Political Change and Human Emancipation in the Works of Heinrich von Kleist

Political Change and Human Emancipation in the Works of Heinrich von Kleist

The German writer Heinrich von Kleist (1777–1811) was an unconventional and often controversial figure in his own day, and has remained so. His ideas on art, politics, and gender relations continue to challenge modern readers, and his complex and radically open texts remain the object of vigorous scholarly debate. Kleist has often been portrayed as a “poet without a society,” whose writing served as escape from the realities of his social environment. This new study challenges such a view by situating Kleist in relation to the central political and philosophical debates of his momentous age. Elystan Griffiths first establishes the German — and Prussian — context of Kleist’s day, and then provides a short introduction to Kleist’s life, here seen in particular relation to the political world. Developing his argument in relation to Kleist’s literary work and essays in a series of close readings, Griffiths shows how Kleist’s writings responded to four pressing political issues: the relationship of national culture and the state; education and social reform; the theory and practice of war; and administration and the delivery of justice. Griffiths sheds fresh light on Kleist’s writing by placing emphasis on its intricacy and rich ambiguity, which are often simplified or overlooked in political studies of Kleist. Thus Griffiths furthers the critical understanding of Kleist’s political thinking by uncovering crucial tensions between a pragmatic readiness for compromise and a utopian longing for freedom and truth. Elystan Griffiths is a Research Fellow in the Department of German Studies at the University of Birmingham.

Studies in German Literature, Linguistics, and Culture Edited by James Hardin (South Carolina)

Political Change and Human Emancipation in the Works of Heinrich von Kleist

Elystan Griffiths

CAMDEN HOUSE

Copyright © 2005 Elystan Griffiths All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2005 by Camden House Camden House is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.camden-house.com and of Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN: 1–57113–292–9 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Griffiths, Elystan, 1974– Political change and human emancipation in the works of Heinrich von Kleist / Elystan Griffiths. p. cm. — (Studies in German literature, linguistics, and culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–57113–292–9 (hardcover: alk. paper) 1. Kleist, Heinrich von, 1777–1811 — Political and social views. 2. Kleist, Heinrich von, 1777–1811 — Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. II. Series: Studies in German literature, linguistics, and culture (Unnumbered) PT2379.Z5G744 838'.609—dc22 2004017490 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

For S. B.

Contents Acknowledgments

ix

A Note on Translations and Publication Dates

xi

Abbreviations

xii

Introduction

1

1:

Prussia and Germany in Kleist’s Day

3

2:

Kleist and the Political World

27

3:

The Nation, the State, and the Subject

48

4:

Education and Social Change

74

5:

The Theory and Practice of War

99

6:

Administration and Justice

124

Conclusion

158

Works Cited

163

Index

181

Acknowledgments

I

AM GRATEFUL to the University of Birmingham, the British Academy and the University of Freiburg, whose financial support enabled me to undertake much of the research for this book. Support for publication costs was generously provided by the University of Birmingham, the Conference of University Teachers of German in Great Britain and Ireland, and the editors of German Life and Letters. I owe a great debt of gratitude to all those who have offered assistance and advice. Professor Michael Perraudin was instrumental in the development of this project and gave detailed and constructive comments on its many drafts. Dr. David Hill and Dr. Seán Allan made helpful comments on earlier drafts of the manuscript and raised many pertinent questions. As readers for Camden House, Professor Jeffrey Sammons and a second, anonymous scholar made important suggestions for improvements and alerted me to opportunities for further work. Of course, I am entirely responsible for any remaining shortcomings. It has been a great pleasure to work with Jim Hardin and Jim Walker at Camden House. I am also grateful to Christine Menendez for her meticulous editorial work. Finally, I would like to thank all those who have supported me throughout the writing of this book, and especially my parents. Diolch o galon! E. G. Birmingham, May 2004

A Note on Translations and Publication Dates

F

of those who do not understand German, I have provided translations of all quotations. In some cases I have consulted published translations as a starting point, but altered them in order to remain as close to the German original as possible. I would like to acknowledge the following works: OR THE BENEFIT

Heinrich von Kleist, Selected Writings, ed. and trans. David Constantine (London: Dent, 1997). Philip B. Miller, ed. and trans., An Abyss Deep Enough: Letters of Heinrich von Kleist with a Selection of Essays and Anecdotes (New York: Dutton, 1982). F. J. Lamport, trans., Five German Tragedies (Middlesex: Penguin, 1969) (On Penthesilea).

The first of these is strongly recommended on account of the translator’s efforts to preserve distinctive features of Kleist’s style in his English rendering. Translations of shorter quotations appear in brackets immediately after the German text, while longer passages are set off from the main text. I have translated the titles of foreign-language works when they occur for the first time in the text and provided the date of first publication. Where the history of publication is not straightforward, I have provided a brief explanation in a note. For more detailed information, the reader is advised to consult the notes in the Deutscher Klassiker Verlag edition of Kleist’s works.

Abbreviations The following abbreviations are used throughout the book: SWB

Heinrich von Kleist, Sämtliche Werke und Briefe, ed. Ilse-Marie Barth et al., 4 vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1987–1997). This work is cited in parentheses, using the abbreviation SWB, followed by volume number and page number in Arabic numbers. In the case of the plays, I have given line numbers in order to assist those who may be using other editions.

HSW

Bernhard Suphan, ed., Herders Sämmtliche Werke, 33 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1877–1913). This work is cited parenthetically, using the abbreviation HSW, followed by volume and page number in Arabic numerals.

BzKF

Beiträge zur Kleist-Forschung

DVjs

Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte

GLL

German Life and Letters

JbDSg

Jahrbuch der Deutschen Schillergesellschaft

KJb

Kleist-Jahrbuch

Monatshefte

Monatshefte für deutschen Unterricht, deutsche Sprache und Literatur

OGS

Oxford German Studies

WB

Weimarer Beiträge

Introduction

A

LMOST ALL OF HEINRICH VON KLEIST’S writings, whether literary or journalistic, have some sort of political framework, and many of them have some relevance to questions that were at the heart of current debate in Germany at that time. This book offers an interpretation of his work against the shifting political context of his age. It aims to add to the understanding of Kleist and his age by considering what was distinctive about his contributions to ongoing political debates, and by suggesting what Kleist’s interventions teach us about the historical epoch in which he lived. The book is organized into six chapters. The first of these offers an introduction to the leading political questions of Kleist’s age. It examines the political structures of the enlightened absolutist government of Kleist’s native Prussia and traces some of the most important public debates within Germany on the practice of absolutism. It then considers how the political organization of the German states came to be challenged by events in France, and how some of Prussia’s leading statesmen and intellectuals responded to the difficult problems raised by the French Revolution and the rise of Napoleon. The second chapter offers readers an introduction to Kleist’s biography and focuses on the diverse ways in which Kleist’s life bore the impressions of the high political changes happening around him. It shows not only how the political climate of the age affected Kleist’s life, but also suggests how his life can be interpreted as the product of the interaction of events, public debates, and the intellectual engagement of a creative mind. The second chapter also considers how Kleist’s treatment of political questions has been approached in existing criticism. The chapter offers a methodological basis for the study and argues for a focus on what is most distinctive about Kleist’s approach as a writer to political questions. Subsequent chapters demonstrate how Kleist responds to the shifting concepts of nation and state in his literary work. The thematic foci of these chapters is determined by my understanding of Kleist’s main political concerns. For this reason, some chapters deal with familiar topics in Kleist scholarship, such as military and legal questions, while others explore less traditional areas, such as Kleist’s reflections on education and social change, and on the relationship between culture, nationhood, and the state. A set of recurring concerns emerges, such as the tension between the individual’s loyalty to the norms and traditions of the community and the impulse to

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INTRODUCTION

self-assertion, and between the quest for freedom and autonomy and the need for a social framework for the life of the individual. The book does not deal with all of Kleist’s major works, nor does it provide an exhaustive treatment of the political concerns Kleist raises. I focus on a small number of the most important thematic constellations, and certain works seemed particularly relevant to my investigation. However, other works could have been discussed at greater length. In particular, Robert Guiskard might have been relevant to questions of leadership and legitimacy, but the fragmentary nature of the work makes anything other than speculative observations about Kleist’s intentions difficult. Other works, such as Penthesilea or Prinz Friedrich von Homburg, could have featured in almost every chapter. The book pays particular attention to Kleist’s essays and anecdotes, many of which are acknowledged masterpieces within their genre. They prove particularly instructive because Kleist wrote many of them for publication in the Berliner Abendblätter, and in them he reacts to events more explicitly than in his longer literary works. Many of Kleist’s areas of concern were central to the political debates of the day, but in many ways he operated with a set of assumptions that differed substantially from those of other political thinkers, and his aims as a writer did not necessarily coincide with those of other intellectuals and politicians. Kleist did not usually think about political questions in terms of grand schemes and academic theories, but in their most concrete form, at the level of personal interaction. Accordingly, this study does not set out to reconstruct a grand political philosophy implicit in Kleist’s works, but to gather together his reflections on political and social themes. As a historical figure, he merits our attention on account of his uncommonly penetrating scrutiny of dominant trends and fashionable assumptions in political, philosophical, and aesthetic matters. His great achievement as a writer is his creation of psychologically complex, compelling characters, of a controlled, highly nuanced style, and of radically innovative, multi-layered, and open texts that consistently surprise and reward the attentive reader.

1: Prussia and Germany in Kleist’s Day

A

T THE END OF the eighteenth century, Germany was a figment of the imagination, more a state of mind than a territorial state marked on the European map. Its closest political approximation was the arcane structure of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, both in its political and legal institutions and in the person of the Kaiser. Most of the Germanspeaking population of Europe could be found within its borders, but it also contained substantial non-German-speaking populations, particularly at its extremities.1 Many felt that the Empire had served the Germans well by maintaining stability and a common tradition, while preserving political diversity and the rule of law. But its major powers, Prussia and Austria, each had substantial territorial interests outside its borders. Since the end of the Thirty Years’ War in 1648, the larger territorial states had been primarily concerned with reconstruction and the centralization of power, and placed their dynastic territorial considerations before imperial or national interests. However, in the course of the eighteenth century, public intellectuals began to portray other possibilities: Germany as the initiator of cosmopolitanism in Europe, or as a politically disinterested nation of creative intellectuals, mediating between and synthesizing other national cultures. The seemingly inexorable rise of the French nation-state after 1789 presented a serious challenge to the political, social, and cultural foundations of the German states, which provoked some serious and sustained reflection on the reforms that would be needed in the future. This chapter offers an introduction to the political and cultural environment in which Kleist developed as a thinker and a writer. It outlines how German politicians and creative intellectuals responded to the world-historical events that were unfolding before them. The French Revolution and the subsequent rise of Napoleon transformed the political and cultural landscape of the German states. Relationships — between the cultural nation and the state, and between ruler and ruled — which had until recently seemed fixed now became genuinely open for discussion, as real change came to seem not only possible, but inevitable.

