There is something satisfying and pleasing in the realisation of the well-known phrases: To see and love was one and the same thing—to follow the beloved to the ends of the earth—to be more devoted to him than his dog—to go through fire and water for him. But yet all this properly belongs to the domain of pathology; these are morbid manifestations. Then, too, we have the Romantic reason of it all. Käthchen's violent agitation when she sees the Count is explained by the fact of his having previously appeared to her in a dream. At the moment when she sees him in this dream, the Count is in reality lying dangerously ill with typhus fever. Stretched like a corpse on his bed, he himself has the feeling that he is entering Käthchen's room. And when he hears of the strange coincidence, he cannot help exclaiming anxiously—
"Help me, ye gods! Now am I double!
A spirit I, who wander in the night."
Here we have the favourite idea of Romanticism, "Doppelgängerei," in close connection with somnambulism.
Somnambulism plays a similar part in Der Prinz von Homburg, the finest of Kleist's dramas—probably the finest drama produced by the Romantic School. In it all the important characters stand out as if hewn in stone. The dialogue is vigorous and clear; every word tells. The young cavalry leader commits an unpardonable breach of discipline; he is victorious in an engagement which he has brought about in a manner forbidden in his instructions. The Elector condemns him to death. Not for a moment imagining that the sentence will be carried out, the young hero treats it as a mere matter of form. When it dawns upon him that it is sober earnest, a sudden fear of death takes possession of him, and he abjectly begs for his life. Kleist's genius shows itself in the delineation of the mental process by which the Prince becomes himself again, and demands death as his right. Here once more it is the night side of the mind to which attention is drawn. The Prince is nervous, ill, and absent-minded. In the first act he walks in his sleep. In the last we have the realisation of one of his visions. He transgresses orders, not, like the son of Manlius Torquatus, in youthful audacity and martial ardour, but because, in his nervous, dreamy absent-mindedness he has not heard the orders given, and consequently dashes recklessly on.
Kleist had been deeply interested by G. H. von Schubert's Die Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaft ("The Night Side of the Science of Nature"). This book, written by the most popular "Naturphilosoph" of the day, is one of the most extravagant works of the whole period. The night side of a planet is that which is turned away from the sun, and only glimmers faintly in the darkness, with a light destitute of warmth, a light in which all objects look strange, and totally different from what they do in the light of the sun. Schubert considers that he succeeds, in his "Science of Nature," in demonstrating the existence of such a night side. The first half of the work is "Naturphilosophie," much as Steffens understood it. "This is certainly not philosophy for the world," says the author, "but it is much older than the world and all its philosophies, and will last much longer." Most of it is on the same lines as the so-called occult sciences of to-day. Man, like the nature which surrounds him, is a "prophetic hieroglyph." In animal magnetism, in somnambulism, in presentiment, and in so-called prescience, proofs are sought of a predestined harmony between the life of the individual and that of the whole.
According to Schubert's theory, man originally had the power of working miracles. Sin bereft him of his power over nature, and after this there was always something dark and dæmonic connected with the miracle-working gift—with the oracles of Greece, for instance, and with all heathen sorcery. The old, natural miraculous power was revived in Christ. In its dæmonic form it has reappeared among the Rosicrucians and the Freemasons (the secret societies which played so important a part in the imagination of Schubert's day); and it is also observable in such phenomena as animal magnetism, clairvoyance, &c. Adam Müller writes: "Schubert's book seems to me the best which the 'Naturphilosophie' has produced; its author, though not superior to Schelling in polemical and critical talent, is certainly his superior in feeling, in sincerity, and above all in erudition.... In Schubert's writings I find a glorified, yet in all essentials accurate presentment of an earlier stage of my development, when my one longing was, that all that was human and personal in my power of achievement might, as it were, dissolve into the smoke of a sweet incense, an offering to the God I worshipped. How I longed to be able to divest myself of name and personality, and become the most devoted of martyrs or the most priestly of priests" (der geistlichste Geistliche). Every one read the book, and even a mind like Kleist's allowed itself, as we have seen, to be engrossed by all this pretentious foolishness. Mysticism was the order of the day, and it is curious to see how the mystic element, the strange trinity of sensuality, religion, and cruelty, insinuates itself into all Kleist's dramas. Take, for example, that remarkable tragedy, Penthesilea. The heroine is the wild queen of the Amazons, who is waging a victorious war upon both the Greeks and the Trojans. It is a law among the Amazons that each must capture in battle the man who is to be her husband; then, when the war is over, she lives with him in peace and happiness. Penthesilea has conceived quite as fatal a passion for Achilles as Käthchen's for Count Strahl. But in Penthesilea love shows itself in a different way; it takes the form of cruelty. In every battle she pursues Achilles, thirsting for his blood. If Käthchen loved like a dog, Penthesilea loves like a tigress escaped from a Bacchanalian procession.
It is plain that it is his own temperament with which Kleist has endowed the Amazon queen. She cares for nothing, will take nothing, but Achilles, just as he refused to aim at anything, to be content with anything, but the highest place of honour. Her wild haste to conquer her beloved corresponds with his desire to attain his aim at one blow, with his drama, Robert Guiscard. Like Kleist, she can only live when she is striving after what her soul desires. She says, what her author might have said:[6] "I should go mad if I did not attempt all that is within the bounds of possibility."
She hates Achilles as fervently as Kleist in dark hours must have hated and cursed the destiny which forbade his winning the highest fame. She kills him in an access of detestation, as Kleist, in an access of desperation, destroyed his beloved work, his Guiscard. Yet she loves him, loves him helplessly, with a consuming passion.[6] When Achilles has wounded her in battle, she complains in words which seem to refer to the poet himself:—
"Mir diesen Busen zu zerschmettern, Prothoe!
Die Brust, so voll Gesang, Asteria!
Ein Lied, jedweder Saitengriff auf ihn!"[7]
When she is on the point of giving up everything, she says, as Kleist did in so many of his letters to his sister:—