I am no friend of figures of speech; modern literature has made them very distasteful to me. It has gone almost so far that whenever I encounter a figure of speech, an involuntary fear comes over me that its true objective is to conceal an ob- scurity in the thought. Therefore I shall not risk an injudicious or futile attempt to translate the overture’s brisk and pithy brevity into a prolix and empty figurative language. I wish to emphasize only one point in the overture, and to draw the reader’s attention to it; I shall use a figure of speech—the only means I have to establish a connection with him.
The Immediate Erotic Stages 129 This point, of course, is none other than Don Giovanni's in- itial emergence, the presentiment of him and of the power with which he later breaks through. The overture begins with a few deep, earnest, even notes; then for the first time we hear infinitely far away an intimation that is nevertheless instantly recalled, as if it were premature, until later we hear again and again, bolder and bolder, more and more clamorous, that voice which at first subtly, demurely, and yet seemingly in anxiety, slipped in but could not press through. So it is in na- ture that one sometimes sees the horizon dark and clouded; too heavy to support itself, it rests upon the earth and hides every- thing in its obscure night; a few hollow sounds are heard, not yet in motion but like a deep mumbling to itself. Then in the most distant heavens, far off on the horizon, one sees a flash; it speeds away swiftly along the earth, is gone in an instant. But soon it appears again; it gathers strength; it momentarily illu- minates the entire heaven with its flame. The next second, the horizon seems even darker, but it flares up more swiftly, even more brilliantly; it seems as if the darkness itself has lost its composure and is starting to move. Just as the eye in this first flash has a presentiment of a great fire, so the ear has a presen- timent of the total passion in that dwindling stroke of the vi- olin bow. There is an anxiety in that flash; it is as if in that deep darkness it were born in anxiety—just so is Don Giovanni’s life. There is an anxiety in him, but this anxiety is his energy. In him, it is not a subjectively reflected anxiety; it is a substantial! anxiety. In the overture there is not what is com- monly called—without knowing what one is saying—despair. Don Giovanni’s life is not despair; it is, however, the full force of the sensuous, which is born in anxiety; and Don Giovanni himself is this anxiety, but this anxiety is precisely the de- monic zest for life. After Mozart has had Don Giovanni come into existence this way, his life now develops for us in the dancing strains of the violin, in which he lightly, fleetingly speeds on over the abyss. When one throws a pebble in such a way that it skims the surface of the water, it can for a time skip over the water in light hops, but it sinks down to the bottom 108 109 130 Either/Or, I as soon as it stops skipping; in the same way he dances over the abyss, jubilating during his brief span.
But if, as has been observed above, the overture can be re- garded as a running start to the opera, if in the overture one descends from that higher atmosphere, then the question is: at what point is it best for one to land in the opera, or how is the begining of the opera achieved? Here Mozart saw the only right thing to do: to begin with Leporello. It might seem that this is not so very meritorious, the more so because almost all the versions of Don Juan begin with a monologue by Sgana- relle. But there is a vast difference, and here again one has oc- casion to admire Mozart’s mastery. He has placed the first ser- vant-aria'®> in immediate connection with the overture.!™ Leporello’s first aria is quite rightly reckoned as belonging to the overture. Leporello’s aria corresponds to the not uncele- brated monologue by Sganarelle in Moliére. We shall look more closely at the situation. Sganarelle’s monologue is far from unwitty, and when it is read in Prof. Heiberg’s light and flowing verse it is very diverting, but the situation itself is de- fective. I say this more especially with regard to Moliére, for in Heiberg it is another matter, and I say it not to censure Mo- liére but to show Mozart’s merit. A monologue is always more or less a break with the dramatic, and when the poet tries to produce an effect by the wittiness of the monologue rather than by its character, he has broken the rod on himself and has relinquished the dramatic interest. Not so in opera. Here the situation is absolutely musical. I have already pointed out the difference between a dramatic and a musical-dramatic situa- tion. In drama, chatter is not tolerated; action and situation are demanded. In opera there is repose in the situation. But then what makes this situation into a musical situation? It was em- phasized earlier that Leporello is a musical character, and yet it is not he who carries the situation. If that were so, his aria would be analogous to Sganarelle’s monologue, even though it would be just as certain that a quasi-situation like that is more suitable in opera than in drama. That which makes the situation musical is Don Giovanni, who is within. The center is not in Leporello, who approaches, but in Don Giovanni, The Immediate Erotic Stages 131 whom we do not see—but whom we hear. Now, someone could very well object: But we do not hear Don Giovanni. To that I would answer: Indeed, we do, for he resonates in Lepo- rello. For that purpose, I call attention to the transition (vuol star dentro colla bella [you stay inside with the pretty lady]),!% in which Leporello is obviously reproducing Don Giovanni. But even if this were not the case, the situation nevertheless is so designed that one involuntarily gets Don Giovanni, too, that one forgets Leporello, who is standing outside, because of Don Giovanni, who is inside. On the whole, with real genius, Mozart has had Leporello reproduce Don Giovanni and thereby has achieved two things: the musical effect that when- ever Leporello is alone one hears Don Giovanni, and the pa- rodical effect that when Don Giovanni is present we hear Le- porello repeat him and thereby unconsciously parody him. I cite the end of the dance as an example of this.