Absolutism and the Holy Roman Empire The survival of the Holy Roman Empire into the nineteenth century had less to do with its inherent strength than with the continental balance of power,

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in which it played a pivotal role. It was generally in the interests of the leading European states to preserve the small southwestern states of the Empire, as they acted as a buffer zone against their rivals. In this respect, the weakness of the Empire was its strength.2 The Peace of Westphalia (1648) had formalized the fragmentation of the Empire by acknowledging the sovereignty of princes over their territories. It also established each prince’s right to determine the religion of his territory and gave him power over the church, which had previously constituted a potential source of internal resistance.3 Religious fragmentation was thereby institutionalized, although emigration between territories on religious grounds was allowed under certain circumstances, a provision that was often cited by the supporters of the Empire as one of the ways in which it promoted religious tolerance.4 But it grew increasingly difficult to achieve consensus on imperial legislation, and, lacking the requisite military power, the Empire often had to rely on the good will of larger states to carry out its decisions. Nonetheless, the legal framework of the Empire commanded respect across Europe, and gave the two imperial courts some moral force to act against even the mightier princes.5 The Empire appealed to both conservative and enlightened thinkers, as it was felt to foster diversity between states while guaranteeing basic rights to the individual.6 Drawing on Rousseau’s ideas, the publicist Justus Möser (1720–94) argued that historical experience and local knowledge were indispensable for good governance and maintained that these were best served by the smaller states of the Empire.7 Möser argued that the larger enlightened absolutist states suppressed the traditional political forms that he sought to document and to defend in his work.8 But he restricted participation in local government to a landed elite, and he envisioned the nation as a collection of communities primarily connected by the Empire.9 Under Möser’s influence, Goethe also came to view the political fragmentation of the German nation positively and argued that it allowed locally sensitive governance to advance the cause of civilization.10 Looking back at the Empire after its demise, the philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte remarked that its political disunity had had a liberalizing effect because blanket censorship across all states was impossible.11 In fact, many intellectuals put German culture before the influence or unity of the nation. Schiller argued that a permanent national theater would be the best institution to create a sense of national cohesiveness because it would disseminate enlightenment throughout the population, creating unity on an ethical level.12 Moreover, many thinkers argued that political disunity was good for German culture because the plurality of states made the Germans open to foreign influences and enabled them to offer moral teaching.13 Schiller’s poem-sketch “Deutsche Größe” (German greatness) argues that, while the French and British have been distracted by political battles, the Germans have, paradoxically, been able to achieve greatness by concentrat-

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ing on cultivating their humanity, and he cites the Reformation as an example of how German learning has promoted human liberty. Schiller’s remarks demonstrate how cosmopolitanism was not necessarily antithetical to national pride, although he also claimed that German greatness was not dependent upon political glory and would be unaffected by the destruction of the Empire. Goethe’s play Götz von Berlichingen (1773) has been seen as a lament for the decline of the Empire at the hands of the absolutist states.14 The most striking assault on the principles of the Holy Roman Empire occurred in 1740 with the Prussian king Frederick II’s annexation of Silesia. This event demonstrated that natural checks on expansion could be overcome and raised Prussia to great-power status within Europe. Internally, however, the victory had profound consequences for the structure of the state. Frederick’s priority was to consolidate Prussia’s newly won power, which has led some historians to argue that he pursued “social militarization,” whereby all social relationships came to be governed by military priorities.15 Aristocrats, traditionally the warrior class, enjoyed increased privileges under Frederick: they made up nine-tenths of the officer corps, were given preference for civil service positions, and largely controlled local administration.16 However, limits were imposed on aristocratic power where it was considered detrimental to the overall aims of the state. Thus nobles were prevented from expropriating peasant land and were expected to assist peasants in times of hardship, since the peasantry was the mainstay of the cantonal system of conscription. Town dwellers were therefore also exempted from military service, since their principal function was to provide tax revenue to support the military machine.17 The establishment of control over Prussia’s expanding territory made increasingly elaborate bureaucratic structures necessary in order to implement policy and to gather taxation.18 Entry to the administrative profession began to be formalized in the mid-eighteenth century as better trained personnel were required to deal with its increasingly technical demands. The study of law or cameralism became a prerequisite for admission to the profession, which gave it an increasingly homogeneous character and strengthened its self-image.19 Moreover, bureaucrats were freed from the whims of the ruler, as any disciplinary action against them had to be sanctioned by legal process.20 The academic discipline of cameralism developed in response to the need to direct economic activity to maximize state revenue. Cameralist thinkers favored protectionist policies, economic self-sufficiency, and the expansion of industrial production.21 Prussia’s cameralists also pursued population growth by discouraging emigration and encouraging immigration, especially of skilled workers.22 Frederick’s policies were characterized by tensions between his enlightened ideas and his social conservatism. It has been argued that the expansion of primary education in Prussia was primarily intended to create literate, use-

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ful, and politically quiescent subjects. Nonetheless, cameralism did show an interest in subjects’ welfare, at least in that the state’s control of the economy was intended to achieve the “common good.”23 Frederick II did not consider himself a divinely appointed monarch, but rather justified his position with reference to a form of social contract theory. As the “first servant of the state,” he argued that he was bound to uphold the law, to govern wisely and unselfishly, and to defend the state.24 Thus the social contract provided the framework for absolutist rule in Prussia and was intended to prevent arbitrary government. But Frederick did not make clear how he might be held to account for his actions; according to his conservative interpretation, the social contract could not be revised or dissolved.25 Frederick’s legal reforms were also marked by a combination of enlightened and conservative impulses. The Allgemeines Landrecht für die preußischen Staaten (ALR; Code of General Law for the Prussian States), finally promulgated in 1794, explicitly postulated a social contract between citizens as the basis for the state, drawn up for their communal happiness.26 In fact, these enlightened principles were not fully realized in practice. The ALR confirmed noble privileges and reinforced divisions between estates.27 It defined certain basic rights, but its opponents succeeded in removing important paragraphs that defined the circumstances in which these rights could be amended or curtailed. Moreover, the code only achieved full legal force over criminal and military matters.28 Despite these efforts at codification, a substantial corpus of regional law remained, which continued to privilege the interests of the powerful. Frederick’s military success and his reputation for just and enlightened governance laid the foundation for a distinctive Prussian identity.29 In his famous essay Was ist Aufklärung? (What is Enlightenment?, 1784) Kant praised Frederick for promoting religious toleration and freedom of political thought, although he recognized that military strength was the prerequisite of such freedoms. Kant’s commitment to Prussia differed from conventional patriotism in its lack of a cultural basis, and as such it demonstrates how ideas could produce a sense of belonging in historically and linguistically disparate lands. However, the absolutist government of Frederick II was far from universally popular. In particular, some thinkers argued that Frederick and other absolutist princes were trying to amass as much territory as possible and to form them into states that had little natural coherence. Frederick generally spoke of “Prussian lands,” the plural indicating not only their territorial dispersal, but also his lack of particular attachment to them.30 Nor did Frederick appreciate German culture, which for him lacked artistic sensibility and taste.31 The poet Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724–1803) reacted to such indifference in 1768 by addressing a proposal to the Austrian regent Joseph for a scholarly academy that would promote German culture and produce an

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account of German history. However, Klopstock’s plans did not come to fruition, which prompted him to write his Deutsche Gelehrtenrepublik (The German Republic of Scholars, 1774). In this polemic, Klopstock outlined a vision of a scholarly republic that would challenge the absolutist mentality by promoting intellectual meritocracy and by supporting the work of German scholars who would otherwise be dependent on courtly patronage.32 The philosopher Johann Gottfried Herder (1744–1803) shared this distaste for the culture of absolutism and sarcastically condemned the Francophile culture of the European courts (HSW, 5, 551). He proposed that German cultural renewal could be initiated by encouraging the Germans to reappropriate their roots by collecting folk songs and by promoting the use of German in churches, schools, and journals.33 Herder’s influential Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit (Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Humanity, 1784–91) set out his theory of culture at length. Herder proposes that cultural difference is ordained by nature and that mountain chains, oceans, and deserts are intended to promote the separate and peaceful development of national cultures (HSW, 13, 341). Moreover, nature shapes each culture by determining the material circumstances in which people live, and thus what they eat, drink, and wear, the work they do, and the pleasures and arts they pursue (HSW, 13, 268–69). They are attached to their homeland because their bodies have adapted to the way of life that it dictates, and they remain attached even if they move away from their place of origin (HSW, 13, 261–62; HSW, 14, 84). But Herder counterbalances cultural diversity with an insistence on the original oneness of humanity, which circumscribes the mutability of the human race, and leads him to reject the notion of racial difference (HSW, 13, 257–58). He contends that language is the principal means through which culture is disseminated (HSW, 13, 354). It is fundamental to all thought, for no concept can be clearly thought unless it is expressed linguistically. Moreover, without language, there could be no civilization, no cultivation, no treaties, and no law; no transmission of national patterns of thought through the generations could have occurred, and national homogeneity would be impossible (HSW, 13, 357–58). Herder argues that the life of the individual is only meaningful in the context of his/her national culture, which provides the only means by which the creative contribution of the individual can survive into perpetuity (HSW, 13, 350). He speaks of an eternal “chain” that connects not only different cultures, but also individuals; it is underpinned by a providential force that ensures the “re-cycling” of the unique contribution of the dying individual or culture (HSW, 13, 352–53). Herder’s preface sets out the optimistic basis of his scheme: he seeks to combat the view that all human effort is rendered senseless by the ravages of chance and time, and he hopes to motivate the

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individual to engage wholeheartedly in the development of his/her national culture, which is the raison d’être of humanity on earth (HSW, 13, 8). Herder celebrates culture as a good in itself, often in highly lyrical terms (HSW, 14, 84; HSW, 13, 298). But his analysis is also framed as an attack on the self-satisfied assumptions of the European Enlightenment and, by extension, on enlightened absolutism. He argues that no culture has ever attained perfection, and thus he condemns Eurocentrism (HSW, 13, 333–34). He also insists that reason is learned, rather than innate, and a product of language and culture (HSW, 13, 344–45). As a result, Herder questions the universal validity accorded to reason, which, he argues, nature expressly sought to prevent by creating geographically divided regions and cultures. He also argues that history and politics can only be meaningfully analyzed in 34 national terms. By “nation,” Herder means the Volk, a linguistically and culturally homogeneous group, which also constitutes the most natural form of political organization. Herder therefore condemns the absolutist practice of combining diverse national groups in a single state and maintains that such a state will lack inner cohesion. Herder picks up the vocabulary of cameralism, which had suggested that rational principles could produce a selfregulating, machine-like state, and contrasts it with his own organic view of nationhood (HSW, 13, 384–85). Herder objected in particular to the militaristic ethos of his native Prussia because he felt that it stifled creativity.35 Herder’s work was important because it made available a critique of absolutism based on cultural grounds, and it turned the absolutist understanding of the state as a machine against itself by deploying the language of nature and organicism. Klopstock and Herder’s criticisms of absolutism were to have powerful effects in subsequent decades. They created an accepted discourse of anti-French cultural nationalism that grew virulent in later years, and they laid the foundation for further challenges to absolutism from increasingly strident nationalist thinkers, including Kleist himself. Indeed, Herder’s vocabulary of organicism even made its way into the official discourse of Prussian politicians in the years after the French Revolution.

