The flower of love must open with a snap: the feelings, just like champagne, must break their closure by force. It was a gallant phrase, full of passion, and I was very pleased with it. And yet what I said was stated well, for I meant that love must open as a passion-flower does. This was the good part of the observation, because love usually opens in marriage, and if one is going to call this latter a flower, it may appropriately be called a passion-flower.
215 I 216 242 Either/Or, I '8But back to my youth. The day of the performance ar- rived. I had my ticket, I was in a festive mood, and with a cer- tain excitement I hurried, joyful and expectant, to the theater. Going through the door, I glanced up at the first balcony, and what did I see? My beloved, the mistress of my heart, my ideal—she was sitting there. Involuntarily I stepped back into the darkness of the parquet in order to watch her without being seen. How had she come here? She must have come to the city just today, and I did not know it, and now she was here in the theater. She would see the same play. This was no accident; it was a dispensation, a kindness on the part of the blind god of love. I stepped forward, our eyes met, she ac- knowledged me. Bowing to her or conversing with her was out of the question. In short, there was nothing that could em- barrass me. My infatuation had free play. We met each other halfway; like transfigured beings, we stretched out hands to each other; we floated like phantoms, like jinn in the world of fantasy. Her eyes rested soulfully on me, a sigh heaved her breast; it was for me; she belonged to me, that Iknew. And yet Thad no desire to rush up to her and throw myself at her feet; that would have been embarrassing to me, but at this distance I felt the beauty of loving her and of daring to hope that I was loved.
The overture was over. The chandelier was raised; my eyes followed its movement; for the last time it cast its light over the first balcony and over her. The theater was enveloped in a twilight that to me was even more beautiful, even more infa- tuating. The curtain was raised. Once again it seemed as if I were peering into a dream when I gazed upon her. I turned around; the play began. I wished to think only of her and of my love; everything that was said in honor of the first love I would apply to her and to my situation. There was perhaps no one in the whole theater who would understand the poet’s di- vine discourse as I would—and perhaps she. The thought of the powerful impression made me even stronger; I felt the courage to let my secret feelings burst forth the next day. They must not miscarry in their effect upon her; with a single hint I would remind her of what we had heard and seen this evening, The First Love 243 and in that way the poet would come to my aid and make her more receptive and me stronger and more eloquent than ever. —I looked and listened—and listened—and the curtain went down. The chandelier in turn forsook its heavenly hiding place, the twilight vanished; I looked up—all the young maid- ens looked so pleased, my beloved also. She had laughed so hard that there were tears in her eyes; her bosom still rose and fell in agitation; laughter had gained the upper hand. Fortu- nately, it was the same with me.
We saw each other the next day at my aunt’s. The shy awk- wardness we usually had when in the same room together had disappeared—replaced by a kind of genial delight. We laughed a little at each other; we had understood each other, and we were indebted to the poet for that. A poet is called a seer be- cause he foresees the future. The situation provided the occa- sion for an explanation. But we could not decide to wipe out everything that had gone before. We pledged ourselves with a solemn promise. Just as Emmeline and Charles promise each other to contemplate the moon, '? we promised to see this play every time it was performed. I have faithfully kept my prom- ise. I have seen it in Danish, in German, in French, abroad and here at home, and I have never grown weary of its inexhaus- tible wittiness, the truth of which no one understands better than I.
This became the first occasion for the present little review. By seeing it so often, I eventually became productive with re- spect to this play. For the time being, this productivity re- mained in my head, and only a single reflection was jotted down. This occasion can then be regarded as the occasion for the ideal possibility of this review.
