The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 04

It was now February. The trees were budding earlier than usual; the nightingale had never come so soon; the spring rose fairer in the land than the oldest men could recollect it. In every quarter, little brooks gushed out to irrigate the pastures and meadows; the hills seemed heaving, the vines rose higher and higher, the fruit-trees blossomed as they had never done; and a swelling fragrant blessedness hung suspended heavily in rosy clouds over the scene. All prospered beyond expectation: no rude day, no tempest injured the fruits; the wine flowed blushing in immense grapes; and the inhabitants of the place felt astonished, and were captivated as in a sweet dream. The next year was like its forerunner; but men had now become accustomed to the marvelous. In autumn, Mary yielded to the pressing entreaties of Andrew and her parents; she was betrothed to him, and in winter they were married.

She often thought with inward longing of her residence behind the fir-trees; she continued serious and still. Beautiful as all that lay around her was, she knew of something yet more beautiful; and from the remembrance of this a faint regret attuned her nature to soft melancholy. It smote her painfully when her father and mother talked about the gipsies and vagabonds that dwelt in the dark spot of ground. Often she was on the point of speaking out in defense of those good beings, whom she knew to be the benefactors of the land; especially to Andrew, who appeared to take delight in zealously abusing them; yet still she repressed the word that was struggling to escape her bosom. So passed this year; in the next, she was solaced by a little daughter, whom she named Elfrida, thinking of the designation of her friendly Elves.

The young people lived with Martin and Brigitta, the house being large enough for all, and helped their parents in conducting their now extended husbandry. The little Elfrida soon displayed peculiar faculties and gifts; for she could walk at a very early age, and could speak perfectly before she was a twelvemonth old; and after some few years she had become so wise and clever, and of such wondrous beauty, that all people regarded her with astonishment, and her mother could not banish the thought that her child resembled one of those shining little ones in the space behind the Firs. Elfrida cared not to be with other children, but seemed to avoid, with a sort of horror, their tumultuous amusements, and liked best to be alone. She would then retire into a corner of the garden, and read, or work diligently with her needle; often also you might see her sitting, as if deep in thought, or impetuously walking up and down the alleys, speaking to herself. Her parents readily allowed her to have her will in these things, for she was healthy, and waxed apace; only her strange sagacious answers and observations often made them anxious. "Such wise children do not grow to age," her grandmother, Brigitta, many times observed; "they are too good for this world; the child, besides, is beautiful beyond nature, and will never find her proper place on Earth."

The little girl had this peculiarity, that she was very loath to let herself be served by any one, but endeavored to do everything herself. She was almost the earliest riser in the house; she washed herself carefully, and dressed without assistance; at night she was equally careful; she took special heed to pack up her clothes and belongings with her own hands, allowing no one, not even her mother, to meddle with her articles. The mother humored her in this caprice, not thinking it of any consequence. But what was her astonishment, when, happening one holiday to insist, regardless of Elfrida's tears and screams, on dressing her out for a visit to the castle, she found upon her breast, suspended by a string, a piece of gold of a strange form, which she directly recognized as one of the sort she had seen in such abundance in the subterranean vaults! The little thing was greatly frightened, and at last confessed that she had found it in the garden, and, as she liked it much, had kept it carefully; she at the same time prayed so earnestly and pressingly to have it back that Mary fastened it again in its former place, and, full of thoughts, went out with her in silence to the castle.

Sideward from the farm-house lay some offices for the storing of produce and implements; and behind these there was a little green, with an old arbor, now visited by no one, as, from the new arrangement of the buildings, it lay too far from the garden. In this solitude Elfrida delighted most; and it occurred to nobody to interrupt her here, so that frequently her parents did not see her for half a day. One afternoon her mother chanced to be in these buildings, seeking for some lost article among the lumber; and she noticed that a beam of light was coming in, through a chink in the wall. She took a thought of looking through this aperture, and seeing what her child was busied with; and it happened that a stone was lying loose, and could be pushed aside, so that she obtained a view right into the arbor. Elfrida was sitting there on a little bench, and beside her the well-known Zerina; and the children were playing and amusing each other, in the kindliest unity. The Elf embraced her beautiful companion, and said mournfully: "Ah! dear little creature, as I sport with thee, so have I sported with thy mother, when she was a child; but you mortals so soon grow tall and thoughtful! It is very hard; wert thou but to be a child as long as I!"