Germany and Prussia after 1789 Despite such criticisms, the position of the absolutist monarchies in Germany was never seriously threatened from within Germany during the eighteenth century. A much more powerful challenge originated from revolutionary France, which presented first an ideological, and then a military threat to the old regime in Germany. However, German responses to the French Revolution were initially far from hostile. Most intellectuals, Klopstock and Herder included, were supportive of the Revolution, at least until 1792, and the leading German princes did not feel especially threatened by events in France. Revolution seemed unlikely in Germany, given that

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German peasants enjoyed higher living standards than their French counterparts.36 In August 1791, the rulers of Austria and Prussia affirmed their solidarity with the beleaguered Louis XVI in the Declaration of Pillnitz, but it has been argued that the signatories were not primarily motivated by ideological concerns, but by their hope of making territorial gains at France’s expense.37 When hostilities with France broke out in 1792, the Austrian and Prussian forces were initially so confident of victory that the Empire was not asked for help. However, French military coordination improved quickly, and while the anti-revolutionary coalition grew in 1793 following the execution of Louis XVI, the French responded in August with a levée en masse that swelled their ranks to approximately 850,000 by 1794.38 The intense commitment shown by these French conscripts highlighted the debility of the imperial army, which possessed reluctant conscripts as fighters, ill-trained officers, and inadequate equipment.39 Prussia left the coalition in 1795 in order to concentrate on gaining fully from the latest partition of Poland. Under the Treaty of Basel, Prussia ceded territories on the left bank of the Rhine to France in return for the prospect of compensation at the expense of states on the right bank. Austria fought on intermittently until February 1801, but under the peace treaties of 1797 and 1801, it accepted the principle of territorial reorganization within the Empire. This process came to fruition in April 1803 when the imperial deputation accepted the French proposals with but few amendments. Under the so-called Reichsdeputationshauptschluss, all but three ecclesiastical states and all but six imperial cities ceased to exist, a territorial redistribution that affected three million Germans. However, worse was to come for the Empire when the defeat of the Third Coalition at Austerlitz in December 1805 effectively brought about its demise. The newly enlarged territories of Bavaria, Baden, and Württemberg were granted full sovereignty and subsequently aligned themselves with France and joined Napoleon’s Confederation of the Rhine. The existence of this rival organization rendered Francis II’s position untenable and led him to dissolve the Holy Roman Empire in August 1806. Thus the venerable structure of the Holy Roman Empire was brought crashing down within twenty years primarily by events outside Germany. It seems quite possible that the balance of power that it had helped to maintain and that had aided its survival could have remained in position for many more years had the French Revolution not brought such sudden change to the European political scene. These changes had essentially been achieved by France’s growing military might, which in turn rested upon the intense commitment of the population and the strategic innovations of its military leaders. For many Germans, the fate that had befallen them came to be symbolized in the person of Napoleon Bonaparte, who had crowned himself em-

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peror in December 1804. Napoleon’s strategic brilliance brought much of continental Europe under French control, and his dominance increased in October 1806 with the defeat of Prussia, which had remained neutral since 1795. The manner of Prussia’s defeat was particularly shocking, as troops were forced into a swift and dishonorable retreat, and many fortresses were simply abandoned to the enemy. Just months before the debacle, Kleist’s former regimental chief, General Ernst von Rüchel (1754–1823), still boasted that the Prussian army was the greatest in the world.40 Prussia continued to fight as Russia’s junior partner until June 1807, but it had little control over the course of events. The Prussians were entirely excluded from the peace talks that followed, and it was only Tsar Alexander’s intervention that prevented Prussia’s complete disappearance from the European map.41 Under the punitive terms of the Treaty of Tilsit, Prussia was halved in size, and lost the great-power status it had attained under Frederick II. It was occupied and would remain so until it paid a massive war indemnity of 311 million francs.42 With Prussia crushed, Austria remained the only German state relatively free of direct French influence. German patriots’ hopes for liberation therefore rested with Austria. In the late summer of 1808, the first significant signs appeared that Napoleon’s grip on Europe might be weakening, as the sensational news filtered through to Germany of the defeats suffered by the French forces at the hands of regular Spanish troops supported by partisan fighters.43 Indeed, the more conventional war that eventually broke out between Austria and France in April 1809 started well for the former, but ended with a decisive French victory at Wagram in early July, followed by a punitive peace treaty in October. German attitudes towards France grew increasingly hostile following the defeats of Prussia and Austria, but some intellectuals responded positively to Napoleon. His importance was evident as early as 1797 to admirers like Hölderlin and Goethe. Both writers characterized him as a powerful and unpredictable force of nature, a metaphor that recurs in Kleist’s work.44 Others, such as the poet Karoline von Günderode (1780–1806), celebrated him as a representative of enlightenment and civilization.45 On the other hand, Beethoven regarded Napoleon’s self-coronation as emperor as a betrayal of the Revolution. Goethe remained enthusiastic about his emperor even after the establishment of Napoleonic hegemony in Germany, but this view was not widely shared.46 Ernst Moritz Arndt (1769–1860) was amongst the earliest German writers to produce anti-Napoleonic propaganda. The first volume of his Geist der Zeit (Spirit of the Times, 1806) concentrates on analyzing Napoleon’s career and his errors, criticizes his military practices as inhumane, and mocks his self-promotion.47 Arndt warns that Napoleon’s hegemonic ambitions make cosmopolitanism intellectually untenable, and he criticizes the German princes, especially those of the Confederation of the Rhine, for neglecting

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the interests of the German people, who are the source of their power.48 However, the character of Arndt’s writing changes after the defeat of Prussia. Religious motifs gain prominence, and in a grand theodicy, Arndt even suggests that Napoleon was sent to punish the wicked, but that God is now planning to destroy this demonic figure.49 Similar motifs are also present in the poetry of Theodor Körner (1791–1813).50 The defeat and occupation of Prussia was therefore widely perceived by German nationalists — Kleist included — as a crisis point, which often registered in their writing as a turn away from measured analysis and toward vilification of the enemy. The portrayal of the national cause as a good in itself, and a corresponding sacralization of the war of liberation, often accompanied this change in perspective. The events of 1806 sparked the growth of an independent nationalist movement in Berlin under the leadership of the teacher Friedrich Ludwig Jahn (1778–1852).51 From 1810, Jahn’s Gymnastics Movement grew rapidly and organically into a visible symbol of patriotic resistance, whose gatherings drew substantial crowds of spectators.52 The gymnasts owed their impact to their very public organization, which enabled them to develop into a powerful mass movement in the German political life of the nineteenth century. Thus one of the effects of Napoleonic hegemony was a realignment between the state and the nation, since Germany’s cultural representatives increasingly regarded revolutionary France as a greater threat than the absolutist monarchies of Germany. However, Prussia’s defeat in 1806 demonstrates that absolutism itself was now open to critical scrutiny from the advocates of reform.

Prussia and the Collapse of 1806 The magnitude of the defeat of 1806 shocked many Prussians, but many of Prussia’s leading statesmen were pointing to a “crisis of the executive”53 even before defeat at Jena. In October 1805, Prussia had two foreign ministers, Christian von Haugwitz and Karl August von Hardenberg, who took up opposing positions of appeasement and resistance towards Napoleon. Characteristically, Frederick William III failed to act decisively either way, even when France violated Prussian neutrality by marching through AnsbachBayreuth, and finally the decision was taken from his hands following the allied defeat in December at Austerlitz. Prussia’s failure to join the effort against Napoleon in 1805 merely postponed the conflict, however, and when Prussia came to fight in 1806, it did so in relative isolation, with Saxony as its only German ally. Certain politicians saw the indecision exhibited by Prussia in 1805–6 as symptomatic of a structural weakness in its decision-making process. Clearly, there was potential for conflict between the two foreign ministers, and the other ministers of the government often found themselves undermined by

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cabinet secretaries and adjutants who were theoretically junior to them, but enjoyed greater access to, and thus influence upon, the king. Ministers argued for the replacement of the pro-French Kabinet with a Council of State (Staatsrat) of responsible ministers. But Frederick William III resisted change for a further two years after the battle of Jena because a Council of State would require him to constantly justify his policies, whereas existing arrangements allowed him to bypass ministers or set them against each other.54 The law of 16 December 1808 created personally accountable ministers forthe Interior the Interior, Finance, Foreign Affairs, War and Justice, and in its text it emphasized the view that a smaller number of ministers would make government more unified and dynamic.55 The new structure aimed to provide clear lines of command, but it only challenged the absolute power of the king in that it provided for a Council of State to encourage him to consult with his ministers.56 The question of the administrative structure was, then, central to the struggle to reform Prussia. The central ideas behind the reforms were set out in various memoranda by the key players, Karl August von Hardenberg, who became chancellor in 1810, and Baron Karl vom Stein (1757–1831), who was chief minister from October 1807 to November 1808. In September 1807, Hardenberg argued in his Riga Memorandum that the French Revolution had reinvigorated the state by sweeping away accumulated weaknesses and awakening dormant forces.57 He argued that attempts to ward off revolution had only brought it closer, making a government-led “revolution” necessary in order to shore up the old regime. Hardenberg spoke of introducing democratic principles to monarchical government, but he distinguished this carefully from true democracy. At most, it meant the promotion of equality of opportunity by removing elements of the corporative system, such as serfdom and trade guilds, and ending corporative restrictions on land ownership and choice of occupation. Frederick II’s defense strategy had rested upon the wholesale preservation of the corporative structure, which had been reconfirmed as recently as 1794 under the provisions of the ALR. But the Prussian military collapse discredited the old system and made radical change inevitable because it showed that the corporative state had licensed indecisiveness and incompetence at crucial points. In this divided society, conservatives were horrified by the defeat, whereas middle-class Ber58 liners rejoiced at the downfall of the arrogant military. Hardenberg proposed that harmony could be restored between the nation and the government by giving representatives of the people a place in the administration, whereas a national elected assembly might be dangerous. By contrast, Hardenberg’s ally, Stein, argued that property owners should be invited to participate in provincial administration because they possessed a commitment to and knowledge of local circumstances lacking in many state civil servants. But Stein and Hardenberg agreed on the need to harness what

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Stein termed “Bürgersinn” (a sense of citizenship) to the interests of the state.59 Both sought to establish a solid popular base for their policies in an active, prosperous, patriotic citizenry, although there were clearly tensions between their interventionist mindset and the laissez-faire economic principles that they claimed to represent, and also between their rather authoritarian methods and their professed aim of creating independent, active citizens. The education of a new political class was central to the reform program. Under the Städteordnung (Town Ordinance) of 1808, Stein transferred responsibility for town governance from magistrates to bodies elected by citizens. He thereby sought to involve an often quiescent, propertied middle class in politics, but it was not universally popular because it also placed greater financial burdens on town dwellers.60 Many of the economic reforms that aimed to tackle corporate privilege followed the principles of the Königsberg university professor Christian Jacob Kraus (1753–1807), who was the leading Prussian advocate of the Scottish liberal economist and philosopher Adam Smith.61 The reforms had, in fact, begun well before 1806, when Stein as trade minister initiated the abolition of internal customs barriers.62 In 1810–11, the abolition of most restrictions on freedom of profession, and the introduction of an open system of state-administered permits, reduced the power of trade guilds. Hardenberg’s Finance Edict of October 1810 met with particularly strong opposition because it aimed to distribute the growing tax burden more equitably between town and country and to eliminate corporative exemptions to land taxation. Hardenberg’s priority after he was recalled to office in June 1810 was to address Prussia’s acute debt crisis by maximizing tax revenues. His own tax commission estimated that the burden of taxation per capita would double as a result of his proposals.63 To appease the lower orders, Hardenberg targeted the affluent with his largely symbolic Luxussteuer (luxury tax) on servants, horses, carriages, and dogs.64 Hardenberg did try to win over the aristocratic opposition by establishing an appointed Assembly of Notables in February 1811, but his plan backfired when some nobles used the assembly as a platform for their opposition.65 Some elements of the reformers’ economic legislation therefore combined liberal principles with a desire to educate and influence the public. A similar combination of motives lay behind the abolition of serfdom, which had already been initiated on a large scale in 1798 with the emancipation of serfs on crown lands.66 Peasant emancipation was intended to give the individual an interest in the well-being of the state as a whole, and thus it was spoken of as a patriotic initiative.67 The October Edict (1807) abolished the hereditary bondage of peasants to their feudal lords with effect from 11 November 1810, and gave them the freedom to marry and to change their place of residence at will. The edict thus created a free market in land and labor. Peasants acquired the right to continue farming the land, although