Very likely I would have gone no further if a new occasion had not intervened. Some years ago, an editor of one of our journals approached me and asked me to provide him with a little article. He had an unusually persuasive eloquence in ‘in- veigling people, and he inveigled a promise from me. This promise, then, was also an occasion, but it was an occasion in general and therefore had only a slight enabling effect upon me. I found myself in the awkward situation like that in which 218 244 Either/Or, I a theological candidate would find himself ifhe were given the whole Bible from which to choose his own text. But I was committed by my promise. With many other thoughts, also the thought of my promise, I took a little excursion in Sjelland. When I arrived at the post house where I planned to spend the night, I did what I never fail to do—had the servant bring whatever books the innkeeper could assemble. I always observe this custom and have often benefited by it, because quite accidentally one comes upon things that otherwise might escape one’s attention. But that was not the case here, for the first book brought to me was—The First Love. This amazed me, since out in the country the Theater Repertoire is seldom found. But I had lost faith in the first love and believe no more in the first. In the next town, I visited one of my friends. He was out when I arrived; I was asked to wait and was shown into his study. Walking over to his desk, I found a book lying open—it was Scribe’s plays, opened to Les premiéres amours. Now the die seemed to be cast. I decided to fulfill my promise and write a review of this play. It so happened, strange to say, that my former love, my first love, who lived there in the re- gion, had come to town, not to the capital, but to the small town where I was—and that solidified my decision. I had not seen her for a long time and now found her engaged, cheerful and happy, so much so that it was a pleasure to see. She informed me that she had never loved me but that her fiancé was her first love, and then proceeded to tell the same story as Emmeline, that only the first love is the true love. If my deci- sion had not been firm before, it became so now. But I had to find out what first love means. My theory began to wobble, for ‘‘my first love’? was immovable on the point that her pres- ent love was the first.
There were motives enough; the piece was finished short of the final period and a few parenthetical clauses that had to be inserted here and there. My friend the editor promptly put pressure on me and held me to my promise with a stubborn- ness that would have done honor even to an Emmeline. I ex- plained to him that the piece was finished, that only some small details were lacking, and he expressed his satisfaction.
The First Love 245 But as time passed these molehills turned into mountains, into insurmountable difficulties. Moreover, as I wrote, I forgot that it was going to be printed. I had already written several little articles in this fashion but never had anything printed. He grew weary of my saying I was finished when he still could not receive the manuscript. I grew weary of his everlasting re- quests and wished that all promises would go to the devil. Then his journal ceased publication because of too few sub- scribers, and I thanked the gods; I felt at ease again, unembar- rassed by any promise.
This was the occasion for the birth of this review as at. °c- tuality for me, as a possibility for my friend the editor, a pos- sibility that later changed into an impossibility. Again a year went by, and during that time I became precisely one year older. There is nothing particularly remarkable about that, for it went with me as it presumably went with most other peo- ple. But sometimes one year can be more meaningful than an- other, can mean more than that one becomes a year older. That was the case here. At the end of that year, I found myself in a new period of my life, in anew world of illusion that falls only to the lot of young men. That is, if a person belongs to “‘the readers’ sect,” if he in one way or another distinguishes him- self as an alert and diligent reader, others begin to nurture the notion that a minor author might emerge, for as Hamann says: ‘aus Kindern werden Leute, aus Jungfern werden Braute, aus Lesern werden Schriftsteller [out of children come adults, out of virgins come brides, out of readers come writers].”?° Now a rose-tinted life begins, much like a girl’s early youth. Editors and publishers begin to pay court. It is a dangerous pe- riod, for the conversation of editors is very seductive, and soon one is in their power; but they deceive only us poor chil- dren, and then—well, then it is too late. Watch out, young man, and do not go too often to the cafés and restaurants, for that is where editors spin their webs. And when they see an in- nocent young man who talks straight from the shoulder,”! fast and loose, with no idea whether what he says is worth any- thing or not, but merely rejoices in letting his words freely flow forth, in hearing his heart pound as he speaks, pounding 219 246 Either/Or, I in what is said—then a dark figure approaches him, and this figure is an editor. He has a subtle ear; he can hear immediately whether what is being said will look good in print or not. Then he tempts the young fellow; he