If one asks which part in the opera is the most epic, the an- swer is easy and indubitable: it is Leporello’s second aria, the list.!0° In a comparison of this aria with the corresponding monologue in Moliére’s version, it was pointed out earlier what absolute importance the music has, that precisely by let- ting us hear Don Giovanni, hear the variations in him, the mu- sic produces the effect that words or lines are unable to pro- duce. Here it is of importance to emphasize the situation and the musical in it. Now, if we look around the stage, we see the scenic ensemble consisting of Leporello, Elvira, and the faith- ful servant. The faithless lover, however, is not there; he is, as Leporello pointedly puts it, “Yes, he is gone.”!°” This is a vir- tuosity that Don Giovanni has: he is—and then he is gone— and he remains just as opportunely (for himself, that is) gone as a Jeronimus!® arrives opportunely. Since it is now obvious that he is gone, it might seem strange that I mention him and in a way bring him into the situation. On closer scrutiny, one perhaps will find it entirely appropriate and here see an exam- ple of how literally it must be understood that Don Giovanni is everywhere present in the opera, for this can hardly be more strongly expressed than by pointing out that even when he is 110 111 132 Either/Or, I gone he is present. Now, however, we shall let him be gone, since later we shall see in what sense he is present.
We shall, however, consider the three characters on the stage. The presence of Elvira is naturally instrumental in bringing about a situation; for it would not do to have Lepo- rello unroll the list for his own pastime, but her position is in- strumental in making the situation embarrassing. On the whole, it cannot be denied that sometimes the ridicule made of Elvira’s love is almost cruel. For example, in the second act, at the crucial moment when Ottavio finally has gathered courage in his heart and taken the rapier out of its sheath to murder Don Giovanni, she hurls herself between them and then dis- covers that it is not Don Giovanni but Leporello—a differen- tiation that Mozart has so powerfully expressed with a kind of plaintive bleat. In the situation at hand, there is likewise some- thing painful in her having to be present in order to know that in Spain there are 1,003, and indeed, worse yet, in the German version she is told that she herself is one of them.’ This is a German improvement that is just as foolishly improper as the German translation is ludicrously proper and utterly unsuc- cessful in a no less foolish way. It is for Elvira that Leporello makes an epic survey of his master’s life, and it cannot be de- nied that it is quite in order for Leporello to recite and Elvira to listen, because both of them are exceedingly interested in it.
Therefore, just as we continually hear Don Giovanni in the whole aria, in certain places we hear Elvira, who is visibly present onstage as a witness instar omnium [worth them all], not because of any accidental privilege on her part but because, since the method essentially remains the same, what pertains to one pertains to all. If Leporello were a character or a person- ality permeated by reflection, it would be difficult to imagine such a monologue; but precisely because he is a musical figure who is absorbed in Don Giovanni, this aria has such great sig- nificance. It is a reproduction of Don Giovanni's e1itire lfe. Leporello is the epic narrator. Such a person certainly ought not to be cold or indifferent to what he is telling, but neverthe- less he ought to preserve an objective attitude toward it. This The Immediate Erotic Stages 133 is not the case with Leporello. He is completely carried away by the life he is describing; he loses himself in Don Giovanni. So here I have another example of what it means to say that Don Giovanni resonates everywhere. Hence, the situation is not in Leporello and Elvira’s conversation about Don Gio- vanni but in the mood that carries the whole, in Don Gio- vanni’s invisible spiritual presence. To develop in greater de- tail the transition in this aria, how in the beginning it is quiet and less stirring but becomes more and more intense as Don Giovanni’s life resonates in it more and more, how Leporello is more and more swept away by it, wafted away and rocked by these erotic breezes, how it is variously nuanced accord- ingly as the diversity of femininity that lies within Don Gio- vanni’s range becomes audible in it—this is not the place for that.