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they were still liable to pay rent to the landowner. However, many peasants lost their land because they were unable to afford the rent. As a consequence, they became wage laborers. In this respect, the new free market undermined the reformers’ intention of giving all citizens a stake in society.68 Some reformers even argued for new restrictions on peasant movement, following increases in vagabondage and civil unrest.69 Despite the reformers’ efforts, landowners retained their patrimonial powers, which included the administration of justice, police powers, and patronage of churches and schools. In 1802, Kraus had called for reform of the judicial system, noting that patrimonial justice was potentially loaded in favor of the landowner, and that the state authorities were often located far away from the average peasant.70 Stein too argued that the state had to take control of the administration of justice because noblemen and their judges might only publicize laws beneficial to their interests.71 Both Stein and Hardenberg brought forward plans for reform of rural administration, but their opponents managed to delay implementation of their proposals until they were finally shelved.72 Pedagogical considerations about how to motivate the individual soldier also drove the reform of the army. The Prussian general Gerhard von Scharnhorst (1755–1813) had begun to reflect on the success of revolutionary France in the 1790s, and he recognized that Prussia would need to reform the corporative state in order to match the motivation achieved in the French army. The then colonel Neidhardt von Gneisenau (1760–1831) went further and argued that political liberalization was essential if Prussia was to be liberated.73 The defeat of 1806 had laid bare cowardice, disorder, and incompetence within the army. The rank and file was mainly composed of uneducated, unreliable, and uncommitted soldiers (including criminals and foreign mercenaries), who had been formed into a fighting force of sorts by relentless drilling and ruthless discipline. The reformers recognized that what was needed was a new kind of soldier, characterized by competence, intelligence, and a sense of personal honor.74 They also realized that this new model of the soldier entailed changes to the way that the army enforced discipline, which meant the abolition of corporal punishment. Gneisenau envisioned the army as an institution propagating education and enlightenment, and as a training academy for the leading sector of society.75 The army reform commission set up by Frederick William III under Scharnhorst’s leadership concluded in September 1807 that the officer corps should be open to all who could demonstrate the requisite qualities of intellect, courage, and composure.76 The commission criticized the practice of determining seniority on the basis of age as a disincentive to self-improvement. Officers were now to be required to demonstrate their competence in a range of academic disciplines.77 But these reforms were controversial, and some conservatives wor-

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ried that this new emphasis on book-learning might dull officers’ character and quickness.78 The military reforms also included a review of organizational arrangements, which brought the establishment of a War Ministry to unify the command structure.79 The major change in tactical approaches involved a move towards increased mobility in battle, which required greater resourcefulness and training in the skills of shooting, patrolling, and reconnaissance. The reformers also proposed universal conscription, with the intention of overcoming the deep division between the army and civil society by establishing the principle that all inhabitants of the state were required to help defend it. Any exceptions to this rule threatened to undermine the honor of the soldier. However, the plans for universal conscription were contentious and met with opposition from the king, Hardenberg, Finance Minister Karl von Stein zum Altenstein (1770–1840) and Count Alexander von Dohna-Schlobitten (1771–1832), Minister of the Interior. One reformer even saw them as a 80 threat to the liberty, civilization, and economic well-being of Prussia. The plans were not realized, however, due to the restrictions placed on the size of the Prussian army under the Paris Convention of 1808, and universal conscription was only introduced in 1813 during the War of Liberation. The army reforms were thus informed by a desire to use policy to shape social attitudes. Perhaps surprisingly, this mindset was least in evidence in the educational reforms. The king had argued that the loss of territory and subjects that resulted from the Treaty of Tilsit could be overcome by the intellectual development of remaining subjects, but Education Minister Wilhelm von Humboldt resisted the functionalization of education for the aims of the 81 state. Humboldt adopted the Pestalozzian Method in elementary education, arguing that it was rooted in the structure of the human personality and helped to achieve the harmonious development of the child.82 Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746–1827) stressed the integrity of the child as a personality and the need for pedagogical approaches that would foster its individuality, rather than prepare it for a predetermined function. He therefore shunned corporal punishment and rote learning. Subject content was considered secondary to enabling pupils to understand, interpret, and express ideas clearly. But Humboldt’s most radical innovations came in secondary and university education. Following the principles of liberalism and classical humanism, Humboldt argued that the state should act as an enabler in education, but 83 not seek to prescribe its outcome. The ultimate goal of education was the full and harmonious development of the human personality, not to prepare pupils for a specific occupation, as the cameralists had maintained. Humboldt stressed that the school curriculum had to remain entirely academic and that vocational training should remain separate.84 The school system was to differentiate only on grounds of ability, not social background.85 Hum-

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boldt also argued that school education was not only about children’s learning, but also teaching them how to learn.86 A similar principle informed his view of university education. Lectures were irrelevant, for professors and students were there simply to investigate ideas and to further the cause of scholarship.87 Thus when the University of Berlin was established in 1810, it was placed under the rectorship of the philosopher Fichte, an appointment symbolic of Humboldt’s conviction that the university should pursue scholarship for its own sake, rather than for functional ends.88 To ensure the purity of scholarship, Humboldt attempted to protect the university from incursions by the state by endowing it with land, but this plan foundered on Hardenberg’s opposition.89 The experiences of 1806 not only raised the question of reform in government circles, however, and a public debate developed that turned on the reformers’ central question of education. One of the boldest interventions came from Fichte himself, who put forward a radical proposal for the reform of education in his Reden an die deutsche Nation (Addresses to the German Nation, 1808).90 The Reden were originally delivered as a lecture course at the Berlin Academy in the winter of 1807–8, and were directed at politicians and other prominent individuals.91 Fichte diagnoses the Germans’ current plight as the result of a moral decline into egotism that started with the ruling class (17–18). He sets out an argument for moral renewal through a new model of childhood education that should have no regard to corporative boundaries (24). Fichte suggests that the Germans have a special mission in the service of humanity. His work thus combines national and cosmopolitan elements in a way that to some extent recalls Schiller and that anticipates, and may even have influenced Kleist. His arguments are founded on a philological hypothesis: that the Germans possess an “ursprüngliche Sprache” (original language), which has developed continuously and organically through the generations, and has remained uncontaminated by foreign languages (58– 61). Fichte argues that in a specific sense language acts as the carrier of the intellectual life of the nation. Abstract (“übersinnlich”) concepts can only be expressed by analogy with concrete (“sinnlich”) designations, and access to this abstract level of language is only available to the native speaker; those who try to express their ideas in foreign languages therefore lose all clarity 92 (66–70). Fichte argues that the Germans, as speakers of an original language, are uniquely equipped to transcend the material sphere and to access the realm of ideas. This capacity is demonstrated in German philosophy, which, Fichte contends, has established the transcendent primacy of the realm of ideas (109).93 Thus foreign philosophies of history postulate that cultures flower and die, whereas German philosophy — and here Fichte is surely alluding to Herder — has established the unbroken unity of cultural development. This insight makes the Germans uniquely equipped to develop

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a rationally coherent form of patriotism, for it would be irrational to invest such love and commitment in an ephemeral culture (125).94 Fichte maintains that the renewal of Germany can only be achieved through the state education of children in school communities that are entirely self-sufficient and separate from a corrupt and egotistical society that might otherwise contaminate them. He notes that, in any case, education is one of the only areas still under the full control of the Prussian government (179). In fact, though, he suggests that state sponsorship of education will only be necessary on a temporary basis (132–33). He argues that participation in this education should be compulsory, but that if the wealthy do not cooperate, national renewal can start with the education of orphans (183, 189). While the German nation is alone capable of such levels of moral achievement, Fichte suggests that the objective of the educational practices he commends is the development of the ethical capacities of the individual (139). Fichte’s educational theory is based on Pestalozzi’s, but he is particularly radical in his critique of traditional methods that teach pre-established truths through rote learning. His intention is to teach children that it is the human mind that creates and structures the objects that surround it (36). This emphasis on the creative capacity of the human mind leads Fichte to regard with suspicion the teaching of specific subject content, and he even advocates postponing basic skills, such as reading and writing, to the latest possible point in the curriculum. Fichte argues that education should have two main outcomes: children should love their fellow pupils, and they should love learning. He envisages that his project should take root first in Germany, but he believes that it can form the prelude to the renewal of all humanity (175). For this reason, he argues that the fate of the German nation is crucial to the future of all humanity (246). Thus cosmopolitan and nationalist elements are closely entwined in these arguments. But Fichte is critical of earlier cosmopolitans such as Schiller, who argued that cultural greatness could compensate for political weakness. Fichte maintains that it is important that the Germans should regain their political independence, because it alone will lend prestige to the German language, which is central to his concept of moral renewal (199). In his review of the Reden, the philosopher Adam Müller (1779–1829) derides Fichte’s proposals for the re-fashioning of humanity. He argues that Fichte’s educational theories are monolithic and pay insufficient attention to the differences between individuals; the pupil needs to develop freely according to mysterious inward forces. Fichte’s program will exacerbate the Germans’ tendency towards inactive intellectualism, which Müller holds responsible for 95 the current plight of the nation. Müller’s objections to utopian schemes such as Fichte’s were rooted in his analysis of the French Revolution, which he had