shows him how indefen- sible it is to cast his pearls away in this manner; he promises him money, power, influence, even with the fair sex. The heart is weak, the editor’s words beautiful, and soon he is trapped. Now he no longer seeks solitary places in order to yearn and sigh; he does not hurry eagerly to the happy haunts of youth to become intoxicated with talk; he is silent, for one who writes does not talk. He sits pallid and cold in his work- room; he does not change color at the kiss of the idea; he does not blush like a young rose when the dew sinks into its cup. He has no smiles, no tears; calmly he watches the pen glide across the paper, for he is an author and not young anymore. My youth also was exposed to trials of this kind. Yet I think I dare to testify of myself that my resistance has been bold. What helped me was that I had this experience at a very young age. The editor who received my first promise was very friendly to me, but still it always seemed to me as if it were a favor, an honor, befallen to my lot, that someone would ac- cept an article from my hand, as if people singled me out from among my peers and said: In time something may come of him; let him try his hand; it is an encouragement to him to be shown this honor. The temptation was not very great then, and yet I learned to know all the terrible consequences of a promise. For a young man, then, I was unusually armed against the temptation and dared to visit the cafés and restau- rants rather frequently. So the danger had to come from an- other quarter, and it did not fail to come. It happened that one of my cafe acquaintances decided to become an editor; his name will be found on the title page of that journal. No sooner had he conceived this idea and discussed the essentials with the publisher than he sat down at his desk one evening and wrote all night long—letters to all possible people about contribu- tions. I also received such a letter, drawn up in the most cour- teous phrases, full of the most brilliant prospects. I, however, bravely resisted but promised to be of service to him in every The First Love 247 way in minor editing of the articles submitted. He himself worked indefatigably on the first article, which was to inau- gurate the journal. He was practically finished with it and had the kindness to show it to me. We spent a very pleasant morn- ing; he seemed satisfied with my comments, made some changes here and there. The mood was wonderful; we ate fruit and candies and drank champagne. I was pleased with his ar- ticle; he seemed to approve of my comments—when, as I leaned over to take an apricot, my unlucky star made me tip the inkwell over the whole manuscript. My friend was fu- rious. ‘‘Everything is ruined. The first issue of my journal will not come out on time; my credit is gone; the subscribers will cancel. You have no idea how much work is involved in gain- ing subscribers, and once one has them they are disloyal and, like mercenary soldiers, take every chance to desert. Allis lost; the only way out is that you must provide an article. I know you have manuscripts ready; why will you not have them printed? You have your review of The First Love. Let me have it; ll complete it. I beg you, I implore you, for the sake of our friendship, my honor, the future of my journal.”
He accepted the article, and so my inkwell became the oc- casion for my little review’s becoming an actuality that now is—I say it with horror—publici juris [public property].
If the merit of modern comedy (especially Scribe’s), in re- lation to older comedy, were to be suggested briefly, it could perhaps be expressed as follows: the personal substance of the poetic character is commensurate with the dialogue; the effu- sions of the monologue are made superfluous; the substance and the dramatic action are commensurate with the situation; the novelistic details are made superfluous; and the dialogue fi- nally becomes audible in the transparency of the situation. No information is necessary in order to orient the spectator; no pause in the drama is required in order to give clues and ac- counts. So it is in life, where one always needs explanatory notes, but it ought not to be so in poetry. Then the spectator, free from care, can enjoy, can absorb undisturbed, the dra- matic life. Although modern drama seems to require less self- I 220 { 222 248 Either/Or, I activity on the part of the spectator, it perhaps nevertheless requires more in another way or, more correctly, does not require it but takes revenge on the forgetting of it. The less perfect the dramatic form or the structure of the drama, the more frequently the spectator is provoked out of his sleep, in- sofar as he is sleeping. When one is jolted on a poor country road whenever at one moment the carriage hits a stone and at another the horses are stuck in the brush, there is no good op- portunity to sleep. But if the road is level and easy, then one can really have time and opportunity to look around—but also, less disturbed, to fall asleep. So it is in modern drama. Everything happens so easily and quickly that the spectator, if he does not pay a little attention, misses a great deal. It is cer- tainly true that an older five-act comedy and a modern five-act comedy last just as long, but there is always the question whether just as much takes place.