"Willingly would I do it," said Elfrida; "but they all say I shall come to sense and give over playing altogether; for I have great gifts, as they think, for growing wise. Ah! and then I shall see thee no more, thou dear Zerina! Yet it is with us as with the fruit-tree flowers—how glorious the blossoming apple-tree, with its red bursting buds! It looks so stately and broad; and every one that passes under it thinks surely something great will come of it; then the sun grows hot, and the buds come joyfully forth; but the wicked kernel is already there, which pushes off and casts away the fair flower's dress; and now, in pain and waxing, it can do nothing more, but must grow to fruit in harvest. An apple, to be sure, is pretty and refreshing; yet nothing to the blossom of spring. So is it also with us mortals; I am not glad in the least at growing to be a tall girl. Ah! could I but once visit you!"

"Since the King is with us," said Zerina, "it is quite impossible; but I will come to thee, my darling, often, often, and none shall see me either here or there. I will pass invisible through the air, or fly over to thee like a bird. Oh, we will be much, much together, while thou art so little! What can I do to please thee?"

"Thou must like me very dearly," said Elfrida, "as I like thee in my heart; but come, let us make another rose." Zerina took a well-known box from her bosom, threw two grains from it on the ground, and instantly a green bush stood before them, with two deep-red roses, bending their heads as if to kiss each other. The children plucked them smiling, and the bush disappeared. "O that it would not die so soon!" said Elfrida; "this red child, this wonder of the Earth!"

"Give it me here," said the little Elf; then breathed thrice upon the budding rose, and kissed it thrice. "Now," said she, giving back the rose, "it will continue fresh and blooming till winter."

"I will keep it," said Elfrida, "as an image of thee; I will guard it in my little room, and kiss it night and morning as if it were thyself."

"The sun is setting," said the other; "I must home." They embraced again, and Zerina vanished.

In the evening, Mary clasped her child to her breast, with a feeling of alarm and veneration. She henceforth allowed the good little girl more liberty than formerly; and often calmed her husband, when he came to search for the child; which for some time he was wont to do, as her retiredness did not please him, and he feared that, in the end, it might make her silly, or even pervert her understanding. The mother often glided to the chink; and almost always found the bright Elf beside her child, employed in sport, or in earnest conversation.

"Wouldst thou like to fly?" inquired Zerina once.

"Oh, well! How well!" replied Elfrida; and the fairy clasped her mortal playmate in her arms, and mounted with her from the ground, till they hovered above the arbor. The mother, in alarm, forgot herself, and pushed out her head in terror to look after them; when Zerina from the air, held up her finger, and threatened, yet smiled; then descended with the child, embraced her, and disappeared. After this, it happened more than once that Mary was observed by her; and every time, the shining little creature shook her head, or threatened, yet with friendly looks.

Often, in disputing with her husband, Mary had said in her zeal: "Thou dost injustice to the poor people in the hut!" But when Andrew pressed her to explain why she differed in opinion from the whole village, nay, from his lordship himself, and why she could understand it better than the whole of them, she still broke off embarrassed, and became silent. One day, after dinner, Andrew grew more insistent than ever, and maintained that, by one means or another, the crew must be packed away, as a nuisance to the country; when his wife, in anger, said to him: "Hush! for they are benefactors to thee and to every one of us."

"Benefactors!" cried the other, in astonishment; "These rogues and vagabonds?"

In her indignation, she was now at last tempted to relate to him, under promise of the strictest secrecy, the history of her youth; and as Andrew at every word grew more incredulous, and shook his head in mockery, she took him by the hand, and led him to the chink; where, to his amazement, he beheld the glittering Elf sporting with his child, and caressing her in the arbor. He knew not what to say; an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and Zerina raised her eyes. On the instant she grew pale, and trembled violently; not with friendly, but with indignant looks, she made the sign of threatening, and then said to Elfrida "Thou canst not help it, dearest heart; but outsiders will never learn sense, wise as they believe themselves." She embraced the little one with stormy haste; and then, in the shape of a raven, flew with hoarse cries over the garden, toward the firs.

