Delphi Collected Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe \(Illustrated\) pdfdrive com

CHAPTER VI.

Though  in  this  remoulding  of  “Hamlet”  many  characters  had  been  cut  off,  a

sufficient number of them still remained, — a number which the company was

scarcely adequate to meet.

“If this is the way of it,” said Serlo, “our prompter himself must issue from his

den, and mount the stage, and become a personage like one of us.”

“In his own station,” answered Wilhelm, “I have frequently admired him.”

“I do not think,” said Serlo, “that there is in the world a more perfect artist of

his kind. No spectator ever hears him: we upon the stage catch every syllable. He

has formed in himself, as it were, a peculiar set of vocal organs for this purpose:

he is like a Genius that whispers intelligibly to us in the hour of need. He feels,

as  if  by  instinct,  what  portion  of  his  task  an  actor  is  completely  master  of,  and

anticipates  from  afar  where  his  memory  will  fail  him.  I  have  known  cases  in

which I myself had scarcely read my part: he said it over to me word for word,

and I played happily. Yet he has some peculiarities which would make another

in  his  place  quite  useless.  For  example,  he  takes  such  an  interest  in  the  plays,

that, in giving any moving passage, he does not indeed declaim it, but he reads it

with all pomp and pathos. By this ill habit he has nonplussed me on more than

one occasion.”

“As  with  another  of  his  singularities,”  observed  Aurelia,  “he  once  left  me

sticking fast in a very dangerous passage.”

“How could this happen, with the man’s attentiveness?” said Wilhelm.

“He  is  so  affected,”  said  Aurelia,  “by  certain  passages,  that  he  weeps  warm

tears, and for a few moments loses all reflection; and it is not properly passages

such  as  we  should  call  affecting  that  produce  this  impression  on  him;  but,  if  I

express myself clearly, the beautiful passages, those out of which the pure spirit

of  the  poet  looks  forth,  as  it  were,  through  open,  sparkling  eyes,    —    passages

which  others  at  most  rejoice  over,  and  which  many  thousands  altogether

overlook.”

“And with a soul so tender, why does he never venture on the stage?”

“A hoarse voice,” said Serlo, “and a stiff carriage, exclude him from it; as his

melancholic temper excludes him from society. What trouble have I taken, and

in  vain,  to  make  him  take  to  me!  But  he  is  a  charming  reader;  such  another  I

have  never  heard;  no  one  can  observe  like  him  the  narrow  limit  between

declamation and graceful recital.”

“The  very  man!”  exclaimed  our  friend,  “the  very  man!  What  a  fortunate

---

discovery!  We  have  now  the  proper  hand  for  delivering  the  passage  of  ‘The

rugged Pyrrhus.’“

“One requires your eagerness,” said Serlo, “before he can employ every object

in the use it was meant for.”

“In  truth,”  said  Wilhelm,  “I  was  very  much  afraid  we  should  be  obliged  to

leave this passage out: the omission would have lamed the whole play.”

“Well! That is what I cannot understand,” observed Aurelia.

“I hope you will erelong be of my opinion,” answered Wilhelm. “Shakspeare

has  introduced  these  travelling  players  with  a  double  purpose.  The  person  who

recites  the  death  of  Priam  with  such  feeling,  in  the  first  place,  makes  a  deep

impression  on  the  prince  himself;  he  sharpens  the  conscience  of  the  wavering

youth: and, accordingly, this scene becomes a prelude to that other, where, in the

second  place,  the  little  play  produces  such  effect  upon  the  King.  Hamlet  sees

himself reproved and put to shame by the player, who feels so deep a sympathy

in foreign and fictitious woes; and the thought of making an experiment upon the

conscience  of  his  stepfather  is  in  consequence  suggested  to  him.  What  a  royal

monologue is that, which ends the second act! How charming it will be to speak

it!

“‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player

here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own

conceit,  That,  from  her  working,  all  his  visage  wann’d;  Tears  in  his  eyes,

distraction  in’s  aspect,  A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting  With

forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What’s Hecuba to him, or

he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?’“

“If we can but persuade our man to come upon the stage,” observed Aurelia.

“We must lead him to it by degrees,” said Serlo. “At the rehearsal he may read

the passage: we shall tell him that an actor whom we are expecting is to play it;

and so, by and by, we shall lead him nearer to the point.”

Having  agreed  on  this  affair,  the  conversation  next  turned  upon  the  Ghost.

Wilhelm could not bring himself to give the part of the living King to the Pedant,

that so Old Boisterous might play the Ghost: he was of opinion that they ought

to  wait  a  while;  because  some  other  actors  had  announced  themselves,  and

among these it was probable they would find a fitter man.