To pursue this exploration further might be interesting, but not in this review; it could be important to demonstrate this in more detail in Scribe’s dramas, but I believe that the more pre- cise discussion of the little masterpiece that is the object of the present deliberation will be sufficient. I much prefer to dwell on the present play, since it cannot be denied that in some of Scribe’s other dramas there is a lack of perfect correctness since the situations drag and the dialogue is onesidedly garrulous. The First Love, however, is a flawless play, so consummate that it alone is bound to make Scribe immortal.
We shall first examine more closely the characters of this play in their singularity, in order to observe later how the poet has known how to let their individualities become disclosed in lines and situation, and this even though the whole play is only a sketch.
Derviére, a wealthy iron-founder and widower, has only one daughter, ‘‘a little miss of sixteen years.”’?* Certainly every reasonable claim of his to be regarded as a good, decent man who has much money must be respected, whereas every at- tempt to be a man, to be a father “‘who does not understand a joke,” must be regarded as unsuccessful. It is also thwarted by his daughter, without whose permission and approval he The First Love 249 The First Love 249 scarcely dares to regard himself as a rational being. ‘‘She twists him around her little finger,”’*4 and he shows an extraordinary talent for understanding a joke, since her capriciousness inces- santly plays blindman’s buff with his fatherly dignity.
His only daughter, Emmeline, is now sixteen years old. A lovely, engaging little miss, but a daughter of Derviére and brought up by Aunt Judith. The aunt has brought her up and educated her on novels,”5 and her father’s wealth has made it possible to keep this education undisturbed by the actuality of life. Everyone in the house obeys her whim, the instability of which can be seen, among other places, in the servant La- pierre’s monologue in the third scene.”° Because of Judith’s ed- ucation, she has lived in her father’s house without much ac- quaintance with the world and has not missed the opportunity to spin herself into a web of sentimentality. She has been brought up with her cousin Charles; he was her playmate, her everything, the requisite supplement to the aunt’s novels. She has gone through the reading with him, has transferred every- thing to him since he left her at a very early age. Their ways parted; now they live far from each other, united only by “‘a sacred vow.’’?
Novel-nurturing is something Charles shares with his cousin, but not her life situation. At a very early age, he is sent out into the world, has only 3,000 francs a year (see scene 6), and quickly finds himself obliged to make his education fruit- ful, if possible, in the world. His endeavors in this respect do not seem to have met with success; actuality soon reduces him and his theories in absurdum: the hopeful Charles becomes a de- bauched fellow, a black sheep, a failed genius. A character such as this has so much intrinsic dramatic effectiveness that it is in- conceivable that one sees it utilized so rarely. A dabbling play- wright, however, is easily tempted to interpret him quite ab- stractly: a black sheep in a general sense. This is not the case with Scribe, but then he is no dabbler, but a virtuoso. For such a character to have interest, one must continually have an in- timation of how it happened; that is, in a stricter sense than for other men, he has a pre-existence. One must catch a glimpse of this even in his failure and thus see the possibility of his de- 223 250 Either/Or, I pravity. But this is not as easily done as said, and one cannot sufficiently admire the virtuosity with which Scribe knows how to have it come out—not in tedious monologue but in sit- uation. On the whole, Charles is perhaps one of the most bril- liant characters Scribe has brought to the stage; every one of his lines is worth its weight in gold, and yet the poet has dashed him off in a hasty sketch. Charles is no abstraction, is not a new Charles, but one sees at once how it happened; one sees in him the consequences of the premises of his life.