In the evening, the little one was very still, she kissed her rose with tears; Mary felt depressed and frightened; Andrew scarcely spoke. It grew dark. Suddenly there went a rustling through the trees; birds flew to and fro with wild screaming, thunder was heard to roll, the earth shook, and tones of lamentation moaned in the air. Andrew and his wife had not courage to rise; they wrapped themselves in their bed clothes, and with fear and trembling awaited the day. Toward morning it grew calmer; and all was silent when the sun, with his cheerful light, rose over the wood.

Andrew dressed himself, and Mary now observed that the stone of the ring upon her finger had become quite pale. On opening the door, the sun shone clear on their faces, but the scene around them they could scarcely recognize. The freshness of the wood was gone; the hills were shrunk, the brooks were flowing languidly with scanty streams, the sky seemed gray; and when you turned to the Firs, they were standing there no darker or more dreary than the other trees. The huts behind were no longer frightful; and several inhabitants of the village came and told about the fearful night, and how they had been across the spot where the gipsies had lived; how these people must have left the place at last, for their huts were standing empty, and within had quite a common look, just like the dwellings of other poor people; some of their household gear was left behind.

Elfrida in secret said to her mother: "I could not sleep last night; and in my fright at the noise, I was praying from the bottom of my heart, when the door suddenly opened, and my playmate entered to take leave of me. She had a traveling-pouch slung round her, a hat on her head, and a large staff in her hand. She was very angry at thee; since on thy account she had now to suffer the severest and most painful punishments, as she had always been so fond of thee; for all of them, she said, were very loath to leave this quarter."

Mary forbade her to speak of this; and now the ferryman came across the river, and told them new wonders. As it was growing dark, a stranger of large size had come to him, and had hired his boat till sunrise, but with this condition, that the boatman should remain quiet in his house—at least should not cross the threshold of his door. "I was frightened," continued the old man, "and the strange bargain would not let me sleep. I slipped softly to the window, and looked toward the river. Great clouds were driving restlessly through the sky, and the distant woods were rustling fearfully; it was as if my cottage shook, and moans and lamentations glided round it. On a sudden, I perceived a white streaming light that grew broader and broader, like many thousands of falling stars; sparkling and waving, it proceeded forward from the dark Fir-ground, moved over the fields, and spread itself along toward the river. Then I heard a trampling, a jingling, a bustling, and rushing, nearer and nearer; it went forward to my boat, and all stepped into it, men and women; as it seemed, and children; and the tall stranger ferried them over. In the river, by the boat, were swimming many thousands of glittering forms; in the air white clouds and lights were wavering; and all lamented and bewailed that they must travel forth so far, far away, and leave their beloved dwelling. The noise of the rudder and the water creaked and gurgled between whiles, and then suddenly there would be silence. Many a time the boat landed, and went back, and was again laden; many heavy casks, too, they took along with them, which multitudes of horrid-looking little fellows carried and rolled; whether they were devils or goblins, Heaven only knows. Then came, in waving brightness, a stately train; it seemed an old man, mounted on a small white horse, and all were crowding round him. I saw nothing of the horse but its head; for the rest of it was covered with costly glittering cloths and trappings; on his brow the old man had a crown, so bright that, as he came across, I thought the sun was rising there and the redness of the dawn glimmering in my eyes. Thus it went on all night; I at last fell asleep in the tumult, half in joy, half in terror. In the morning all was still; but the river is, as it were, run off, and I know not how I am to use my boat in it now."

The same year there came a blight; the woods died away, the springs ran dry; and the scene, which had once been the joy of every traveler, was in autumn standing waste, naked, and bald, scarcely showing here and there, in the sea of sand, a spot or two where grass, with a dingy greenness, still grew up. The fruit-trees all withered, the vines faded away, and the aspect of the place became so melancholy that the Count, with his people, next year left the castle, which in time decayed and fell to ruins.

Elfrida gazed on her rose day and night with deep longing, and thought of her kind playmate; and as it drooped and withered, so did she also hang her head; and before the spring, the little maiden had herself faded away. Mary often stood upon the spot before the hut, and wept for the happiness that had departed. She wasted herself away like her child, and in a few years she too was gone. Old Martin, with his son-in-law, returned to the quarter where he had lived before.

HEINRICH VON KLEIST

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THE LIFE OF HEINRICH VON KLEIST

By JOHN S. NOLLEN, PH.D.

