The confessions of Adalbert...

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LETTER I. MY DEAR FRIEND, Uth Feb. 1826

Before you receive this letter I shall have left Switzerland, and set my foot on German ground.

I could stay no longer in my native land. The death of my parents, which dissolved the closest ties that attached me to it, put me at the same time in possession of considerable property. Until I finally resolve upon seeking some official situation, and suffer myself to be fettered by civil obligations, I do not know that I can spend my time better than in travelling ; by which means I hope to gain that experience and polish, which can never be attained by remaining at home.

I had to choose between Italy, France, England, and Germany, or rather, the whole world lay before

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

me ; however I gave the preference to Germany. My father was born there, and had there acquired that mental culture and extensive knowledge, to which my education is so much indebted. Even as my mother, who was a native of France, taught me her language, and spoke it with me — so my father taught me German, and conversed with me in it ; and as the Swiss, at least with reference to language and literature, cannot possess a character of their own, but must either assume that of the German or the French, my father endeavoured, through the whole course of my education, to give the former the preponderance in me ; and it appears tome that he succeeded in his object.

I acquired, in the most eminent institutions in Switzerland, those intellectual attainments, by which the individual is prepared for the service of the church and the state, or for the cultivation of the sciences in that country. My father thought highly of these acquirements ; and although, in his opinion, education, with reference to its extent, was superior in Germany, yet he esteemed its solidity in its narrower sphere. The deficiencies which might occur, he expected to be able to supply from that acquaintance with German literature which he early procured me. The works of those poets who were celebrated in Germany, were read both by him and myself with delight ; and even in the German prose writers, although their language

LETTER I.

did not always seem to him to possess the perfection of French prose, he taught me to admire the depth of thought and feeling peculiar to that people. Hence the idea very naturally suggested itself to me, to devote some years to the exclusive study of German literature ; and in the fulfilment of this intention, my father will certainly feel satisfied, if, where he is, sympathy with the efforts of mortals be still felt.

But what am I saying ? Pardon me, my dear friend, for having endeavoured to deceive you ! You must do so ; for I undertook likewise to deceive my self. Away with the delusion ! I must confess, that the reason which chives me from my native land, lies deeper — much deeper than I wished to make you and myself believe ; but it is also, alas ! something of a much less innocent nature. You, my dear friend, neither know me, nor my earlier connections ; and since you have never visited my native town, that which is there related of me has never reached your ears. You perhaps too hastily bestowed your heart and your friendship upon me, after the few happy days I spent at your house. Ah, I probably do not deserve so valuable a gift ! Is it because I am inwardlv conscious of something that is evil, base, and vicious ? Bv no means. From my earliest years, people thought thev observed in me the rudiments of moral goodness ; and I was told that I possessed a gentle, noble, and excellent disposition. This I believed, and believe it b 2

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

still. But whence is it that my practice has been so much worse than my natural disposition ? The yenfeelings, to which I thought I could give myself up without reserve, because I regarded them as the best and the noblest that 1 possessed, have plunged me into innumerable errors, and have been the cause of accumulating inexpressible sorrowupon others whom I love.

Do not, however, expect me to enter into the detail of these aberrations : such a confession only becomes one who has compensated for his errors by brilliant virtues. I will not make the paper blush — which is able to do so, although the contrary is asserted — still less my friend. I will only mention thus much : by a passion which I did not suppress, which I confessed, and which was unfortunately reciprocated — I destroyed the peace of an estimable family, embittered the last days of my mother, and prejudiced the minds of my fellow-townsmen against me. Being unable entirely to escape from myself and the remembrance of my errors, I am desirous of at least avoiding the place where I am incessantly reminded of the latter. I will seek that repose elsewhere, which I have trifled away in my native country ; and the occupation T require shall be afforded me by those labours which have been dear to me from my youth up ; and which, by means of the interest I take in them, may perhaps, for a short time, free my mind from the pain which at present corrodes it.