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argued was symptomatic of the one-sided development of the political and intellectual spheres. He therefore argued that the polarities represented by object and subject, nature and art, science and religion needed to undergo mediation.96 Müller applied these principles first to aesthetics, and later to political theory. In his Elemente der Staatskunst (Elements of Statecraft, 1809), he criticizes the reduction of the state to a mechanism under both the absolutist and revolutionary regimes.97 He rejects social contract theory, which suggests that the state can be restructured by common consent. Rather, Müller models the state on the family, and he argues that constitutions should be judged by the extent to which they embody the same tensions as the family, between the principles of youth and age, maleness and femaleness.98 Given that the state is in Müller’s view a natural organism, he argues that no one can step outside it and attempt to reform it.99 At most, political action can seek to increase its vigor, which derives from the conflict between the dynamic middle classes and the tradition-bound, landowning aristocracy. Each of these groups is naturally selfseeking and needs politics to mediate between them for the sake of the greater good. Unlike Fichte, Müller regards corporative divisions as a preordained structure for the state, not an anachronism to be overcome.100 Müller applies the general theories of the Elemente to contemporary Prussia in his lectures Ueber König Friedrich II. und die Natur, Würde und Bestimmung der Preussischen Monarchie (On King Frederick II and the Nature, Dignity and Purpose of the Prussian Monarchy, 1810). Here he argues that Prussia needs to free itself from the shadow of Frederick’s greatness.101 Historical circumstances had forced King Frederick to concentrate on military and economic strength to the detriment of a sense of community (24); the result of this failure was the defeat at Jena and Auerstedt (39–40). Müller’s prescriptions for political reform do not conjure up some ideal future state, but primarily look to the past for their models. He advocates the revival of ancient Germanic constitutions (170), but he does not specify what he understands by these; rather, they seem to function as a corporative counter-image to French (democratic) constitutionalism. But Müller does not glorify the German nation. He argues, rather, that the highest political achievement for Prussia would be to create a sense of nationhood in itself, even though it lacks the natural borders that set the boundaries of other nations (284). Indeed, the creation of feelings of nationhood would require a considerably higher level of commitment to the state. For this reason, Müller argues that a series of institutions must be reoriented towards the needs of the Prussian state. Thus he exhorts his fellow academics to follow his example and publish accessible works that promote Prussian interests (234–37). He seeks to consolidate the differences between states to enable their robust interaction. He therefore argues that the justice system should resist the influence of Roman conceptions of law as a universally valid system (329). Adducing similar reasons, Müller also advocates a national paper currency for

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internal trade, whose value would depend on the commitment of the people to the state (276). But Müller’s most radical conclusions result from his application of these considerations to the army, leading him to endorse the reformers’ plans for universal conscription, which, he argues, will also promote patriotism (320). Müller was deeply critical of the economic liberalism embraced by the Hardenberg government. His essays on this subject in Kleist’s Berliner Abendblätter caused considerable friction with the administration. In his lectures on Frederick II, he defends the aristocratic monopoly on land ownership as a necessary corrective to the competitiveness and individualism that obtains in bourgeois life (60, 86). Müller portrays the nobility as the section of society most concerned with the long-term welfare of the state and paints an idealized picture of relations between the caring patriarch and his dependents within close-knit agricultural communities. These personal relationships constitute half the value of the land, which is lost forever if it is sold (99) — which the Prussian government was proposing to make possible by abolishing the aristocratic monopoly on land ownership. But Müller’s ideas were not merely restorative. Unlike the vociferous noble leader Ludwig von der Marwitz, he proposes that existing corporative constitutions need to be recreated on a national, rather than a provincial basis. Müller’s work is much too original to warrant its assessment as a “formal 102 and articulate defense of paternalism.” Certainly, he defends certain traditional corporative institutions, but those which he retains, such as restrictions on land ownership, are accorded new meaning. He seeks to address the social divisions exposed in the recent war by placing the elements of his model state in a relationship to each other, rather than merely to the sovereign. He had argued that Fichte’s pedagogical scheme for moral renewal was a lost cause and that it would be more productive to encourage the vigorous interaction of competing interest groups. However, Müller’s conservative position commits him to the argument that the peasants’ interests can be regarded as identical to those of the landowners, but it is questionable whether such a view was tenable after the French Revolution, even in Müller’s relatively stable Prussia.

An Age of Uncertainty Kleist’s lifetime did not see the emergence of a consensus for the future of Prussia, let alone that of Germany. Indeed, the question of the link between the Prussian state and the other German states was just one of many unresolved questions following the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806. Nonetheless, some general tendencies did emerge that shaped public debate. First, the model of absolutism established by Frederick the Great was increasingly questioned. Events in France had shown that absolute monarchy

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was not the only way of achieving a strong state. Indeed, France’s series of military victories over other European states meant that there was no way of avoiding the question of whether the Frederician model was still equal to the new political challenges it faced. The Prussian reforms restructured decisionmaking processes to ensure that ministers had greater opportunities of influencing the king. Second, the era saw mounting opposition to corporative distinctions. Humanistic and enlightened thinkers such as Humboldt argued that there existed a moral imperative to develop the individual human personality without reference to social origin. Economic liberals argued that the corporative restrictions in agriculture and land ownership were holding back the Prussian economy. Above all, political observers remarked that the French model of the citizen-soldier had produced spectacular military results, which meant that each individual had to be motivated to make a total commitment to the interests of the state. The Prussian reformers also realized that patriotic feelings were a powerful repository of energies that could be harnessed to the goals of the state. In the face of fierce opposition from corporative interest groups, they worked to achieve legal equality and equality of opportunity with the aim of giving the individual a stake in the future of the nation. Third, the basis for policy formation in Prussia changed. A persistent interest in predicting and managing social change characterized the reformers’ discussions, perhaps precisely because the French Revolution had demonstrated how a political movement could generate social disorder and bloodletting on a massive scale. At the same time, they showed great interest in educational theory and drew upon it as they sought to understand the phenomenal successes of post-revolutionary France and to reproduce them in Prussia. However, there was also a contradiction in the reforms, which empowered and emancipated the subject, yet sought to anticipate how the subject should function in relation to the state. Finally, it is striking that throughout this period debates in Germany were driven by events in France. The concept of the cultural nation had first become politicized in response to the perceived underappreciation of German culture at the Francophile courts of German absolutist princes. The cultural nation achieved the status of an absolute moral good when Germany fell under French hegemony and cultural affiliations became a potent weapon in the fight against Napoleon. France’s influence on political discussion in Germany was therefore profound because it became first a model for political regeneration, then a warning sign, and finally a hated oppressor. As we will see, these political issues — the failings of absolutism, the future of the corporative state, and the relationship between France and Germany — were matters of great significance for Kleist. The following chapter addresses two important preliminary questions: how his life was touched by

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political developments, and how his unique literary style affected his representation of political matters.

Notes 1

On the linguistic and ethnic diversity of the Reich, see Brendan Simms, The Struggle for Mastery in Germany, 1779–1850 (London: Macmillan, 1998), 7–8. 2

See Rudolf Vierhaus, Germany in the Age of Absolutism, trans. Jonathan B. Knudsen (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1988), 98.

3

See further Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 2d ed., vol. 1, Vom Feudalismus des alten Reiches bis zur defensiven Modernisierung der Reformära: 1700– 1815 (Munich: Beck, 1987), 48–49; and Paul Münch, “The Growth of the Modern State,” in Germany: A New Social and Economic History, vol. 2, 1630–1800, ed. Sheila Ogilvie (London: Arnold, 1996), 196–232, especially 207–8. 4 See Michael Hughes, “Fiat justitia, pereat Germania? The Imperial Supreme Jurisdiction and Imperial Reform in the Later Holy Roman Empire,” in The State of Germany: The National Idea in the Making, Unmaking and Remaking of a Modern Nation-State, ed. John Breuilly (London: Longman, 1992), 29–46. 5

See John G. Gagliardo, Reich and Nation: The Holy Roman Empire as Idea and Reality, 1763–1806 (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1980), 32. 6

See Hughes, “Fiat justitia, pereat Germania?” 37–38. See Geraint Parry, “Enlightened Government and its Critics in Eighteenth-Century Germany,” Historical Journal, 6 (1963): 178–92, especially 186–92. 8 More details in Parry, “Enlightened Government,” 189. 7

9

See Parry, “Enlightened Government,” 190. See Hans Reiss, “Goethe, Möser and the Aufklärung: The Holy Roman Empire in Götz von Berlichingen and Egmont,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift 60 (1986): 609–44. 11 See Johann Gottlieb Fichte, Reden an die deutsche Nation, 5th ed., Philosophische Bibliothek, 204 (Hamburg: Meiner, 1978), 139–40. 10

12

See the essay, Die Schaubühne als moralische Anstalt betrachtet, in Friedrich Schiller, Vom Pathetischen und Erhabenen: Schriften zur Dramentheorie, ed. Klaus L. Berghahn (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1970), 3–13. 13

For further discussion of this point, see Gagliardo, Reich and Nation, 127–28. But Hölderlin’s novel Hyperion (1797–99) offers an important counter-example in criticizing the Germans for their one-sidedness.

14

See Reiss, “Goethe,” 619–24. See also Nicholas Boyle, Goethe: The Poet and the Age, vol. 1, The Poetry of Desire (1749–1790) (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1991), 114–25, for a rather different reading. 15 See Hans Rosenberg, Bureaucracy, Aristocracy and Autocracy: The Prussian Experience 1660–1815 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1958), 40–42; and T. C. W. Blanning, “Frederick the Great and Enlightened Absolutism,” in Enlightened Absolutism: Reform and Reformers in Later Eighteenth-Century Europe, ed. H. M. Scott (London: Macmillan, 1990), 272.

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16

For more on this, see Blanning, “Frederick,” 268–72. See also Simms, Struggle, 24–26 and 40–42; James J. Sheehan, German History, 1770–1866 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), 68–69; Vierhaus, Germany, 87–89 and 97– 103; and Münch, “The Growth of the Modern State,” 221–22. 17

18

For more on the links between absolutism and bureaucratization in Prussia, see Rosenberg, Bureaucracy, especially 27–45. 19

See Rosenberg, Bureaucracy, 179–82.

20

On these issues, see Walter Demel, Vom aufgeklärten Reformstaat zum bürokratischen Staatsabsolutismus, Enzyklopädie deutscher Geschichte, 23 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993), 8–11; and Rosenberg, Bureaucracy, 175–201, especially 190. 21 See Vierhaus, Germany, 13, 28–30; and Keith Tribe, “Cameralism and the Science of Government,” Journal of Modern History 56 (1984): 263–84, especially 272–73. 22

See Münch, “The Growth of the Modern State,” 213; and Blanning, “Frederick,” 266, 281–82. 23

See Tribe, “Cameralism,” 272–77; and Vierhaus, Germany, 29. See “Regierungsformen und Herrscherpflichten,” in Bernhard Taureck, ed., Friedrich der Große und die Philosophie: Texte und Dokumente (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1986), 138–39. 24

25

See Blanning, “Frederick,” 277–79.

26

See Münch, “The Growth of the Modern State,” 211–12. See further Reinhard Koselleck, Preußen zwischen Reform und Revolution: Allgemeines Landrecht, Verwaltung und soziale Bewegung von 1791 bis 1848, 2d ed., Schriftenreihe des Arbeitskreises für moderne Sozialgeschichte, 7(Stuttgart: Klett, 1967), 52–77. 27

28

For further discussion, see Sheehan, German History, 70–71; Knut Ipsen, “Rechtsstaatlichkeit im Preußenrecht? Zum Einfluß des Frankfurter Juristen Carl Gottlieb Svarez auf das Allgemeine Landrecht für die Preußischen Staaten von 1794,” BzKF 7 (1993): 133–48, especially 141–44; and Koselleck, Preußen, 36–42. 29 Further details in Vierhaus, Germany, 145–46; and Blanning, “Frederick,” 271–72, 285. 30 See Blanning, “Frederick,” 279. 31

See his letter to Voltaire of 24 July 1775, in Friedrich der Große und die Philosophie, 143–44. 32

See further Harro Zimmermann’s essays, “Gelehrsamkeit und Emanzipation: Marginalien zu Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstocks Deutsche Gelehrtenrepublik” and “Geschichte und Despotie: Zum politischen Gehalt der Hermannsdramen F. G. Klopstocks,” in Text + Kritik: Sonderband Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock, ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold (Munich: Text + Kritik, 1981), 70–81 and 97–121. 33 See Robert Reinhold Ergang, Herder and the Foundations of German Nationalism (1931; reprint, New York: Octagon Books, 1966), 166–67, 204–9. 34

For more on this point, see Georg Iggers, The German Conception of History: The National Tradition of Historical Thought from Herder to the Present Day (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 1968), 29–43.