President of Lake Forest College

Brandenburg has, from olden times, been the stern mother of soldiers, rearing her sons in a discipline that has seemed harsh to the gentler children of sunnier lands. The rigid and formal pines that grow in sombre military files from the sandy ground make a fit landscape for this race of fighting and ruling men. In the wider extent of Prussia as well, the greatest names have been those of generals and statesmen, such as the Great Elector, Frederick the Great, and Bismarck, rather than poets and artists. Even among the notable writers of this region, intellectual power has usually predominated over gifts of feeling or of imagination; the arid, formal talent of Gottsched is an exemplary instance, and the singularly cold and colorless mind of the greatest thinker of modern times, Immanuel Kant, seems eminently Prussian in quality. Growing out of such traditions and antecedents as these, the genius of Heinrich von Kleist appears as a striking anomaly.

This first great literary artist of Prussia was descended from a representative Prussian family of soldiers, which had numbered eighteen generals among its members. Heinrich von Kleist was born October 18, 1777, at Frankfort-on-the-Oder, in the heart of Brandenburg, where his father was stationed as a captain in the service of Frederick the Great. The parents, both of gentle birth, died before their children had grown to maturity. Heinrich was predestined by all the traditions of the family to a military career; after a private education he became, at the age of fourteen, a corporal in the regiment of guards at Potsdam.

The regiment was ordered south for the Rhine campaign against the French revolutionists, but the young soldier saw little actual fighting, and in June, 1795, his battalion had returned to Potsdam; he was then an ensign, and in his twentieth year was promoted to the rank of second lieutenant.

The humdrum duties and the easy pleasures of garrison life had no lasting charms for the future poet, who was as yet unconscious of his latent power, but was restlessly reaching out for a wider and deeper experience. We soon find him preparing himself, by energetic private study, for the University; in April, 1799, against the wishes of his family and his superior officers, he obtained a discharge from the army and entered upon his brief course as a student in his native city. He applied himself with laborious zeal to the mastery of a wide range of subjects, and hastened, with pedantic gravity, to retail his newly won learning to his sisters and a group of their friends. For the time being, the impulse of self-expression took this didactic turn, which is very prominent also in his correspondence. Within the year he was betrothed to a member of this informal class, Wilhelmina von Zenge, the daughter of an officer. The question of a career now crowded out his interest in study; in August, 1800, as a step toward the solution of this problem, Kleist returned to Berlin and secured a modest appointment in the customs department. He found no more satisfaction in the civil than in his former military service, and all manner of vague plans, artistic, literary and academic, occupied his mind. Intensive study of Kant's philosophy brought on an intellectual crisis, in which the ardent student found himself bereft of his fond hope of attaining to absolute truth. Meanwhile the romantic appeal of Nature, first heeded on a trip to Würzburg, and the romantic lure of travel, drew the dreamer irresistibly away from his desk. His sister Ulrica accompanied him on a journey that began in April, 1801, and brought them, by a devious route, to Paris in July. By this time Kleist had become clearly conscious of his vocation; the strong creative impulse that had hitherto bewildered him now found its proper vent in poetic expression, and he felt himself dedicated to a literary career. With characteristic secretiveness he kept hidden, even from his sister, the drama at which he was quietly working.

Absorbed in his new ambition, Kleist found little in Paris to interest him. He felt the need of solitude for the maturing of his plans, and with the double object of seeking in idyllic pursuits the inspiration of Nature and of earning leisure for writing, he proposed to his betrothed that she join him secretly in establishing a home upon a small farm in Switzerland. When Wilhelmina found it impossible to accept this plan, Kleist coldly severed all relations with her. He journeyed to Switzerland in December, 1801, and in Bern became acquainted with a group of young authors, the novelist Heinrich Zschokke, the publisher Heinrich Gessner, and Ludwig Wieland, son of the famous author of Oberon. To these sympathetic friends he read his first tragedy, which, in its earlier draft, had a Spanish setting, as The Thierrez Family or The Ghonorez Family, but which, on their advice, was given a German background. This drama Gessner published for Kleist, under the title The Schroffenstein Family, in the winter of 1802-03. It had no sooner appeared than the author felt himself to have outgrown its youthful weaknesses of imitation and exaggeration. Another dramatic production grew directly out of the discussions of this little circle. The friends agreed, on a wager, to put into literary form the story suggested by an engraving that hung in Zschokke's room. By common consent the prize was awarded to Kleist's production, his one comedy, The Broken Jug.

