Main Currents in Nineteenth Century Literature - 2. The Romantic School in Germany

by Georg Brandes

Upon this spot, on the 20th of November, 1811, at the age of thirty-four, the greatest German poet of the younger generation of that day, shot, with unerring aim, first the woman he loved and then himself. It was long believed that the two were united simply by a calm, reasonable friendship. But when, in 1873, their correspondence was published, its unhealthy passion made it evident that there was extravagantly strong feeling on both sides, and that the reason of both was undermined. Kleist addresses his friend, Frau Henriette Vogel, in such terms as these: "My Jette, my all, my castle, land, meadows, and vineyards, sun of my life, my wedding, baptism of my children, my tragedy, my fame, my guardian angel, my cherub and seraph!" and she replies: "My defence, my guard, my sword, my spear, my buckler, my shield," &c.

Heinrich von Kleist was of noble birth, the scion of an old Prussian military family, which in the eighteenth century had already produced a poet. Heinrich had been through one campaign, as a young ensign, when military life became distasteful to him, and a dim consciousness of his unusual powers impelled him to turn to study. In 1799 he matriculated at the university of his native town, Frankfort-on-the-Oder, and was soon working hard at philosophy, mathematics, and classics, living, in spite of his youth, a very sober life, entirely occupied with his own ardent introspective thoughts. In an awkward, pedantic way he attempted to educate his sister, and to cultivate the mind of his fiancée, so that she might really understand him. In the course of a year he left Frankfort to pursue his studies in Berlin. He early developed a fatal inclination to stake everything on one card. His biographer, Wilbrandt, has aptly compared his character to Werther's. He had Werther's gloomy dissatisfaction and cynical reserve, his vivid imagination, his habit of brooding and reasoning, and of dwelling upon everything painful, his overpowering outbursts of emotion.

It was clear to Kleist himself that his was the poet's vocation long before he dared confide the thought to his friends; he left them, he isolated himself, until he was certain of his powers. When for the first time he felt the plan of a work taking shape in his mind, it seemed to him as though "something like earthly happiness" were smilingly beckoning him on. Impetuous and audacious, he expected to produce a masterpiece at once. The immature beginner's attempt was unsuccessful. When, a year later, he planned Robert Guiscard, the tragedy which occupied his thoughts throughout the rest of his youth, it was with the distinct intention of surpassing the classical works of Goethe and Schiller "by the aid of a new art principle." In his art Æschylus and Shakespeare, the best qualities of antiquity and the Renaissance, were to be fused together, the cult of the beautiful was to be combined with truth to nature, and irreproachable style with the extreme of tragic horror.

His powers were as yet inadequate to the task of producing a complete work, and he was obliged to lay the tragedy aside.

In the discouragement produced by the failure of this attempt he turned to philosophy. His desire was to find, not truths, but the truth. With the naïve confidence of the self-taught man he expected to discover at once the full, perfect truth which would guide him both in life and death.

It was the philosophy of Kant which he set himself to study, and the impression it made upon him was distinctly depressing. He had expected to find a religion in philosophy, and Kant's Theory of Cognition taught him that we cannot attain to the truth, can never know what things are in themselves, but only see them as our own organs show them to us—that is to say, he who has green spectacles sees things green, and he who has red, sees them red. When he recognised that knowledge of the truth, as he had represented it to himself, was not possible, it seemed to the young man as if his highest, his only aim were gone.

In this state of spiritual disorganisation he, like other Romanticists, felt the inclination to seek the support of a system of dogmas, either that of orthodox Protestantism or that of the older and more authoritative Catholic Church. He writes from Dresden: "Nothing could have been better calculated to entice me away from the melancholy domain of science than the treasures of art collected in this town.... But nowhere did I feel so deeply moved as in the Catholic church, where the most sublime music leagues itself with the other arts to touch the heart. Our divine service is nothing at all in comparison; it only appeals to cold reason, but a Catholic festival appeals to all the senses.... Oh, for one drop of forgetfulness! then I should with joy become a Catholic."

Though he overcomes these fancies, he is unable to force himself to work, now that he has made the discovery that truth is not to be found upon earth. To put an end to this painful aimlessness, he determines, though with no particular object in view, to go to Paris. His letters from Paris show how fruitless this new attempt at discovering his real vocation in life proved. He breaks off his engagement, because his fiancée will not blindly and obediently follow him to Switzerland, there to live the life of a peasant's wife. His pride will not permit him to return to his native town before he has accomplished something in the way of fulfilment of his ambitious projects. He goes to Weimar with the intention of completing Robert Guiscard there, is much in Wieland's society, and finally takes up his abode in his house. The old man's goodness and his daughter's quiet tenderness keep him there, but he remains reserved and absent-minded. At last he confesses to the lovable, sympathetic old poet that he is at work upon a tragedy, but that his ideal is so high that he has as yet found it impossible to transfer his conception to paper.

One afternoon Wieland, taking advantage of a favourable opportunity, persuaded his guest to repeat some fragments of the principal scenes from memory. The old poet's admiration knew no bounds; he asserted that if it were possible for the spirits of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Shakespeare to combine in creating a tragedy, it would be such a tragedy as Robert Guiscard, provided that the whole fulfilled the promise of the parts he had heard.

Kleist's joy was great, but short-lived. Circumstances soon unsettled him again. He went first to Leipzig, then to Dresden. It was in Dresden, to a girl who was in distress because of the supposed indifference of her lover, that he first made the proposal (a proposal which he afterwards often repeated to friends of both sexes), that he should take a pistol and shoot her and himself. Not long afterwards he made a similar offer to his faithful friend, Von Pfuel. Pfuel came to the conclusion that travel would be the best thing possible for Kleist and his tragedy. Kleist caught eagerly at the idea. Shortly before he started for Switzerland he received a letter from Wieland which gave him fresh courage, and was for a long time his greatest comfort. Wieland wrote that it was impossible to him to believe that any external hindrance could prevent the completion of Kleist's masterpiece: "To the Holy Muse who inspires you nothing is impossible. You must complete your Guiscard; yes, even if the whole Caucasus were weighing you down."