If one asks which part in the opera is the most lyrical, the answer is perhaps more doubtful, but it can scarcely be open to doubt that the most lyrical part can be accorded only to Don Giovanni, that it would be a violation of the dramatic subor- dination if a subsidiary character were permitted to occupy our attention in that way. Mozart has complied here, too. This narrows the choice considerably, and on closer scrutiny the contenders can be only the banquet,!!° the first part of the grand finale, or the familiar champagne aria.'!' As for the ban- quet scene, up to a point it may certainly be regarded as a lyr- ical part, and the exhilarating refreshment of the meal, the ef- fervescing wine, the distant festive strains of the music, all unite to heighten Don Giovanni’s mood, just as his own con- viviality casts an augmented light over the whole enjoyment, the effect of which is so powerful that even Leporello is trans- figured in this luxuriant moment, which is joy’s last smile, pleasure’s farewell greeting.'!? But still it is more a situation than a purely lyrical part. This, of course, is not due to the eat- ing and drinking onstage, for this in itself, regarded as a situ- ation, is very inadequate. The situation consists in Don Gio- vanni’s being forced out to life’s most extreme point. Pursued by the whole world, this triumphant Don Giovanni now has 112 134 Either/Or, I no other place of residence than a little out-of-the-way room. It is at this most extreme tip on life’s springboard that he once again, for want of hearty companions, stirs up all the zest for life in his own breast. If Don Giovanni were a drama, then this internal restlessness in the situation would require that it be as brief as possible. But it is proper in the opera for the situation to be sustained, to be aggrandized with all possible luxuriance, which only sounds the wilder because for the listeners it reso- nates in the abyss over which Don Giovanni hovers.
The champagne aria is different. In my opinion, it would be futile to seek a dramatic situation here, but it is all the more significant as a lyrical outpouring. Don Juan is tired of the many crisscrossing intrigues, but he is by no means fagged out. His soul is just as vigorous as ever; he does not need merry company, does not need to see and hear the effervescing of the wine or to reinvigorate himself with it; his inner vitality breaks forth in him stronger and richer than ever. He is still inter- preted ideally by Mozart as life, as power, but ideally in the face of an actuality; here he is ideally intoxicated, so to speak, with himself. If all the girls in the world encircled him at this moment, he would not be dangerous to them, for he is, as it were, too strong to want to infatuate them; even the most multifarious pleasures of actuality are too little for him com- pared with what he enjoys in himself.
What it means to say—that Don Giovanni's essential nature is music—is clearly apparent here. He dissolves, as it were, in music for us; he unfurls in a world of sounds. This aria has been called the champagne aria, and undoubtedly this is very suggestive. But what we must see especially is that it does not stand in an accidental relation to Don Giovanni. Such is his life, effervescing like champagne. And just as the beads in this wine, as it simmers with an internal heat, sonorous with its own melody, rise and continue to rise, just so the lust for en- joyment resonates in the elemental boiling that is his life. Therefore, the dramatic significance of this aria comes not from the situation but from this, that here the opera’s domi- nant tone sounds and resonates in itself.
The Immediate Erotic Stages 135 INSIGNIFICANT POSTLUDE If what has been developed here is correct, then I return to my favorite theme—that Mozart’s Don Giovanni ought to rank highest among all the classic works. Then I shall once again re- joice over Mozart’s fortune [Lykke], a fortune that is truly en- viable, both in and by itself and because it makes happy [lyk- kelig] all those with only a moderate comprehension of his fortune. I at least feel myself to be indescribably happy in hav- ing understood Mozart even remotely and having an intima- tion of his fortune. How much more, then, those who have understood him perfectly, how much more must they feel happy with the fortunate one.!'3 113 THE TRAGIC IN ANCIENT DRAMA REFLECTED IN THE TRAGIC IN MODERN DRAMA A VENTURE IN FRAGMENTARY ENDEAVOR Delivered before the ZTUUMAQCAVEXOWLEVOL [Fellowship of the Dead]' If someone were to say: The tragic, after all, is always the tragic, I would not have very much to urge to the contrary, inasmuch as every historical development always lies within the sphere of the concept. On the assumption that his words have meaning and that the twice-repeated word “‘tragic’’ is not intended to form meaningless parentheses around an empty nothing, then his meaning might very well be that the content of the concept did not dethrone the concept but enriched it. On the other hand, it can scarcely have escaped the attention of any observer that there is an essential difference between the tragic, ancient and modern—something that the reading and theater-going public already considers its legal possession as its dividend from the enterprises of the experts in the art. But if, in turn, someone were to affirm the distinction absolutely and, on the basis of it, at first slyly and later perhaps forcibly press this distinction between the tragic in ancient and in mod- ern drama, his behavior would be no less unreasonable than the first person’s, since he would [forget] that the foothold so indispensable to him was the tragic itself. This in turn would be so far from distinguishing between the tragic ancient and modern that, contrariwise, it would combine them. Indeed, it must be as a warning against every such one-sided effort to separate that estheticians? always return to the definitions of and requirements for the tragic established by Aristotle? as ex- hausting the concept. It must be as a warning, and all the more so since everyone must be gripped by a certain sadness because no matter how much the world has changed, the idea of the tragic is still essentially unchanged, just as weeping still con- tinues to be equally natural to humankind.
