and intelligence, and specially with a glowing imagination. Friends and teachers whom he respects and believes all tell him that his poor mother is out of her mind, and he himself sees the craziness of the idea, which is not so much as new to him, since it exists in nearly every lunatic asylum. But his mother's words sink deeply into his heart; he thinks he is hearing announcements from another world, and feels vividly the belief taking root within him upon which he bases his system of thinking. Above all, he is very much struck and imbued with what the maternal prophetess tells him regarding the trials of this world; the scoffing and despite which the consecrated one must endure. He finds this all realized, and in his boyish melancholy looks upon himself as a Divine victim, when his schoolfellows make fun of him for his quaint-looking clothes and his timid awkward manners. What follows? Must there not arise in the breast of such a youth the belief that the so-called insanity of his mother, which seems to him lofty and sublime beyond the comprehension of the common herd, is really neither more nor less than a prophetic announcement, in metaphorical language, of the high destiny in store for him, chosen by the powers of heaven! Saint--prophet!--could there be stronger impulses to mysticism for a youth fired with a glowing power of imagination? Let it be further supposed that he is physically and psychically excitable to the most destructive extent, and apt to fall a prey to and be carried away by the most irresistible tendency to vice, and the wicked lusts of the world.... I desire to pass in haste, and with averted face, by the fearful abysses of human nature whence the germs of those tendencies spring, which might take root and flourish in the heart of the unfortunate youth without his being further to blame than in that he had a hot blood, only too congenial a soil for the luxuriant poison-plant.... I dare not go further; you feel the terrible nature of the strife which tears the heart of the unhappy youth. Heaven and hell are drawn up in battle array; and it is this mortal combat imprisoned within him which gives rise to phenomena on the surface in utter discord with everything else conditioned by mortal nature, and capable of no interpretation whatever. How, then, if the glowing power of imagination of this man (who in youth imbibed the germ of those eccentricities from his mother's mental state) should subsequently, at a time when Sin, bereft of all her adornments, accuses herself, in all her repulsive nakedness, for the hellish deceptions of the past, lead him, driven by the pain and remorse of his repentance, to take refuge in the mysticism of some religious cultus, coming to meet him with hymns of victory and perfume of incense? How when then, out of the most hidden depths, the voice of some dark spirit within should become audible, saying: 'It was but mortal blindness which led you to believe that there was dissension in your heart. The veil has fallen, and you perceive that sin is the stigma of your heavenly nature, of your supernatural calling, wherewith the Eternal has marked the chosen one. It was only when you set yourself to offer resistance to sinful impulse, to contend with the Eternal Power, that you were abandoned in your blindness and degeneracy. The purified fires of hell shine in the glories of the Saints.' And thus does this terrible hypermysticism impart to the lost one a consolation which completes the ruin of the rotten walls of the edifice of his existence; just as it is when the madman derives comfort and enjoyment from his madness, that his recovery is known to be hopeless."
"Oh, please go no further," cried Sylvester. "You hurried, with averted face, past an abyss which you avoided looking into; but to me it seems as if you were leading us along upon narrow, slippery paths, where terrible and threatening gulfs yawn at us on either side. What you last said reminded me of the horrible mysticism of Pater Molinos, the dreadful doctrine of Quietism. I shuddered when I read the leading theorem of that doctrine. 'Il ne faut avoir nul égard aux tentations, ni leur opposer aucune résistance. Si la nature se meut, il faut la laisser agir; ce n'est que la nature!'[1] This, of course, would carry----"
[Footnote 1: "Toute opération active est absolument interdite par Molinos. C'est même offenser Dieu, que de ne pas tellement s'abandonner à lui, que l'on soit comme un corps inanimé. De-là vient, suivant cette hérésiarque, que le vœu de faire quelque bonne œuvre est un obstacle à la perfection, parce que l'activité naturelle est ennemie de la grâce; c'est un obstacle aux opérations de Dieu et à la vraie perfection, parce que Dieu veut agir en nous sans nous. Il ne faut connoître ni lumière, ni amour, ni résignation. Pour être parfait, il ne faut pas même connoître Dieu; il ne faut penser, ni au paradis, ni à l'enfer, ni à la mort, ni à l'éternité. On ne doit point désirer de sçavoir si on marche dans la volonté de Dieu, si on est assez résigné ou non. En un mot, il ne faut point que l'âme connoisse ni son état ni son néant; il faut qu'elle soit comme un corps inanimé. Toute réflexion est nuisible, même celles qu'on fait sur ses propres actions, et sur ses défauts. Ainsi on ne doit point s'embarrasser du scandale que l'on peut causer, pourvu que l'on n'ait pas intention de scandaliser. Quand une fois on a donné son libre arbitre à Dieu, on ne doit plus avoir aucun désir de sa propre perfection, ni des vertus, ni de sa sanctification, ni de son salut; il faut même se défaire de l'espérance, parce qu'il faut abandonner à Dieu tout le soin de ce que nous regarde, même celui de faire en nous et sans nous sa divine volonté. Ainsi c'est une imperfection que de demander; c'est avoir une volonté et vouloir que celle de Dieu s'y conforme. Par la même raison il ne faut lui rendre grâce d'aucune chose; c'est le remercier d'avoir fait notre volonté; et nous n'en devons point avoir." ('Causes célèbres,' par Richer. Tom. ii.: 'Histoire du Procès de la Cadière.')]
"It would carry us a good deal too far," interrupted Lothair, "into the realm of the most horrible dreams, and--to speak generally--of that amount of crack-brainedness of which there can never be any question amongst us Serapion Brethren. So let us abandon the subject of all that sublimity of mental unhingedness which is the foster-mother of religious mania."