In April, 1802, Kleist realized his romantic dream by taking up his abode, in rural seclusion, on a little island at the outlet of the Lake of Thun, amid the majestic scenery of the Bernese Oberland. In this retreat, encouraged by the applause of his first confidants, he labored with joyous energy, recasting his Schroffenstein Family, working out the Broken Jug, meditating historical dramas on Leopold of Austria and Peter the Hermit, and expending the best of his untrained genius on the plan of a tragedy, Robert Guiscard, in which he strove to create a drama of a new type, combining the beauties of Greek classical art and of Shakespeare; with his Guiscard the young poet even dared hope to "snatch the laurel wreath from Goethe's brow."

Two months of intense mental exertion in the seclusion of his island left Kleist exhausted, and he fell seriously ill; whereupon Ulrica, on receiving belated news of his plight, hastened to Bern to care for him. When a political revolution drove Ludwig Wieland from Bern, they followed the latter to Weimar, where the poet Wieland, the dean of the remarkable group of great authors gathered at Weimar, received Kleist kindly, and made him his guest at his country estate. With great difficulty Wieland succeeded in persuading his secretive visitor to reveal his literary plans; and when Kleist recited from memory some of the scenes of his unfinished Guiscard, the old poet was transported with enthusiasm; these fragments seemed to him worthy of the united genius of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Shakespeare, and he was convinced that Kleist had the power to "fill the void in the history of the German drama that even Goethe and Schiller had not filled." But in spite of Wieland's generous encouragement, Kleist found it impossible to complete this masterpiece, and his hopeless pursuit of the perfect ideal became an intolerable obsession to his ambitious and sensitive soul. He could not remain in Weimar. In Dresden old friends sought to cheer him in his desperate attempts to seize the elusive ideal; to more than one of them, in his despair, he proposed a joint suicide. Again he was driven to seek solace and inspiration in travel, a friend accompanying him to Switzerland. Arrived at Geneva in October, 1803, Kleist fell into the deepest despondency, and wrote Ulrica a letter full of hopeless renunciation. Half crazed by disappointment and wounded pride, he rushed madly through France to Paris, broke with his friend, who had again repelled a joint suicide, burned his manuscript of Guiscard, and made secretly for Boulogne, hoping to find an honorable death in Napoleon's projected invasion of England. Fortunately he fell in with an acquaintance who saved him from the risk of being arrested as a spy, and started him back on his homeward way. He was detained at Mentz by serious illness, but finally, in June, 1804, reappeared in Potsdam. The poet's spirit was broken, and he was glad to accept a petty civil post that took him to Königsberg. After a year of quiet work, he was enabled, by a small pension from Queen Louise, to resign his office and again devote himself to literature.

The two years spent in Königsberg were years of remarkable development in Kleist's literary power. Warned by the catastrophe of the earlier attempt to reach the heights at a single bound, he now schooled himself with simpler tasks: adaptations, from the French, of La Fontaine's poem, The two Pigeons, and of Molière's comedy, Amphitryon—both so altered in the interpretation that they seem more like originals than translations; prose tales that are admirable examples of this form—The Marquise of O., The Earthquake in Chili, and the first part of the masterly short story Michael Kohlhaas; and the recasting of the unique comedy The Broken Jug. Finally he attempted another great drama in verse, Penthesilea, embodying in the old classical story the tragedy of his own desperate struggle for Guiscard, and his crushing defeat.

Meanwhile the clouds were gathering about his beloved country, and in October, 1806, the thunderbolt fell in the rout of the Prussian army at Jena. Napoleon's victorious troops pressed on to Berlin and the Prussian court retreated with the tide of fugitives to Königsberg. Kleist was overwhelmed by the misery of this cataclysm, which, however, he had clearly foreseen and foretold. With a group of friends he started on foot for Dresden, but was arrested as a spy at the gates of Berlin and held for months as a prisoner in French fortresses, before the energetic efforts of Ulrica and others procured his release.