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

Letter II

Tell me, my dearest friend, am I in the wrong in rinding myself depicted in Lord Byron's Childe Harold ? I presuppose the permission to compare the production of an amazing imagination, or such a characteristic individual — for the hero of the tale is no other than the poet himself — with the reality, which is always comparatively poor, or with my own poor self. Like this pilgrim, I am also about to leave my native land, in order to banish from my sight the traces of the life I there led. Like him, my intention is not so much outward enjoyment, as the escaping from myself. He has found in Greece an honourable death, in striving for that country's welfare, and rest for his spirit, which was equally tormented by its greatness and its weakness : what shall I find ? — ■ perhaps repose ; but how ?

W mere do we discover an outlet, after having once lost ourselves in the windings of this poem, which are like the mazy walks in a labyrinth of melancholy — - where every joy leads to grief, and every sorrow to still deeper woe ? This spirit, which brings before

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

our eyes the entire glories of a world in the mourning dress of that conniption to which it is destined ; this spirit — and I have never been able to read it without horror — is occasionally affected by something like a wish for annihilation : —

" Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forced banquet claims the sated guest. But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest.''

Yet better feelings again burst forth in the following strophe, which I read with indescribable satisfaction, because the poet himself appears so noble and amiable in it, and also because it contains the expression of my own sentiments, inasmuch as I have never doubted, nor been able to doubt, the immortality" of the soul : —

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be

A land of souls beyond that sable shore. To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee

And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ;

How sweet it were in concert to adore. With those who made our mortal labours light !

To hear each voice we feared to hear no more/'

How pleasing and friendly does the description of the place begin, where Petrarch spent his latest years ; until the bright light is suddenly turned into blackest darkness, and we are rapidly led from the enj oyinents of earthly life to the brink of hell ! And is not such in reality the case ? — and can even the most cheerful

I

LETTER II.

object be contemplated without trembling at the horrid forms which soon emanate from it ?

" And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt,

Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt,

And sought a refuge, from their hopes decay'd, In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade ; Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain display'd ; For they can lure no further ; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,

And shining in the brawling brook, where by Clear as the current glide the sauntering hours

With a calm languor, which, though to the eye

Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live,

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give No hollow aid ; alone, man with his God must strive.

Or it may be, with demons, who impair

The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were

Of moody texture from their earliest day,

And lov'd to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestin'd to a doom

Which is not of the pangs that pass away : Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom."

You are, perhaps, already weary of these quotations ; however, you must permit me to give you one

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

more. During the whole of this day's journey, I have done nothing else but read this poem ; and now, on arriving at my lodging for the night, I cannot better employ the hours, before retiring to rest, than by imparting my thoughts to you in those of the poet, since both are almost become one. He that is still able to love nature, and to find pleasure in her solitudes and repose in her wildernesses, gives us no cause for apprehension. I will not speak of myself; although I have often sat for hours on the declivity of our mountains — above me, their snow-covered summits — before me, an abyss, and in its depths the thundering cataract ; how mournful, yet how soothing, how tranquil have I often felt in such a situation ! Have you read, in the life of Alfieri, how he swims into the sea, then places his back against a rock, turns his face towards the billows, and contemplates their motion for hours together ? Hear Lord Byron : —

" There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on a lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.'*

LETTER II.

I wish you a better night's rest, than I can expect ; for my head is heated, and my heart is melancholy. Why have I suffered myself to be so captivated by Byron ? My intention was to apply myself to German literature,

CONFESSIONS OP ADALBERT.

Letter III

The place from whence I at present address you, is a small town, where several eminent men reside. I visited them, and they gave me a description of the literary state of Germany ; in return, I was under the necessity of drawing a similar sketch, with respect to Switzerland. I could only feel grateful for such a friendly reception, but shall probably make no use of the permission they gave me to renew my visit.

The weather, gloomy and tempestuous, as it may be expected to be at this season of the year, affords me no opportunity of making excursions into the circumjacent country, which, without possessing anything that is particularly striking, is said to be of a very friendly and pleasing character. I am not well, and on this account must keep my room. I therefore walk up and down in it, sometimes stand at the window, and cast a look down into the wet and empty streets. Just now I took up the Spanish Don Quixote, which accompanied me on my journey, and thought to amuse myself with Sancho's entertaining conversations with his master. But such an indescribable pain proceeded from the centre of my heart, that

LETTER III.

the page of the book I was reading at that moment will certainly never fail to point itself out to me by the gloomy colour which will ever adhere to it, and from the circumstance of my despondingly throwing it aside, in order to seek consolation in pouring out my heart to you, my beloved friend.