We can easily conceive, then, how astonished Wilhelm must have been when,

returning  home  that  evening,  he  found  a  billet  lying  on  his  table,  sealed  with

singular figures, and containing what follows: —

“Strange  youth!  we  know  thou  art  in  great  perplexity.  For  thy  Hamlet  thou

canst  hardly  find  men  enough,  not  to  speak  of  ghosts.  Thy  zeal  deserves  a

miracle:  miracles  we  cannot  work,  but  somewhat  marvellous  shall  happen.  If

---

thou have faith, the Ghost shall arise at the proper hour! Be of courage and keep

firm! This needs no answer: thy determination will be known to us.”

With this curious sheet he hastened back to Serlo, who read and re-read it, and

at last declared, with a thoughtful look, that it seemed a matter of some moment;

that  they  must  consider  well  and  seriously  whether  they  could  risk  it.  They

talked the subject over at some length; Aurelia was silent, only smiling now and

then;  and  a  few  days  after,  when  speaking  of  the  incident  again,  she  gave  our

friend,  not  obscurely,  to  understand  that  she  held  it  all  a  joke  of  Serlo’s.  She

desired him to cast away anxiety, and to expect the Ghost with patience.

Serlo,  for  most  part,  was  in  excellent  humor:  the  actors  that  were  going  to

leave him took all possible pains to play well, that their absence might be much

regretted;  and  this,  combined  with  the  new-fangled  zeal  of  the  others,  gave

promise of the best results.

His intercourse with Wilhelm had not failed to exert some influence on him.

He began to speak more about art: for, after all, he was a German; and Germans

like to give themselves account of what they do. Wilhelm wrote down many of

their conversations; which, as our narrative must not be so often interrupted here,

we  shall  communicate  to  such  of  our  readers  as  feel  an  interest  in  dramaturgic

matters, by some other opportunity.

In particular, one evening, the manager was very merry in speaking of the part

of  Polonius,  and  how  he  meant  to  take  it  up.  “I  engage,”  said  he,  “on  this

occasion, to present a very meritorious person in his best aspect. The repose and

security  of  this  old  gentleman,  his  emptiness  and  his  significance,  his  exterior

gracefulness  and  interior  meanness,  his  frankness  and  sycophancy,  his  sincere

roguery  and  deceitful  truth,  I  will  introduce  with  all  due  elegance  in  their  fit

proportions.  This  respectable,  gray-haired,  enduring,  time-serving  half-knave,  I

will represent in the most courtly style: the occasional roughness and coarseness

of our author’s strokes will further me here. I will speak like a book when I am

prepared beforehand, and like an ass when I utter the overflowings of my heart. I

will be insipid and absurd enough to chime in with every one, and acute enough

never to observe when people make a mock of me. I have seldom taken up a part

with so much zeal and roguishness.”

“Could  I  but  hope  as  much  from  mine!”  exclaimed  Aurelia.  “I  have  neither

youth nor softness enough to be at home in this character. One thing alone I am

too sure of, — the feeling that turns Ophelia’s brain, I shall not want.”

“We must not take the matter up so strictly,” said our friend. “For my share, I

am certain, that the wish to act the character of Hamlet has led me exceedingly

astray, throughout my study of the play. And now, the more I look into the part,

the more clearly do I see, that, in my whole form and physiognomy, there is not

---

one  feature  such  as  Shakspeare  meant  for  Hamlet.  When  I  consider  with  what

nicety the various circumstances are adapted to each other, I can scarcely hope to

produce even a tolerable effect.”

“You are entering on your new career with becoming conscientiousness,” said

Serlo. “The actor fits himself to his part as he can, and the part to him as it must.

But how has Shakspeare drawn his Hamlet? Is he so utterly unlike you?”

“In the first place,” answered Wilhelm, “he is fair-haired.”

“That I call far-fetched,” observed Aurelia. “How do you infer that?”

“As a Dane, as a Northman, he is fair-haired and blue-eyed by descent.”

“And you think Shakspeare had this in view?”

“I do not find it specially expressed; but, by comparison of passages, I think it

incontestable. The fencing tires him; the sweat is running from his brow; and the

Queen  remarks,  ‘He’s  fat,  and  scant  of  breath.’  Can  you  conceive  him  to  be

otherwise  than  plump  and  fair-haired?  Brown-complexioned  people,  in  their

youth,  are  seldom  plump.  And  does  not  his  wavering  melancholy,  his  soft

lamenting, his irresolute activity, accord with such a figure? From a dark-haired

young man, you would look for more decision and impetuosity.”

“You  are  spoiling  my  imagination,”  cried  Aurelia:  “away  with  your  fat

Hamlets!  Do  not  set  your  well-fed  prince  before  us!  Give  us  rather  any