Late in July, 1807, he finally arrived in Dresden, where he remained until April, 1809. These were the happiest and the most prolific months of his fragmentary life. The best literary and social circles of the Saxon capital were open to him, his talent was recognized by the leading men of the city, a laurel wreath was placed upon his brow by "the prettiest hands in Dresden;" at last he found all his hopes being realized. With three friends he embarked on an ambitious publishing enterprise, which included the issuing of a sumptuous literary and artistic monthly, the Phoebus. This venture was foredoomed to failure by the inexperience of its projectors and by the unsettled condition of a time full of political upheaval and most unfavorable to any literary enterprise. Kleist's own contributions to this periodical were of the highest value; here appeared first in print generous portions of Penthesilea, The Broken Jug, and the new drama Kitty of Heilbronn, the first act of the ill-fated Robert Guiscard, evidently reproduced from memory, The Marquise of O., and part of Michael Kohlhaas. If we add to these works the great patriotic drama, Arminius (Die Hermannsschlacht), two tales, The Betrothal in San Domingo and The Foundling, and lyric and narrative poems, the production of the brief period in Dresden is seen to bulk very large.

In the stress of the times and in spite of the most strenuous efforts, the Phoebus went under with the first volume, and the publishing business was a total wreck. Kleist's joy at the acceptance of The Broken Jug by Goethe for the Weimar theatre was turned to bitterness when, because of unintelligent acting and stage management, this brilliant comedy failed wretchedly; the disappointed author held Goethe responsible for this fiasco and foolishly attacked him in a series of spiteful epigrams. He longed to have his Arminius performed at Vienna, but the Austrian authorities were too timid to risk the production of a play that openly preached German unity and a war of revenge against the "Roman tyranny" of Napoleon. Kleist then turned to lyric poetry and polemic tirades for the expression of his patriotic ardor. When Austria rose against Napoleon, he started for the seat of war and was soon the happy eye-witness of the Austrian victory at Aspern, in May, 1809. In Prague, with the support of the commandant, he planned a patriotic journal, for which he immediately wrote a series of glowing articles, mostly in the form of political satires. This plan was wrecked by the decisive defeat of the Austrians at Wagram in July.

Broken by these successive disasters, Kleist again fell seriously ill; for four months his friends had no word from him, and reports of his death were current. In November, 1809, he came to Frankfort-on-the-Oder to dispose of his share in the family home as a last means of raising funds, and again disappeared. In January, 1810, he passed through Frankfort on the way to Berlin, to which the Prussian court, now subservient to Napoleon, had returned. He found many old friends in Berlin, and even had prospects of recognition from the court, as the brave and beautiful Queen Louise was very kindly disposed toward him. Again he turned to dramatic production, and in the patriotic Prussian play, Prince Frederick of Homburg, created his masterpiece. Fortune seemed once more to be smiling upon the dramatist; the Prince of Homburg was to be dedicated to Queen Louise, and performed privately at the palace of Prince Radziwill, before being given at the National Theatre. But again the cup of success was dashed from the poet's lips. With the death of Queen Louise, in July, 1810, he lost his only powerful friend at court, and now found it impossible to get a hearing for his drama.

Other disappointments came in rapid succession. Kitty of Heilbronn, performed after many delays at Vienna, was not a success, and Iffland, the popular dramatist and director of the Berlin Theatre, rejected this play, while accepting all manner of commonplace works by inferior authors. The famous publisher Cotta did print Penthesilea, but was so displeased with it that he made no effort to sell the edition, and Kitty of Heilbronn, declined by Cotta, fell flat when it was printed in Berlin. Two volumes of tales, including some masterpieces in this form, hardly fared better; the new numbers in this collection were The Duel, The Beggar Woman of Locarno, and Saint Cecilia. Again the much-tried poet turned to journalism. From October, 1810, until March, 1811, with the assistance of the popular philosopher Adam Müller and the well-known romantic authors Arnim, Brentano, and Fouqué, he published a politico-literary journal appearing five times a week. The enterprise began well, and aroused a great deal of interest. Gradually, however, the censorship of a government that was at once timid and tyrannical limited the scope and destroyed the effectiveness of the paper, and Kleist spent himself in vain efforts to keep it alive. The poet now found himself in a desperate predicament, financially ruined by the failure of all his enterprises, and discredited with the government, from which he vainly sought some reparation for the violence done to his journal; worst of all, he found himself without honor at home, where he was looked upon as a ne'er-do-well and a disgrace to the reputation of a fine old military family. As a last resort he applied for reinstatement in the army, it being a time when Prussia seemed to be girding herself for another struggle with Napoleon. But the attempt to borrow enough money for his military equipment failed, and he found no sympathy or support on a final visit to his family in Frankfort. In October, 1811, the patriotic men who had been quietly preparing for the inevitable war of liberation were horrified by the movement of the Prussian government toward another alliance with Napoleon; and Kleist felt it impossible to enter an army that might at any moment be ordered to support the arch-enemy of his country. His case had become utterly hopeless.