I am now therefore divided from all those connections which are dear to me ; and the whole of the earlier part of my life, which memory attaches so closely to my heart, must be torn away from it. It is not that I wish to recal what my conscience condemns ; although — and I cannot deny it — in the storm and bitterness of passion, there lies a rapture which still smiles upon me. But does all that belonged to me deserve to be thus thrown away, and for ever removed from me ? Yes, for ever ; for that which is once past occurs, not in the same manner again. "Were I now to return, though I have been absent only so short a time, I should find already another state of things. Did not I possess a native soil, on which I walked with the consciousness that my peculiar character and intellectual attainments were acquired there ? Had not I relatives and friends, and was not I able to rejoice all the day at the prospect of forming one of their cheerful circle in the evening ? My heart is rent, and is ready to bleed, that all this is gone, no more to return.

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

You say it must bleed for the fault I have committed. Alas, alas ! I am still so weak, that I am much more grieved at the loss of my happiness, than at the aberrations which have deprived me of it.

To be alone ; to have no one who longs after us — none whom we desire ; to stand in no connection with the objects which pass before us, whether pleasing or painful ; to see before us no pleasing future, the realization of which, by the continuance of present feeling, might form one cheering whole ; to be ever looking back, with a fixed eye, upon the past, which is already dead, and regards us in return with a strange and spectral look, and to feel at every breath, and at every painful vibration of the heart, that it was, and is no more ; — what is this ? is it not hell 5

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

Letter IV

After having written to you thrice in a short space of time, and vainly expecting, for several months, an answer from you, I had already begun to repent of the importunity with which I had made you the confident of my sorrows. A letter from you has now withdrawn me from such painful reflections. Accept my most heartfelt thanks for the friendly, cordial, and yet powerful and manly sentiments expressed in it. You are astonished at my being able to conceal from you so much suffering, of which you had no idea. But, dearest friend, who has ever really known or been desirous of knowing, since the day of my birth, that which was passing within me ? I do not refer to you ; for what could you have asked me during our brief intercourse, or what could I have related to you in so short a space of time ? But besides yourself, none of my friends have sympathized with me, however gladly I would have listened to the effusions of their hearts. In consequence of this mdifference, I have been rendered timid, and have digested in my own heart that which took place

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

there. Outwardly, I have assumed the appearance of having no heart, and have not ventured to show that I felt either pleasure or pain. How beneficial is it to my poor reserved heart to be permitted to speak ; and that you are wilhng to listen to it ! You shall know everything that I think and feel ; I will converse with you as with myself.

There is a theatre of some note in this place, and I have visited it. The words drama and theatre I have never been able, since my infancy, to pronounce without enthusiasm. We sit before the veiled stage with the anticipation of all that is laughable, amiable, and sublime in character — all the wonderful sport of chance, and the dreadful catastrophes of fate, which will soon unfold themselves to our view. The curtain ascends ; and, behold ! in the midst of this every- day world, a new one, in which the quintessence of the former is compressed. And whilst looking into it with rapturous feelings, I possess, at the same time-, a social pleasure ; I find myself amongst a number of others, who have been brought to the place by a similar inclination, and all my sensations are heightened, since so many others partake of them with me.

Hitherto, I had only been present at a French theatre ; and although I was acquainted with the dramatic poesy of the Greeks, Spaniards, and Germans, and was on my guard against overvaluing that

LETTER IV.

of the French, yet I have always regarded it as a genuine fruit of the French character and spirit, and therefore as something laudable. In then tragedies, representation, passion, and decision of mind prevail, as in the people themselves ; the farce — for this must not be wanting in dramatic literature — interests us by its mirthfulness, wit, and, not unfrequently, by an inexhaustible comic humour. The pieces which he between these, present to us a spirited and well executed picture of social life ; and the performance perfectly corresponds with these qualities. The feelings are not only intended to be touched and excited, but the demands of the understanding must be attended to as much as possible ; the excitement of the imagination is less to be considered. Every thing must proceed rapidly. The feelings once awakened, must not be suffered to cool : hence the scene continues unchanged ; the curtain, after having been once drawn up, does not fall before the end of the piece ; the divisions of the intervening acts are indicated by a few strokes upon the violin ; the actors manifest, if net always genius, yet generally diligence, emulation, refinement, and social polish ; the auditory, attentive, susceptible, easily excited, not unfrequently restless and passionate, continues in constant and lively reciprocity of feeling with them ; and each spectator, although he may not be tasting any