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35

See Ergang, Herder, 62. See further Simms, Struggle, 63–74; and Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 1:353–62. 36

37

See Simms, Struggle, 55–56.

38

See Eric Dorn Brose, German History, 1789–1871: From the Holy Roman Empire to the Bismarckian Reich (Providence: Berghahn, 1997), 30. 39

See further Gagliardo, Reich and Nation, 146–52. See Rudolf Vierhaus, “Heinrich von Kleist und die Krise des preußischen Staates um 1800,” KJb (1980): 9–33, here 20. 41 See Simms, Struggle, 75. 40

42

See Sheehan, German History, 235; Brose, German History, 48–50; and Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 1:398.

43

For an account of the practice of partisan warfare in Spain, see Gabriel H. Lovett, Napoleon and the Birth of Modern Spain, vol. 2, The Struggle, Without and Within (New York: New York UP, 1965), 666–721. For more on the impact of the partisan successes on anti-Napoleonic groups in Prussia, see Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme an den politischen Bewegungen der Jahre 1805–1809, trans. Wolfgang Barthel (Frankfurt an der Oder: Kleist-Gedenk- und Forschungsstätte, 1995), 147–49. 44

See Hölderlin’s poem “Buonaparte,” in Friedrich Hölderlin, Gedichte, ed. Konrad Nußbächer (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1963), 63; and Goethe’s letter to Schiller of 9 March 1802, cited in Pierre Grappin, “Goethe und Napoleon,” Goethe-Jahrbuch 107 (1990): 71–80. 45

See Günderode’s poem “Buonaparte in Ägypten” (Bonaparte in Egypt), in Karoline von Günderode, Gedichte, ed. Franz Josef Görtz (Frankfurt am Main: Insel Verlag, 1985), 89–90. 46 For a survey of German media responses to Napoleon, see Antje Siemer, “‘Moi, toujours moi, rien que moi’: Zu einigen Facetten des Napoleonbildes in der deutschen Publizistik,” in Französische Revolution und deutsche Öffentlichkeit: Wandlungen in Presse und Alltagskultur am Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, ed. Holger Böning, Deutsche Presseforschung, 25 (Munich: Saur, 1992), 309–22, especially 317–21. 47 48

See Arndt, Geist der Zeit, vol. 1 (n.p., 1806), 398–99, 414–28, 443. See Arndt, Geist der Zeit, 1:439–40.

49

See Ernst Moritz Arndt, Katechismus für den teutschen Kriegs- und Wehrmann (n.p., 1813), 25. 50

See, for instance, Körner’s poem “Auf dem Schlachtfeld von Aspern” (On the Battlefield at Aspern), which represents the Austrian victory of 1809 as the work of the Angel of Death on behalf of the oppressed. See Karl Streckfuß, ed., Theodor Körners sämmtliche Werke (Berlin: Nicolai, 1835), 16–17. 51 See Ernst Weber, “Für Freiheit, Recht und Vaterland: zur Lyrik der Befreiungskriege als Medium politischer Meinungs- und Willensbildung,” in Dichter

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und ihre Nation, ed. Helmut Scheuer, Suhrkamp Taschenbuch, 2117 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993), 237–56, especially 242–43. 52

See further Dieter Düding, Organisierter gesellschaftlicher Nationalismus in Deutschland (1808–1847): Bedeutung und Funktion der Turner- und Sängervereine für die deutsche Nationalbewegung, Studien zur Geschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, 13 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1983), 56. 53 I have taken this expression from the title of Brendan Simms’s study of this topic, The Impact of Napoleon: Prussian High Politics, Foreign Policy and the Crisis of the Executive, 1797–1806 (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997). 54

See further Brendan Simms, The Impact of Napoleon, chapter 9.

55

For the text of the law, see Deutsche Geschichte in Quellen und Darstellung, vol. 6, Von der Französischen Revolution bis zum Wiener Kongreß, 1789–1815, ed. Walter Demel and Uwe Puschner (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1995), 144–49. 56 The Council of State was not actually convened until 1817. 57

See Deutsche Geschichte, 6:87–88. See Bernd von Münchow-Pohl, Zwischen Reform und Krieg: Untersuchungen zur Bewußtseinslage in Preußen 1809–1812, Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, 87 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 41. 58

59

See Deutsche Geschichte, 6:143.

60

See Münchow-Pohl, Zwischen Reform und Krieg, 123–26. For more on the connections between Kraus and the Prussian government, see Gerhard Krüger, “. . . gründeten auch unsere Freiheit”: Spätaufklärung, Freimaurerei, preußisch-deutsche Reform, der Kampf Theodor v. Schöns gegen die Reaktion (Hamburg: Bauhütten, 1978), 89–94. 62 See Guy Stanton Ford, Stein and the Era of Reform in Prussia, 1807–1815 (1922; reprint, Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1965), 86–87. 61

63

See Münchow-Pohl, Zwischen Reform und Krieg, 210. For more on aristocrats’ reactions, see Münchow-Pohl, Zwischen Reform und Krieg, 251. 64

65

On Hardenberg’s efforts to use the assembly to win over doubters, see Peter Gerrit Thielen, Karl August von Hardenberg, 1750–1822: eine Biographie (Cologne: Grote, 1967), 264–65. 66 67

See Simms, Impact, 123–24.

See the “Immediatbericht des Kanzlers Freiherrn von Schroetter,” 27 September 1808, in Heinrich Scheel and Doris Schmidt, eds., Das Reformministerium Stein: Akten zur Verfassungs- und Verwaltungsgeschichte aus den Jahren 1807–1808, Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin: Schriften des Instituts für Geschichte, Series 1: Allgemeine und deutsche Geschichte, vol. 31 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1968), 3:865–67. 68 For more on the differences between reformers on this point, see Marion W. Gray, “Schroetter, Schön and Society: Aristocratic Liberalism versus Middle-Class Liberalism in Prussia, 1808,” Central European History 6 (1973): 60–82. 69 See Gray, “Schroetter, Schön and Society,” 81.

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70

See Christian Jacob Kraus, “Gutachten über die Aufhebung der Privatunterthänigkeit in Ost- und Westpreußen,” in Hans von Auerswald, ed., Vermischte Schriften über staatswirthschaftliche, philosophische und andere wissenschaftliche Gegenstände von Christian Jacob Kraus, vol. 1, Aufsätze über staatswirthschaftliche Gegenstände von Christian Jacob Kraus (Königsberg: Nicolovius, 1808), 175–202, here 199–200.

71

See Das Reformministerium Stein, 3:896. For a more detailed discussion of these proposals, see Robert M. Berdahl, The Politics of the Prussian Nobility: The Development of a Conservative Ideology, 1770–1848 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1988), 141–43; and Thielen, Hardenberg, 279–81.

72

73

On Gneisenau’s insurrectionary plans, see August Wilhelm Anton Neidhardt von Gneisenau, Ausgewählte militärische Schriften, ed. Gerhard Förster and Christa Gudzent (Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1984), 117–24. 74

See Rudolf Vaupel, ed., Die Reorganisation des Preussischen Staates unter Stein u. Hardenberg. Zweiter Teil: Das Preussische Heer, vom Tilsiter Frieden bis zur Befreiung 1807–14, Publikationen aus den preussischen Staatsarchiven, n.s., 49 (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1938), 463–64. 75

See Karl-Ernst Jeismann, ed., Staat und Erziehung in der preußischen Reform 1807– 1819, Historische Texte/Neuzeit, 7 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1969), 11. 76

See “Immediatbericht der Militär-Reorganisationskommission: Memel, 25 September 1807,” in Rudolf Vaupel, ed., Die Reorganisation des Preussischen Staates, 98–108. 77

For further details, see Heinz Stübig, Scharnhorst: Die Reform des preußischen Heeres, Persönlichkeit und Geschichte, 31 (Göttingen: Muster-Schmidt, 1988), 83– 85; and Gerhard von Scharnhorst, Ausgewählte militärische Schriften, ed. Hansjürgen Usczeck and Christa Gudzent (Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1986), 258. 78

See Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 1:467; and Gordon A. Craig, The Politics of the Prussian Army, 1640–1945 (London: Oxford UP, 1955), 43–45.

79

See Craig, Politics, 51–53. See Vincke’s letter of 30 September 1808 to Stein, in Rudolf Vaupel, ed., Die Reorganisation des Preussischen Staates, 598–601. 81 See Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 1:473. 80

82

See Karl-Ernst Jeismann, ed., Staat und Erziehung, 29–30. On the formative influences on Humboldt and his politics, see Kurt MuellerVollmer, “The Abstractness of Reason and Real Life of Individuals and Institutions: Humboldt’s Educational Politics and the French Revolution,” in The French Revolution and the Age of Goethe, ed. Gerhart Hoffmeister, Germanistische Texte und Studien, 31 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1989), 159–79; and Tilman Borsche, Wilhelm von Humboldt, Beck’sche Reihe: Große Denker, 519 (Munich: Beck, 1990), 39–57. 84 See Wilhelm von Humboldt, Werke in fünf Bänden, 3rd ed., vol. 4, Schriften zur Politik und zum Bildungswesen, ed. Andreas Flitner and Klaus Giel (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982), 188. 85 See Humboldt, Werke in fünf Bänden, 4:189. 83

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86

See Humboldt, Werke in fünf Bänden, 4:170. See Humboldt, Werke in fünf Bänden, 4:171. 88 See further Paul R. Sweet, Wilhelm von Humboldt: A Biography, vol. 2, 1808–1835 (Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1980), 53–69. 87

89

For a full account, see Sweet, Wilhelm von Humboldt, 2:62–64. References to the text will cite page numbers from Fichte, Reden an die deutsche Nation, 5th ed., Philosophische Bibliothek, 204 (Hamburg: Meiner, 1978) in parentheses.