The yield of being educated on novels can be twofold. The individual either becomes more and more immersed in illusion or comes out of it and loses faith in illusion but acquires faith in mystification. In illusion, the individual is hidden from himself; in mystification, he is hidden from others—but both conditions are the consequences of being brought up on ro- mantic novels. A girl is more likely to become immersed in il- lusion, and this is what the poet has had happen to Emmeline, and in this respect her life is fortunate. It is otherwise with Charles. He has lost his illusions, but although he has experi- enced the pinch of actuality in many ways, he still has not completely sweat out his education through novels. He be- lieves he is able to mystify. Therefore, when Emmeline speaks of sympathetic feelings that are beyond her father’s compre- hension,” one immediately hears the reader of novels, but in Charles’s lines one finds no less accurate reminders of his ed- ucation. He credits himself with extraordinary talent for mys- tifying, but this faith in mystification is just as romantic as Emmeline’s visionary infatuation. “After eight years of vaga- bonding, he comes back incognito; he is intelligent by nature and is well read and knows that there are five or six ways to move an uncle’s heart, but the main thing is to be unrecog- nized; that is a necessary condition.”?? One immediately hears the hero of a novel. That Charles should credit himself with sufficient competence to fool such a simpleton as his uncle is just as it should be, but this is not what Charles is thinking about; he is speaking of uncles in general, about five or six ways in general, and about the condition of being unrecog- nized in general. Thus his belief in mystification is just as fan- The First Love 251 ciful as Emmeline’s illusion, and one recognizes Judith’s schooling in both. In this respect, we gain a good idea of Charles’s extravagance from his being unable, despite all these wonderful theories, to hit upon the least thing and having to be advised by the anything but visionary Rinville.*° His belief in mystification is just as unproductive as Emmeline’s in illu- sion, and therefore the poet has had them both arrive at the same result—namely, the opposite of what they imagined they were working toward, for Emmeline’s sympathy and Charles’s mystification have just the opposite effect of what they believe they will have. This I shall develop later. Although Charles, at the cost of his illusions, has gained a belief in mystifying, he nevertheless has retained a trace of them, and this is the other thing by which one recognizes Ju- dith’s pupil and Emmeline’s playmate in the ill-fated Charles. Despite all the wretchedness and triviality of his life, he knows how to conceive of it in a romantic transfiguration. He con- templates his youth, when he went out into the world “‘as an extremely charming cavalier, a young man with the best of manners, full of fire and life and grace, exposed to vigorous pursuits by the opposite sex.’”>! In his eyes, even the affair with Pamela” has a romantic cast, although the spectator very cor- rectly suspects that Charles actually has been a laughing stock. It is easy to see why I regarded mystification as the predominant trait in Charles, for his illusion is actually an illusion about his talent for mystifying. Here again one sees the hero of a novel. There is an unparalleled truth in Charles. In compar- ison with ordinary folk, a black sheep like this has something distinguished about him; he is stirred by the idea; his mind is not unfamiliar with fantastic notions. Such a character, then, is quite properly comic, for his life is under the universal, is wretched, and yet he believes that he is accomplishing the ex- traordinary. He believes that the affair with Pamela is an ‘“‘ad- venture,” and yet one has the suspicion that it was she, instead, who has hoodwinked him; one is almost tempted to believe that he is more innocent than he himself believes, that Pame- la’s terrifying him “with tailor’s shears” was for reasons other 225 252 Either/Or, I than her violated love, indeed, that these reasons probably lay even outside his relation to her.
Ultimately we recognize in the black sheep the original Charles on the basis of low-comedy emotions, a softness that believes in great feelings and is moved by them. When he hears that the uncle has paid the bank note, he cries out: Yes, the bonds of blood and nature are sacred.**? He is really moved, his romantic heart is touched; he gives vent to his feelings, he becomes emotional. “‘Of course, I thought as much; either one has an uncle or one does not.”> There is not a trace of irony in him; it is the sweetest sentimentality, but this is why the play has such a comic effect. When the cousin begs her father to for- give the supposed Charles, he cries out agitatedly, with tears in his eyes: O good cousin!* He has not lost all his belief that in life, as in novels, there are noble feminine souls whose sub- lime resignation can only wring forth one’s tears. Now this belief awakens with its former infatuation.