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

particular enjoyment of art, is notwithstanding engaged for some hours in a manner which is pleasing to him.

How very different, said I to myself, on my arrival here — how very different to the pleasure I felt in the French theatre — will be the rapture which awaits me in the German ! There I shall see the chef-d'ceuvres of Schiller; and many of Shakspeare's tragedies, which are so nearly allied to the spirit of the Germans, and so admirably translated by them, that they seem to belong to their literature ! Whole weeks, however, passed away ; not one of Schiller's or Shakspeare's pieces was given ; and I was at length obliged to go to the theatre at a venture.

I went thither rather early, and saw the people assemble. Their disturbance and movements seemed at an end as soon as they had taken their places, and there were no further signs of a lively interest observable in them. The piece, indeed, was not calculated to produce the latter, any more than the actors ; who, although not deficient in talent, were wanting in tact, energy, and due instruction, and pleased me the less, because, to judge from their self-complacency and affected tone, they were uncommonly well pleased with themselves. From the stage, which did not present any thing very rational, I sometimes cast a look upon the ranks of the spectators , behind

LETTER IV.

me. There they sat, perfectly grave, without giving anv sign of approbation or displeasure ; and the question naturally occurred to me, why they came thither ? Could not each of them have had more enjoyment at home ? If any thing like interest had been excited at the end of an act, there was an abundance of time, in the long space between the falling of the curtain and its being drawn up again, for the spectators to forget what they had seen, and to assume a completely different tone of mind. A ballet followed the comedy. The dancers were utterly incapable of exciting any interest in me. I constantly thought within myself, ' These are probably very good domestic characters and felt constrained to lament with them the necessity which compelled them to dance, and do that for which they did not seem constructed.

I know not what sort of evil spirit has taken up his abode in this theatre. All the painful feelings, reminiscences, and cares, from which I had hoped to escape, crowded forth in the frequent moments of listlessness and tedium, in order to steal into and torment my mind. The feeling of disgust and vexation with which I saw the building empty itself, the lamps extinguished which had given light to the flimsv amusement, the people depart as indifferent as thev came, and with which I returned to my lonely room at the inn— I cannot describe. And then to reflect c

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

that the same thing which occasioned me such disagreeable feelings that evening, was continually repeated on a larger scale ; that even in the world, and that which is connected with it, people crowd, press, and push one another, until they have found a place where they can conveniently settle themselves ; that those who appear upon the stage, and are enveloped in the tinsel of fame and grandeur, feel, in fact, much more uncomfortable than those who sit below them ; that the whole terminates with mutual dissatisfaction and thorough disgust ; that the lights are then extinguished, and every one goes home in the dark, the darkness of death, to his grave ! — as I to my room, where my wax taper shone upon me like a sepulchral lamp upon the lonely corpse !

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

Letter V

Although none of Schiller's tragedies have hitherto been given, yet there have been such as were performed with enthusiasm by the actors, and by which the audience seemed also to be captivated ; which, I must confess, have even affected and excited me — tragedies in which, beside the visible performers, an invisible actor, often spoken of under the name of Fate, seems to play his part ; and who is generally represented on the stage itself by a dagger introduced in a screen — tragedies, in which it might be apprehended that the stage could transform itself into a scaffold, and which, for the satisfaction of the spectators, would at least end with the suicide of the principal characters.

Whilst occupied with these reflections, I was seated close to a neatly dressed young man of good figure, who, as I afterwards learned, was either a councillor of finance or of justice, and who not unfrequently looked at me, in order to read in my eyes the reflection of his transports ; and who might in fact have found something of a similar nature in them. Thus we became acquainted, and I gladly agreed to his proposi-

CONFESSIONS OF ADALBERT.

tion to sup together, after the play, at a restaurateur's. That which we had just been witnessing, naturally became the subject of conversation during our meal.