90

91

Fichte’s ideas certainly influenced Altenstein, but there is evidence that his lectures were not widely read or heard. The Reden went through only one print run in Fichte’s lifetime. See Rudolf Ibbeken, Preußen 1807–1813: Staat und Volk als Idee und in Wirklichkeit, Veröffentlichungen aus den Archiven preußischer Kulturbesitz, 5 (Cologne: Grote, 1970), 174–75, 211. 92 For more on Fichte’s linguistic ideas, see Peter Oesterreich, “Aufforderung zur nationalen Selbstbestimmung,” Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 46 (1992): 44–55. 93

Ives Radrizzani argues that by “German philosophy” Fichte means his own work. See further Radrizzani, “Ist Fichtes Modell des Kosmopolitismus pluralistisch?” Fichte-Studien 2 (1990): 7–19. 94 Thus Fichte’s concept of reason has a specifically national dimension — pace Alois K. Soller, “Nationale Erziehung und sittliche Selbstbestimmung,” Fichte-Studien 2 (1990): 89–110. 95 See Adam Müller, “Fichte’s Reden an die deutsche Nation,” in Adam Müller, Kritische, ästhetische und philosophische Schriften, ed. Walter Schroeder and Werner Siebert (Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1967), 2:277–95. 96 See Benedikt Koehler, Ästhetik der Politik: Adam Müller und die politische Romantik (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1980), 53–62. 97 See Adam H. Müller, Die Elemente der Staatskunst, ed. Jakob Baxa, vol. 1, Die Herdflamme, 1 (Jena: Fischer, 1922), 37. 98

See Müller, Elemente, 1:89. On Novalis’s influence on Müller’s ideas, see Klaus Peter, “Novalis, Fichte, Adam Müller: Zur Staatsphilosophie in Aufklärung und Romantik,” in Novalis und die Wissenschaften, ed. Herbert Uerlings (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997), 239–67, especially 255–63. 99

100

See Müller, Elemente, 1:100. See Adam Müller, Ueber König Friedrich II. und die Natur, Würde und Bestimmung der Preussischen Monarchie (Berlin: Sander, 1810), 9. Subsequent references are included in parentheses in the main text. 101

102

Pace Berdahl, Politics, 160.

2: Kleist and the Political World

H

EINRICH VON KLEIST

lived in a pivotal historical period. His lifetime saw the collapse of the monarchical order in France and the discrediting of the corporative state in Prussia. Equally momentously, it was an age in which the Enlightenment, with its belief in the sovereign power of human reason, came to be questioned, relativized, and partially discredited by a set of powerful critiques arising from Kantian philosophy, the work of the Romantics, and the beginnings of nationalist thought in Europe. The study of Kleist’s life and work can illuminate our understanding of this period, for it provides an insight into the lived experience of an individual. Kleist was not only shaped by the intellectual and political climate that surrounded him; through his responses, both public and private, he also helped to shape that climate. The leading political and intellectual currents of the age influenced in various senses the opportunities that were open to Kleist as an individual. Not only did the prevailing currents affect the social milieu and the institutions within which his life was played out, they also established a set of practical and intellectual responses that were available to someone in his position. Kleist was typical in some respects of a generation of German intellectuals who questioned the political and scholarly orthodoxy of their age. At the same time, he was an eccentric in his own times, a highly original thinker who was little understood by his contemporaries and little appreciated. It is Kleist’s literary works that testify most vividly to his originality and oddness, filled as they are with uncompromising characters in exceptional situations, within a tremendously violent and disordered universe. Equally, though, the works are characterized by a high degree of formal control that often serves to keep disparate textual elements in tension, so that the work resists straightforward interpretation. It is not easy for the reader to achieve a sure footing in this shifting literary environment. Yet these works refer closely to issues in a historical world that was also shifting. These issues included the far-reaching political questions surrounding the reform of the military, the bureaucracy, and the legal and educational systems, and, on a more general level, the relationships between the nation, the state, and the subject, and between culture, practical politics, and the quest for human emancipation. This chapter investigates Kleist’s relationship to the political arena. It begins with a short biographical account, which considers the development of Kleist’s political consciousness as he was exposed to some of the most im1 portant questions of his time. It examines how he reacted to and sometimes

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sought to intervene in political matters, and how in turn this involvement informed his ideas. This biographical evidence is vital, as it gives us important insights into the highly personal manner in which Kleist experienced the political developments of his age. But its value as a guide to Kleist’s literary oeuvre is limited. Indeed, Kleist’s representation of political matters remains a contentious subject after more than a century of intense and often fractious critical discussion. To understand why this is so, we will need to examine aspects of Kleist’s technique as a writer, which have important ramifications for the way in which he represents political matters.

A Life in the Shadow of Politics Our knowledge of several periods of Kleist’s life is severely limited. This is particularly true of his childhood and adolescence. He was probably born on 18 October 1777 in the Prussian garrison town of Frankfurt an der Oder as the elder son of Major Joachim Friedrich von Kleist and Juliane Ulrike von Pannwitz.2 As was usual for the children of aristocrats, Kleist was privately educated. He was taught initially by the theology student Christian Ernst Martini, then in 1788 he moved to Berlin, where the Huguenot preacher Samuel Heinrich Catel is thought to have instructed Kleist in French language and culture. Following his father’s death in June 1788, Kleist returned to Frankfurt after his mother had tried without success to have him accepted at the military academy in Berlin. Following his confirmation, Kleist, then aged fourteen, followed the family tradition by entering the army. Almost immediately, he was plunged into the conflict between the conservative powers of Europe and the revolutionary French nation, which in November 1792 proclaimed its readiness to liberate its European neighbors. In March 1793, Kleist, echoing the official line in conservative Prussia, noted with satisfaction that the French “Räubergesindel” (thieving rabble; SWB, 4:14) was being roundly beaten. Having seen action in the Palatinate and witnessed the bombardment of insurgents in the ancient city of Mainz, Kleist rapidly began to grow tired of combat, which by February 1795 he termed an immoral waste of time (SWB, 4:18). After the Peace of Basel in April 1795, Kleist returned to his garrison at Potsdam where he was able to pursue his moral and intellectual education in the company of like-minded colleagues, including Ernst von Pfuel and Rühle von Lilienstern. Kleist’s reception of the moral optimism and cosmopolitan ideas of the early Enlightenment is attested to in the Aufsatz, den sichern 3 Weg des Glücks zu finden. In this essay, he attempts to convince his misanthropic friend Rühle of the value and necessity of philanthropy for any true human Bildung (education), for which not only knowledge, but also experience and activity in human society are prerequisites (SWB, 3:525). Already,

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Kleist recognizes that activity is an important element in human education, an insight that informs his mature thinking. He argues that virtue, which he conceives of as a practical, rather than a contemplative activity, is the prerequisite for happiness, which consists “in dem erfreulichen Anschaun der moralischen Schönheit unseres eigenen Wesens” (in the pleasant observation of the moral beauty of our own selves; SWB, 3:519). Kleist is implicitly critical of the wealthy and powerful, whom he suggests may not gain happiness from their status. He also recognizes that a day laborer may achieve contentment and, implicitly, a state of virtue despite his lowly station. Kleist’s emphasis on the relationship between work and happiness partly reflected, no doubt, his own dissatisfaction with army life, which culminated in March 1799 in his decision to resign. Writing to his former teacher Martini, he describes how, in drilling his subordinates, he was unable to reconcile his professional duties with the moral duties incumbent upon a human being, and regularly felt guilty about betraying either his personal morality or the prescribed disciplinary procedures. Kleist attached extreme importance to his moral and intellectual autonomy and felt keenly that the soldiers were treated as mere slaves (SWB, 4:27). This question was to play an important role throughout both his personal life and his writings. Kleist criticizes the authoritarian corporative state primarily from an individual, humanitarian standpoint, but his remarks focus on points identified by the military reformers as important operational weaknesses in the Prussian army, particularly the suppression of individual initiative and the indifference to human dignity. Indeed, Kleist’s decision reflects the precariousness of the corporative order in Germany, which was being placed in question both by the claim of the individual to rational autonomy and by the spectacular achievements of the French nation of citizens. Even before he had obtained official permission to leave the army, Kleist enrolled at university in Frankfurt an der Oder, though not before he was reminded of the narrow range of options open to him as an aristocrat and was advised to choose either law or cameralism, as subjects that would help him support himself. Kleist confided to Martini that he was studying for the sake of his moral and intellectual betterment, not to improve his professional prospects, and thus he studied mathematics, science, philosophy, and natural law. He broke off his studies in August 1800 after just three semesters, partly because his engagement to Wilhelmine, the daughter of Major-General von Zenge of the Frankfurt regiment, depended upon his entry into an established profession. In the hope of testing his aptitude for a civil service career, Kleist moved to Berlin and obtained permission from the minister Carl August von Struensee to sit in on the meetings of the Technische Deputation, a committee charged with assessing the potential usefulness of the latest tech4 nological innovations. Following his meeting with Struensee, Kleist reported that he was interested in the logic behind the devices under

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investigation, whereas the minister was merely interested in the profit that they might generate. In the letter, he also criticizes the enforced industrialization of Prussia under mercantilist principles (SWB, 4:169). In fact, even before he had attended the first meeting of the technical committee, Kleist wrote to Wilhelmine of his reluctance to become a servant of the state and thus “ein bloßes Werkzeug” (a mere tool; SWB, 4:150) in its pursuit of practical goals that he would be unable to scrutinize using his own rational and moral faculties. The need for intellectual independence emerged at this time as a decisive force that governed Kleist’s relationship to the social world; he had cited similar reasons the previous year upon leaving the army. Interestingly, Kleist employs Kantian terminology (“Werkzeug”) to explain his decision. This shows how the latest philosophy might lead some to question the validity of the absolutist state. The problem of human selfdetermination was to preoccupy Kleist throughout his literary work, just as it shaped his early life. Similar thoughts were also leading others, such as Wilhelm von Humboldt, to propose limitations on the state’s realm of activity, a proposition that came into practice in Humboldt’s radical re5 form of the Prussian education system in 1810. As we will see, Kleist returns repeatedly in his writing to this question of how — and indeed whether — the state can help achieve human emancipation. Kleist continued to reach for certainties, even though his decisions were increasingly taking him away from a secure and conventional path through life. In February 1801, he described to his older half-sister Ulrike how, after the collapse of his old life-plan, he locked himself in his room for a week, intent on designing a new strategy, only to emerge from it unresolved (SWB, 4:197). Material insecurity and other closely related intellectual, moral, and social pressures combined to render Kleist’s mental state increasingly fragile. He felt isolated and misunderstood in a society where role-playing was the norm, and unable to communicate his feelings fully to those around him. Although he remained passionately engaged in his self-education, he was disappointed at the one-sidedness of the scholars he met in the Prussian capital and was reluctant to commit himself to academia on account of the specialization it would involve (SWB, 4:198–200). Shortly afterwards, Kleist described his shattering encounter with the latest work of the Kantian school, which he took to imply that human faculties are incapable of reliably discerning truth (SWB, 4:205). In the letter, he told Wilhelmine how he became unable to concentrate or work, and ran through the rain to Potsdam to seek comfort from his friends Rühle and Gleissenberg and his younger brother Leopold. His response to this crisis was to travel, and, having sought Wilhelmine’s position, he left Prussia in April in the company of his sister 6 Ulrike.