At this juncture the unfortunate poet found what he had so often sought in his crises of despair—a companion in suicide. Through Adam Müller he had become acquainted with Henrietta Vogel, an intelligent woman of romantic temperament, who was doomed by an incurable disease to a life of suffering. She listened eagerly to Kleist's suggestions of an escape together from the intolerable ills of life. The two drove from Berlin to a solitary inn on the shore of the Wannsee, near Potsdam; here Kleist wrote a touching farewell letter to his sister, and, on the afternoon of November 21, 1811, after the most deliberate preparations, the companions strolled into the silent pine woods, where Kleist took Henrietta's life and then his own. In the same lonely place his grave was dug, and here the greatest Prussian poet lay forgotten, after the brief, though violent, sensation of his tragic end; half a century elapsed before a Prussian prince set up a simple granite monument to mark the grave. Ten years passed after Kleist's death before his last great dramas, Arminius and the Prince of Homburg, were published, edited by the eminent poet and critic Ludwig Tieck, who also brought out, in 1826, the first collection of Kleist's works. Long before this time, the patriotic uprising for which he had labored with desperate zeal in his later works, had brought liberation to Germany; it was on the thirty-sixth anniversary of Kleist's birth that Napoleon's power was shaken by the decisive Battle of Leipzig.

Heinrich von Kleist was born into a generation that was dominated by the spirit of Romanticism. Tieck and the Schlegels were a few years older, Fouqué was of the same age as he, and Arnim and Brentano somewhat younger. His acquaintance was largely with the authors who represented this tendency. In his own works, however, Kleist was singularly independent of the romantic influence. This is the more remarkable inasmuch as his character had many traits in common with the ardent spirits of the Romantic group. His uncompromising individualism and overweening ambition, his love of travel, his enthusiastic acceptance of Rousseau's gospel of Nature, are characteristically Romantic, and so, we may say, is his passionate patriotism. Eccentricities he had in plenty; there was something morbid in his excessive reserve, his exaggerated secretiveness about the most important interests of his life, as there surely was in his moroseness, which deepened at times into black despair. Goethe was most unpleasantly impressed by this abnormal quality of Kleist's personality, and said of the younger poet: "In spite of my honest desire to sympathize with him, I could not avoid a feeling of horror and loathing, as of a body beautifully endowed by nature, but infected with an incurable disease." That this judgment was unduly harsh is evident enough from the confidence and affection that Kleist inspired in many of the best men of his time.

Whatever may have been Kleist's personal peculiarities, his works give evidence of the finest artistic sanity and conscience. His acute sense of literary form sets him off from the whole generation of Romanticists, who held the author's personal caprice to be the supreme law of poetry, and most of whose important works were either medleys or fragments. He was his own severest critic, and labored over his productions, as he did over his own education, with untiring energy and intense concentration. A less scrupulous author would not have destroyed the manuscript of Robert Guiscard because he could not keep throughout its action the splendid promise of the first act. His works are usually marked by rare logical and artistic consistency. Seldom is there any interruption of the unity and simple directness of his actions by sub-plots or episodes, and he scorned the easy theatrical devices by which the successful playwrights of his day gained their effects. Whether in drama or story, his action grows naturally out of the characters and the situations. Hence the marvelous fact that his dramas can be performed with hardly an alteration, though the author, never having seen any of them on the stage, lacked the practical experience by which most dramatists learn the technique of their art.

Kleist evidently studied the models of classical art with care. His unerring sense of form, his artistic restraint in a day when caprice was the ruling fashion, and the conciseness of his expression, are doubtless due to classical influence. But, at the same time, he was an innovator, one of the first forerunners of modern realism. He describes and characterizes with careful, often microscopic detail; his psychological analysis is remarkably exact and incisive; and he fearlessly uses the ugly or the trivial when either better serves his purpose.