After having paid a due tribute of approbation to the actors, the well-sounding verses, and the single, surprising, and affecting scenes, my new acquaintance began, with considerable animation, as follows : —

"But that which delights me most in this tragedy, and in some others which are written in the same spirit, is, that they restore to us so completely, and I might almost say in a superior light, the spirit of Grecian tragedy, which is in reality the spirit of the whole species.''

" And what is that ? " inquired I.

" What else," replied he, " than Fate ; which, by strange associations, carries men away to the commission of crimes, and plunges the innocent with the guiltv into one common destruction."

" The Germans," rejoined I, " have attained to such a thorough knowledge of Grecian antiquity, that they certainly understand the fundamental ideas of the Grecian works of art, and particularly of their tragedies, better than is elsewhere the case. However, I should not like to adduce, as a proof of this, the idea of fate as represented in the piece the performance of which we have just witnessed."

■ c Why not ? " asked he.

LETTER V.

(i Because it is by no means necessary, either in that individual piece, or in tragedy generally. Place persons of decided character and violent passions in situations, which present insurmountable obstacles to that which they so violently and obstinately desire, and let these passions struggle with the circumstances in which the individual is placed ; this struggle is tragedy, and there is no need of the introduction of fate into the piece."

" You are still standing/' replied the young councillor, " on the subordinate footing of French tragedy. We Germans have elevated ourselves to a higher one. "

" And then, " continued I, " I am ignorant why any mention should be made of fate in tragedies, since it is spoken of no where else, and believed by no one^ The Greeks believed in an obscure power, which ruled over gods and men ; and tragedy — this representation of human life in its most exalted references —would not have satisfied them, if that idea had not been introduced. But this idea no longer predominates in. the minds of men. The poet believes in it as little as his auditory ; then why call it forth ? "

" There you are under a mistake," said the youngcouncillor; i( there are many who now believe in it. 55 Whilst he was uttering what follows, during which he elevated his voice more than was necessary, I was not a little embarrassed, on observing how those who were supping in the same room directed their eyes to the f; little table in the corner " at which we were sitting, and began to listen to our conversation, <f Do you know," continued he. ff that German poesy has abandoned that common and vulgar way of representing only that which is visible and finite, and in happy connection with philosophy, which simultaneously awoke with it, has elevated itself to that which is infinite, which extends and rules over all things.'' 5

<: Bv that which vou call infinite. inquired I, in as low a tone as possible. (i do you mean God, or some thing else ? 55

God, to be sure/' answered the former ; (: that is, that which ought always to have been called God ; that unity of tilings, which, bound by no personality, produces all things, and draws them back into itself with an iron necessity. In the Jewish and Christian religion, this sublime idea has descended to the vulgar conceptions of men, and transformed itself into a humanly personal and susceptible God ; although it cannot be denied, that in the history of the New Testament the sway of this universal principle is often represented in stinking allegories."

" The history of the New Testament, " answered I. 4> ' is either true or false. I will not decide the point : but I never thought that it was to be regarded as a mere allesrorv

LETTER V

Meanwhile, a man of about thirty years of age. who had something bold and daring in his look, approached our table from one of the others, and said to the councillor, whilst clapping him on the shoulder, in a more ironical than friendly tone, <( Do you know, friend, that you are reviewed ? "

The councillor, concerning whom I thus unexpectedly heard that he was a writer and a poet, shrank together at tliis salutation; and inquired, with a transient blush, where his book had been reviewed, and whether favourably or not ?

A conversation now commenced between the councillor and the other, by means of which I became acquainted with the chief of the reviewing establishments in Germany, the number of which is not small ; the parties into which the writers of the present day are divided ; and their reciprocal bitterness, to which they not unfrequently give vent by criticising each other. The councillor, whose work had been reviewed, attacked criticism in general. The reviewer took it under his protection, and said, (i "What would literature be without criticism ? You must at least confess, that our journals are the safest barrier which we can oppose to the religious enthusiasm which is so current/'