I have deliberately dwelt on Charles a little longer, because the author has penned such a perfect character that I believe I could write a whole book about him merely by concentrating on his lines. Is Emmeline perhaps regarded as the sentimental one and Charles, on the other hand, the worldly-wise? By no means. Scribe’s infinite wit consists precisely in this, that Charles in his own way is just as sentimental as Emmeline, so that both of them with equal force show themselves to be pu- pils of Aunt Judith.
The old Derviére, his daughter, and Charles together now form an utterly fantastic world, even though in another sense they are all characters taken from life. This world has to be brought into relation with actuality, and this happens through * If the reader is very familiar with the play, he will have had the chance to delight in the poetic coincidence that has Rinville, in the first scene where Rin- ville portrays Charles, reproduce him with such poetic authenticity that his speech becomes a kind of ventriloquism with an extremely comic effect, be- cause it is as if the sentiment-befuddled, emotionally moved Charles were seen and heard declaiming these words: “Is the voice of blood only a figment of the imagination, then? Does it not speak to your heart? Is it not saying to you, my precious uncle...” (see scene 6).*4 The First Love 253 The First Love 253 Mr. Rinville. Rinville is a cultured young man who has trav- eled abroad. He is at the age when it might seem appropriate for him to take, through marriage, a step decisive for his whole life. He has pondered the matter privately and fixed his eyes on Emmeline. He knows the world too well to be vision- ary; his marriage is a well-considered step that he resolves to take for several reasons.*” First, the girl is rich and has the pros- pect of 50,000 francs a year in interest;** second, the girl’s fa- ther and his father are on friendly terms; third, he has jestingly said that he would conquer this coy beauty; fourth, she really is a charming girl. This reason comes last; it is a footnote added later.
We have considered the individual characters in the play and now proceed to investigate how they must be placed in rela- tion to one another in order to acquire dramatic interest. Here there will be good opportunity to admire Scribe. The play must be built on Emmeline; of that there can be no doubt. Emmeline is altogether in the habit of controlling, and thus it is appropriate that she is also the dominant character in the play. She has all possible qualities for becoming a heroine, not substantially, however, but negatively. She is, then, comic, and because of her the play is a comedy. She is in the habit of controlling, as befits a heroine, but that which she controls is a fool of a father, the staff of servants, etc. She has pathos, but since its content is nonsense, her pathos is essentially chat- ter; she has passion, but since its content is a phantom, her pas- sion is essentially madness; she has enthusiasm, but since its content is nothing, her enthusiasm is essentially frivolity; she wants to sacrifice everything for her passion—that is, she wants to sacrifice everything for nothing. As a comic heroine, she is unparalleled. With her, everything revolves around a fantasy, and everything outside her revolves in turn around her and thereby around her fantasy. It is easy to see how thor- oughly comic the whole action must become; watching it is tantamount to gazing into an abyss of the ridiculous.
Emmeline’s fantasy is no more and no less than that she loves her cousin Charles, whom she has not seen since she was eight years old. The main argument with which she tries to 226 227 254 Either/Or, I uphold her illusion is the following: the first love is the true love, and one loves only once.
As an advocate of the absolute validity of the first love, Emmeline represents a large class of people. That it is possible to love more than once is admitted, of course, but the first love is nevertheless essentially different from every other. This can be explained in no other way than by assuming that there is a compassionate daimon who has given humankind a little gilt with which to decorate life. For the thesis that the first love is the true love is very convenient and can be of service to people in many ways. If one is not so fortunate as to obtain what one wishes, there is still the sweetness of the first love. If one is so unfortunate as to love several times, each time is nevertheless the first time. In other words, the thesis is a sophistical thesis. If one loves for a third time, one says: My present love is, nevertheless, my first true love, but the true love is the first— ergo this third love is my first. The sophistry consists in this, that the category the first is supposed to be a qualitative and a numerical category simultaneously. When a widower and a widow combine forces and each brings along five children, they nevertheless assure each other on the wedding day that this love is their first love. In her romantic orthodoxy, Emme- line would look upon such a union with detestation; to her it would be a perfidious detestableness as abominable as a mar- riage between a monk and a nun was to the Middle Ages. She