In all the varied volume of Kleist's works, there is very little that is mediocre or negligible. The Schroffenstein Family, to be sure, is prentice work, but it can bear comparison with the first plays of the greatest dramatists. The fragment of Robert Guiscard is masterly in its rapid cumulative exposition, representing the hero, idolized by his troops, as stricken with the plague when the crowning glory of his military career seems to be within his grasp; while the discord between Guiscard's son and nephew presages an irrepressible family conflict. The style, as Wieland felt when he listened with rapture to the author's recital, is a blend of classical and Elizabethan art. The opening chorus of the people, the formal balanced speeches, the analytical action, beginning on the verge of the catastrophe, are traits borrowed from Greek tragedy. On the other hand, there is much realistic characterization and a Shakespearian variety and freedom of tone. The Broken Jug, too, is analytical in its conduct. Almost from the first it is evident that Adam, the village judge, is himself the culprit in the case at trial in his court, and the comic efforts of the arch-rascal to squirm out of the inevitable discovery only serve to make his guilt the surer. In this comedy the blank verse adapts itself to all the turns of familiar humorous dialogue, and the effect of the Dutch genre-paintings of Teniers or Jan Steen is admirably reproduced in dramatic form. The slowly moving action, constantly reverting to past incidents, makes a successful performance difficult; the fate of this work on the stage has depended upon finding an actor capable of bringing out all the possibilities in the part of Adam, who is a masterpiece of comic self-characterization.

Penthesilea is a work apart. Passionate, headlong, almost savage, is the character of the queen of the Amazons, yet wonderfully sweet in its gentler moods and glorified with the golden glow of high poetry. Nothing could be further removed from the pseudo-classical manner of the eighteenth century than this modern and individual interpretation of the old mythical story of Penthesilea and Achilles, between whom love breaks forth in the midst of mortal combat. The clash of passions creates scenes in this drama that transcend the humanly and dramatically permissible. Yet there is a wealth of imaginative beauty and emotional melody in this tragedy beyond anything in Kleist's other works. It was written with his heart's blood; in it he uttered all the yearning and frenzy of his first passion for the unattainable and ruined masterpiece Guiscard.

Kitty of Heilbronn stands almost at the opposite pole from Penthesilea. The pathos of Griselda's unquestioning self-abnegation is her portion; she is the extreme expression of the docile quality that Kleist sought in his betrothed. Instead of the fabled scenes of Homeric combat, we have here as a setting the richly romantic and colorful life of the age of chivalry. The form, too, is far freer and more expansive, with an unconventional mingling of verse and prose.

The last two plays were born of the spirit that brought forth the War of Liberation. In them Kleist gave undying expression to his ardent patriotism; it was his deepest grief that these martial dramas were not permitted to sound their trumpet-call to a humbled nation yearning to be free. Arminius is a great dramatized philippic. The ancient Germanic chiefs Marbod and Arminius, representing in Kleist's intention the Austria and Prussia of his day, are animated by one common patriotic impulse, rising far above their mutual rivalries, to cast off the hateful and oppressive yoke of Rome; and after the decisive victory over Varus in the Teutoburg Forest, each of these strong chiefs is ready in devoted self-denial to yield the primacy to the other, in order that all Germans may stand together against the common foe. Prince Frederick of Homburg is a dramatic glorification of the Prussian virtues of discipline and obedience. But the finely drawn characters of this play are by no means rigid martinets. They are largely, frankly, generously human, confessing the right of feeling as well as reason to direct the will. Never has there been a more sympathetic literary exposition of the soldierly character than this last tribute of a devoted patriot to his beloved Brandenburg.

The narrative works of Kleist maintain the same high level as his dramas. Michael Kohlhaas is a good example of this excellent narrative art, for which Kleist found no models in German literature. Unity is a striking characteristic; the action can usually be summed up in a few words, such as the formula for this story, given expressly on its first page: "His sense of justice made him a robber and a murderer." There is no leisurely exposition of time, place, or situation; all the necessary elements are given concisely in the first sentences. The action develops logically, with effective use of retardation and climax, but without disturbing episodes; and the reader is never permitted to forget the central theme. The descriptive element is realistic, with only pertinent details swiftly presented, often in parentheses, while the action moves on. The characterization is skilfully indirect, through unconscious action and speech. The author does not shun the trivial or even the repulsive in detail, nor does he fear the most tragic catastrophes. He is scrupulously objective, and, in an age of expansive lyric expression, he is most chary of comment. The sentence structure, as in the dramas, is often intricate, but never lax. The whole work in all its parts is firmly and finely forged by a master workman.