As reassuring as this might seem to one who does not want any separation, least of all any break, the same difficulty that has just been dismissed appears in another and almost more dangerous form. That there is still a continual return to Aris- 117 118 I 119 140 Either/Or, I totelian esthetics, not simply because of dutiful deference or old habit, will surely be admitted by anyone who has any ac- quaintance with modern esthetics* and by this is convinced of the scrupulous attachment to the salient points that were ad- vanced by Aristotle’ and that are still continually in force in modern esthetics. But as soon as one examines them a little more closely, the difficulty appears at once. The definitions are of a very general kind, and one can very well agree with Aris- totle in a way and yet in another sense disagree with him.
In order not to enter prematurely into the content of the fol- lowing exposition by mentioning examples here, I prefer to il- lustrate my opinion by making a parallel observation with re- gard to comedy. If an ancient esthetician had said that the presuppositions of comedy are character and situation and that its aim is to arouse laughter, then one could very well return to this again and again, but as soon as one pondered how dif- ferent the causes of laughter are, one would soon be convinced of what an enormous range this requirement has. Anyone who has ever made the laughter of others and his own the object of observation, who has had in mind, as in this project, not so much the accidental as the universal, who has perceived with psychological interest how different the occasion of laughter is at every age—that person will readily be convinced that the unchangeable requirement for comedy, that it must arouse laughter, in itself implies a high degree of changeableness in re- lation to the ideas of the laughable in the varying world con- sciousness, yet without this difference being so diffuse that the corresponding expression in the somatic functions would be that laughter would manifest itself in weeping. It is the same with respect to the tragic.
That which, generally speaking, should be the content of this little exploration will not be so much the relation between the tragic in ancient and in modern drama as it will be an at- tempt to show how the characteristic feature of the tragic in ancient drama is incorporated in the tragic in modern drama in such a way that what is truly tragic will become apparent. But however much I shall try to make it apparent, I shall abstain from any prophecy that this is what the times demand; there- The Tragic in Ancient Drama 141 fore its becoming apparent will be devoid of consequence, and all the more so since the whole age is working more toward the comic. To a degree, existence [ Tilverelse] is undermined by the subjects’ doubt; ‘isolation continually gains the upper hand more and more, something that can best be ascertained by paying attention to the multifarious social endeavors. That they seek to counteract the isolating efforts of the age is just as much a demonstration of the isolation as is the unreasonable way they seek to counteract it. Isolation always consists in as- serting oneself as number; when one wants to assert oneself as one, this is isolation; all the friends of associations will surely agree with me on that, without therefore being able or willing to see that it is altogether the same isolation when a hundred assert themselves simply and solely as a hundred. Number is always indifferent to itself, and it makes absolutely no differ- ence whether it is 1 or 1,000, or all the inhabitants of the world defined merely numerically. In principle, then, this associa- tion-mentality is just as revolutionary as the mentality it wants to counteract. When David really wanted to feel his power and glory, he had his people counted;’ in our age, however, it may be said that the people, in order to feel their significance over against a superior power, count themselves. But all these as- sociations bear the stamp of arbitrariness and most often are formed for some accidental purpose, whose lord and master, of course, is the association.
These numerous associations, therefore, demonstrate the disintegration of the age and themselves contribute to speed- ing it up; they are the infusiora in the organism of the state that indicate that it has disintegrated. When was it that the hetairias® became common in Greece except at the time when the state was in the process of disintegration? And does not our age have a striking likeness to that age, which not even Aris- tophanes could make more ludicrous than it actually was? Has not the bond that in the political sense held the states together, invisibly and spiritually, dissolved; has not the power in reli- gion that insisted upon the invisible been weakened and de- stroyed; do not our statesmen and clergymen have this in 120 142 Either/Or, I common, that they, like the augurs of old, cannot look at one another without smiling??
