The triviality, absurdity, and profanity that tarnished the German stage during the first half of the eighteenth century, were followed by a reaction in favour of better taste and common sense. Gottsched and Lessing gave the signal of the revival of art and poetry. The theatre resumed its importance; actors their proper place, from which they had been ousted by the intolerance of the consistories; puppets returned to the modest sphere which circumstances had permitted and encouraged them temporarily to quit, and resumed their old stock pieces, consisting of Biblical dramas and popular legends. Faust was exceedingly popular, and novelties were occasionally introduced. Lewis’s Bravo of Venice was taken for the subject of a grand drama, performed by the Augsburg marionettes, which also played, with great success, a drama founded on the well-known story of Don Juan and his marble guest. And this brings us to the time when a boy, Wolfgang Goethe by name—kept at home by his parents during certain gloomy episodes of the Seven Years’ War, when Frankfort was occupied by the French—delighted his leisure with a marionette theatre, a Christmas gift from his grandfather, and so fostered his inborn dramatic taste and genius. In his memoirs, and in Wilhelm Meister, he tells us, in some charming passages, what pleasure he took in the management of his mimic comedians.
“We are indebted,” says M. Magnin, “for what follows, to a confidential communication made by the illustrious composer Haydn, at Vienna, in 1805, to M. Charles Bertuch, one of his fervent admirers.” And he relates that when Hadyn was mâitre de chapelle to Prince Nicholas-Joseph Esterhazy, that enlightened and generous patron of art, and especially of music, he composed four little operas for a marionette theatre, which existed in the Esterhazys’ magnificent Castle of Eisenstadt in Hungary. They were written between 1773 and 1780. “In the list of all his musical works, which the illustrious old man signed and gave to M. Charles Bertuch, during the residence of the latter at Vienna, occur the following lines, which I exactly transcribe:—Operette composed for the marionettes: Philémon and Baucis, 1773; Geniêvre, 1777; Didon, parody, 1778; La Vengeance accomplie ou la Maison Brulie (no date). In the same list the Diable Boiteux is set down, probably because it was played by Prince Esterhazy’s marionettes, but it was composed at Vienna, in the author’s early youth, for Bernardone, the manager of a popular theatre at the Corinthian Gate, and twenty-four sequins were paid for it. It was thought that these curious operas, all unpublished, had been destroyed in a fire which consumed a part of the Castle of Eisenstadt, including Haydn’s apartment; but that was not the case, for they were seen in 1827 in the musical library of the Esterhazys, with a score of other pieces whose titles one would like to know.”
Goethe has told us, in an interesting passage of his memoirs, that the idea of his great work of Faust was suggested to him by the puppet-show. M. Magnin, who takes an affectionate interest in the triumphs of the marionettes with whom he has so long associated, and whose career he has traced from their cradle, exults in the claim they have thus acquired to the world’s gratitude—not always, it must be owned, shown to those who best deserve it. He concludes his history with a double recapitulation—first, of the celebrated persons who have taken pleasure in this class of dramatic performances; and, secondly, of the most distinguished of those who have wielded pen in its service. And he calls upon his readers to applaud, and upon the ladies especially to wave kerchief and throw bouquet at the graceful Fantasia, the pretty fairy, the sprightly muse of the marionettes. We doubt not but that the appeal will be responded to; although her fairyship may fairly be considered to be already sufficiently rewarded by meeting with a biographer in every way so competent.
THE QUIET HEART.
PART V.—CHAPTER XXV.
But this Menie Laurie, rising up from her bed of unrest, when the morning light breaks, cold and real, upon a changed world, has wept out all her child’s tears, and is a woman once again. No one knows yet a whisper of what has befallen her, not even poor Jenny, who sobbed over her last night, and implored her not to weep.
Now, how to tell this—how to signify, in the fewest and calmest words, the change that has come upon her. Sitting, with her cheek leant on her hand, by the window where she heard it, before any other eyes are awake, Menie ponders this in her heart. Always before in little difficulties counsel and help have been within her reach; few troublous things have been to do in Menie’s experience; and no one ever dreamt that she should do them, when they chanced to come to her mother’s door.
But now her mother’s honour is involved—she must not be consulted—she must not know. With a proud flush Menie draws up herself—herself who must work in this alone. Ah, sweet dependence, dear humility of the old times! we must lay them by out of our heart, to wait for a happier dawn. This day it is independence—self-support—a strength that stands alone; and no one who has not felt such an abrupt transition can know how hard it is to take these unused weapons up.
“Will you let me speak to you, aunt?” Menie’s heart falters within her, as she remembers poor Miss Annie’s unaccepted sympathy. Has she indeed been driven to seek refuge here at last?
“My love! how can you ask such a question, darling, when I am always ready to speak to you?” exclaimed Miss Annie, with enthusiasm.