A feature in which our age certainly excels that age in Greece is that our age is more depressed and therefore deeper in de- spair. Thus, our age is sufficiently depressed to know that there is something called responsibility and that this means something. Therefore, although everyone wants to rule, no one wants to have responsibility. It is still fresh in our memory that a French statesman, when offered a portfolio the second time, declared that he would accept it but on the condition that the secretary of state be made responsible.’ It is well known that the king in France is not responsible, but the prime min- ister is; the prime minister does not wish to be responsible but wants to be prime minister provided that the secretary of state will be responsible; ultimately it ends, of course, with the watchmen or street commissioners becoming responsible. Would not this inverted story of responsibility be an appropri- ate subject for Aristophanes! On the other hand, why are the government and the governors so afraid of assuming respon- sibility, unless it is because they fear an opposition party that in turn continually pushes away responsibility on a similar scale. When one imagines these two powers face to face with each other but unable to catch hold of each other because the one is always disappearing and is replaced by the other, the one merely appearing in the role of the other—such a situation would certainly not be without comic power.
This indeed shows adequately that what really holds the state together has disintegrated, but the isolation resulting from this is naturally comic, and the comic consists in subjec- tivity’s wanting to assert itself as pure form. Every isolated person always becomes comic by wanting to assert his acci- dentality over against the necessity of the process. No doubt it would be profoundly comic to have an accidental individual hit upon the universal idea of wanting to be the world’s liber- ator. Christ’s appearance, however, is in a certain sense the most profound tragedy (in another sense it is infinitely much more), because Christ came in the fullness of time and bore the The Tragic in Ancient Drama 143 sin of the whole world—something that I shall particularly stress in connection with what follows.
It is generally known that Aristotle gives two sources for ac- tion in tragedy, Stévoia xat 480g [thought and character]," but he also notes that the primary factor is the té\og [end, pur- pose] and the individuals do not act in order to present char- acters; rather these are included for the sake of action. Here it is easy to perceive a difference from modern tragedy.!? What specifically characterizes ancient tragedy is that the action does not proceed only from character, that the action is not subjec- tively reflected enough, but that the action itself has a relative admixture of suffering. Ancient tragedy, therefore, did not develop dialogue to the point of exhaustive reflection with everything merged in it; the distinct components of dialogue are actually present in the monologue and chorus. Whether the chorus comes closer to epic substantiality or to the lyrical élan, it nevertheless seems to provide ‘‘the more,” so to speak, that will not merge in the individuality; the monologue, in turn, has a more lyrical concentration and has ‘‘the more” that will not merge in action and situation. In ancient tragedy, the ac- tion itself has an epic element; it is just as much event as action. This, of course, is because the ancient world did not have sub- jectivity reflected in itself.! Even if the individual moved freely, he nevertheless rested in substantial determinants, in the state, the family, in fate. This substantial determinant is the essential fateful factor in Greek tragedy and is its essential char- acteristic. The hero’s downfall, therefore, is not a result solely of his action but is also a suffering, whereas in modern tragedy the hero’s downfall is not really suffering but is a deed. Thus, in the modern period situation and character are in fact pre- dominant. The tragic hero is subjectively reflected in himself, and this reflection has not only reflected him out of every im- mediate relation to state, kindred, and fate but often has even reflected him out of his own past life. What concerns us is a certain specific element of his life as his own deed. For this rea- son, the tragic can be exhausted in situation and lines because no immediacy is left at all. Therefore, modern tragedy has no 121 122 144 Either/Or, I epic foreground, no epic remainder. The hero stands and falls entirely on his own deeds.
What is here briefly but sufficiently developed will have its importance in explaining a difference between ancient and modern tragedy that I regard as very important—the different nature of tragic guilt. It is well known that Aristotle insists that the tragic hero have é&yagtia [error].'* But just as the action in Greek tragedy is something intermediate between action and the suffering, so also is guilt, and therein lies the tragic colli- sion. But the more the subjectivity is reflective, the more Pelagianly'> one sees the individual thrown solely upon him- self, the more ethical guilt becomes. Between these two ex- tremes lies the tragic. If the individual has no guilt whatever, the tragic interest is annulled, for in that case the tragic colli- sion is enervated. On the other hand, if he has absolute guilt, he no longer interests us tragically. It is, therefore, surely a misunderstanding of the tragic when our age endeavors to have everything fateful transubstantiate itself into individual- ity and subjectivity. We want to know nothing about the hero’s past; we load his whole life upon his shoulders as his own deed, make him accountable for everything, but in so doing we also transform his esthetic guilt into ethical guilt. In this way, the tragic hero becomes bad, evil actually becomes the tragic subject, but evil has no esthetic interest, and sin is not an esthetic element.