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Kleist’s stay in Paris in the second half of 1801 did nothing to dispel his pessimism. The anonymity of life in the big city dismayed him, and the dirt and the criminality repulsed him. However, his observations on Parisian life concentrated, not altogether originally, on its alleged superficiality. He was particularly appalled at the hedonism of the celebrations of 14 July, which he regarded as a betrayal of the legacy of Rousseau, in Kleist’s eyes the intellectual instigator of the Revolution (SWB, 4:240–41). The abolition of feudalism in France had not achieved a more humane society, but one in which human life was recklessly placed at risk, and where the state offered the individual not education, but entertainment. In Paris, Kleist learned that the supreme intellectual and moral insights of Rousseau may not have improved the world, but his skepticism about intellectual endeavor was tempered by his belief that the craving for knowledge is a basic human need (SWB, 4:260–61). Kleist’s experiences in Paris lead him to develop a cultural critique that includes both nationalist and cosmopolitan elements. There is a striking similarity between his view of the French government as primarily interested in material gain (SWB, 4:260), and his earlier remarks about the Prussian state. Indeed, Kleist’s negative remarks about society in Berlin and Paris exhibit distinct parallels. But in French cookery and fashion, he sees irrefutable proof of cultural decadence. Further, Kleist defensively posits a distinction between French and German national character: “Der Deutsche spricht mit Verstand, der Franzose mit Witz” (The German speaks logically, the Frenchman wittily; SWB, 4:266). More seriously, he criticizes France for having brought such destruction to the German Rhineland in the wars of the 1790s and finds the nation lacking in moral responsibility (SWB, 4:253). He offers assurances that he will not be affected by his stay in France and that he will remain a German until his return, but elsewhere he suggests that he will probably never return to Germany (SWB, 4:253, 241). Kleist’s reflections on culture lead him to consider its epistemological effects. Like Herder, he argues that cultural difference undermines any exclu7 sive claim to moral right. But whereas in Berlin, such thoughts had brought despair, in Paris they occasioned whimsical humor: Man sage nicht, daß eine Stimme im Innern uns heimlich und deutlich anvertraue, was Recht sei. Dieselbe Stimme, die dem Christen zuruft, seinem Feinde zu vergeben, ruft dem Seeländer zu, ihn zu braten u mit Andacht ißt er ihn auf — (SWB, 4:261) [Don’t tell me that a voice within secretly and clearly confides to us what is right. The same voice which tells the Christian to forgive his enemy tells the South Sea islander to roast his, and he eats him up piously.]

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Thus it is not only the supposed fallibility of human reason that prompts Kleist to doubt the possibility of finding absolute truth, but also the effects of local customs in producing cultural blindness. This theme is central to several of his works, where it has both comic and tragic implications. Kleist’s response in November 1801 was to turn away from civilization and return to nature. On his twenty-fourth birthday, when he reached the age of majority, he wrote to Wilhelmine of his plan to move to Switzerland, buy land, and to take up farming in accordance with his belief that productive activity, such as cultivating land and having children, was prescribed by nature and could bring fulfillment. Wilhelmine rejected Kleist’s plan, citing her physical frailty, and Kleist ended their relationship in May 1802. In any case, his hopes of settling in Switzerland came to nothing, for the military intervention of Napoleonic troops in March 1802 led him to fear that he would end up a citizen of France, rather than Switzerland. It was therefore Napoleon’s expansionist ambitions that destroyed Kleist’s vision of an idyllic, Rousseauesque lifestyle in Switzerland. Politics had finally encroached upon a space that Kleist hoped would offer an alternative to a class-bound Prussia and a frivolous post-revolutionary France. Unsurprisingly, then, this period saw the beginnings of Kleist’s obsessive hatred of the French First Consul, or in Kleist’s words the “Aller-Welts-Consul” (Consul to the Entire World; SWB, 4:299–301). These feelings intensified over the following years as Na8 poleon’s empire expanded. Despite the growing unrest, Kleist did not return to his native Prussia, but remained in Switzerland until October and worked diligently on his first play, Die Familie Schroffenstein (The Schroffenstein Family), which was published to moderate critical acclaim in late 1802 or early 1803. Kleist left Switzerland as civil war between conservatives and liberals erupted there again. He traveled northwards to Weimar and spent time in nearby Oßmannstedt at the house of the writer Christoph Martin Wieland, whose works had influenced him considerably. From Wieland he gained enthusiastic praise for extracts from his unfinished drama Robert Guiskard, which he recited from memory. In the summer of 1803, Kleist traveled with his friend Pfuel in Switzerland and northern Italy, and worked furiously on Guiskard. But on 5 October, he announced to Ulrike that he could not complete the play and declared himself cursed with a half-formed talent. Clearly under great mental and emotional strain, he declared that he could not go on. He traveled onward through France with Pfuel and, having burnt his manuscript in Paris, went on to St. Omer, where he tried to enlist in the Napoleonic 9 army, first as an officer, then as an ordinary soldier. As he told Ulrike, his sole purpose was “den schönen Tod der Schlachten [zu] sterben” (to die a warrior’s beautiful death; SWB, 4:321) in the planned invasion of Britain. In fact, the Prussian ambassador ordered Kleist to return to Prussia. On leaving the army in April 1799, he had promised not to join any foreign army with-

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out seeking the king’s permission. Now, surely, an explanation would be required of him. In fact, Kleist still did not return directly to his homeland. He spent several months in Mainz in the care of Dr. Georg Wedekind, though his claim to have been convalescing during this time may not have been wholly true (SWB, 4:330). There is evidence that Kleist spent some time in Paris in the company of the leftist opponents of Napoleon and would therefore have witnessed Napoleon’s final moves towards his assumption of dictatorial powers as emperor.10 There was also the possibility of Kleist gaining employment in the French administration at Koblenz, but, perhaps on account of the growing formalization of the appointments procedure, no appointment was made.11 In spring 1804, he returned to Prussia, where he presented himself for a formal interview with the king’s adjutant-general, Karl Leopold von Köckeritz. Köckeritz was well-informed about Kleist’s activities, but he seems to have accepted that he had shown signs of mental disturbance. Kleist had been away from his native Prussia for three years, having left it feeling personally and professionally constrained by the rigid class system; now he had returned, in disgrace, and asked Köckeritz about the possibility of gaining a position in the Prussian civil service. He had left Prussia hoping to live as a free moral subject, but both this aspiration and his literary ambitions appeared to have been thwarted. Köckeritz doubted that the king would look favorably on him, but Frederick William III did in fact offer him an appointment in late July 1804. The tolerance shown for the wayward Kleist demonstrates the extent to which he benefited from the special protection offered to aristocrats in old regime Prussia. Indeed, Kleist was even spared a formal examination before his entry to the civil service. Towards the end of 1804, he spent a trial period working in the Finance Department under the special protection of the reformer Karl von Stein zum Altenstein before being sent to Königsberg in May 1805 for intensive practical and theoretical training. Königsberg, where Kleist was to spend the following year-and-a-half, was the center of Prussian reformist thinking. Leading proponents of reform taught or supervised Kleist at this time, including Christian Jacob Kraus, professor of cameralism at the university. It was intended that Kleist should be employed in implementing Altenstein’s proposals for increased economic, social, and intellectual freedoms in 12 the Prussian province of Ansbach in southern Germany, but in Königsberg he spent much of his time condensing vast amounts of documentation on taxation into summaries presented orally to the regional administrative body, the Kriegs- und Domänenkammer. In fact, Prussia exchanged the provinces of Ansbach and Bayreuth for Hanover in early 1806, as part of an accommodation that Prussia reached with Napoleonic France following the defeat of Austria and her allies at Austerlitz in December 1805. These events horrified Kleist. Even before he knew of Austerlitz, he had written to Rühle that

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the time had come for a German national uprising against France and criticized Prussia’s feeble response in merely occupying Hanover (SWB, 4:350– 52). In short, then, Napoleon’s military movements again had a decisive effect on Kleist’s life, and now his future seemed uncertain. Kleist’s attitude towards his civil service employment is rather unclear. He wrote to Altenstein in February 1806 to request more time in Königsberg, to allow him to deepen his expertise in questions surrounding the abolition of trade guilds, which he claimed was his favorite topic. The letter also provides evidence that Kleist was well apprised of the hitherto limited nature of economic liberalization and that he knew and apparently approved of Stein’s plans to remove corporative restrictions governing occupational choice (SWB, 4:354). At the same time, Kleist could not be expected to portray himself as anything other than an enthusiastic reformer when writing to his superior. However, by August 1806, he told Rühle that he had decided to give up his career and concentrate on writing. He had accepted the leave offered him by Altenstein in order to escape gracefully from the expectations placed upon him (SWB, 4:362). In fact, it has been suggested that Kleist’s protestations of illness in Königsberg indicate the fading of his interest in his 13 civil service duties. Whatever the truth behind Kleist’s turning-away from the civil service, it is clear that he had made substantial progress in his writing. Indeed, his immersion as a trainee in political questions most likely contributed to the increasingly social and political focus of the literary work that he undertook in Königsberg, which probably included Michael Kohlhaas, Penthesilea, Der zerbrochne Krug (The Broken Jug) and Das Erdbeben in Chili (The Earthquake in Chile).14 During 1806, the predictions Kleist had made the previous December came true. The Holy Roman Empire collapsed, and in October, Prussia was subject to a crushing defeat at French hands. As the court retreated to Königsberg in November 1806, Kleist was able to observe the reactions of the key players at close quarters. He criticized King Frederick William III for his reluctance to reject the offer of a ceasefire and placed his hopes in the patriotic activism of Queen Luise (SWB, 4:367). Kleist feared not only that Prussia would be plundered and ruthlessly subjugated under the rule of “dieser Wütherich” (this brute; SWB, 4:364) Napoleon, but also that the resulting circumstances would not be conducive to the flourishing of art, which required “Unbefangenheit des Gemüths” (freedom of spirit; SWB, 4:352). In January 1807, he therefore set out from Königsberg with friends and headed for Saxony. However, he and his companions did not reach their goal because they were arrested in French-occupied Berlin on suspicion of 15 spying for the Prussian army. Kleist spent the next six months imprisoned in France, though he was able to continue working on Penthesilea and Die Marquise von O. . . . (The Marquise of O. . . ., 1808), particularly after he

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was moved to more comfortable surroundings in April as a result of the decision by the French authorities to treat him as a prisoner of war. Kleist was finally released in July after the Treaty of Tilsit and made his way to Dresden, where his play Amphitryon had been published earlier that year, and where he felt the literary market had been least damaged by the French occupation (SWB, 4:377, 403). In Dresden, where he lived until early 1809, he enjoyed considerable intellectual stimulation, not only from his friends Rühle and Pfuel, but also from the philosophers Adam Müller and Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert, the artists C. F. Hartmann, J. H. W. Tischbein, and Gerhard von Kügelgen, and from the Austrian chargé d’affaires Joseph von Buol-Mühlingen. In January 1808, Kleist and Müller launched a short-lived journal, Phöbus, which they hoped would stimulate artistic innovation through the mutual encounter of “die allerentgegengesetztesten Ansichten, Werke und Künste” (the most sharply contrasting views, works and artistic forms; SWB, 3:647). This conception of progress through conflict was one that Kleist had already set out in his essay Über die allmählige Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden (On the Gradual Production of Thoughts While Speaking; first published 1878), and that he would develop further in his subsequent writings on education. Kleist’s emphasis on the productive nature of disagreement constituted a challenge to the harmonizing principles of Weimar Classicism, a discrepancy that Goethe’s cool response to Penthesilea further illustrated (SWB, 4:410). The relationship deteriorated further after Goethe’s production of Der zerbrochne Krug in March 1808 was poorly received by its audience in Weimar. Kleist later attacked Goethe openly in his epigrams for Phöbus (SWB, 3:412), and at the time he is said to have blamed Goethe and to have considered challenging him to a duel. This story is not implausible, for Kleist was under intense pressure: his work was not reaching the prices that he hoped for and public tastes were at variance with the kind of dramatic work he was producing (SWB, 4:377, 396). His mental state cannot have been helped by the collapse of the Phöbus project in March 1809, the financial circumstances of which led to a breach with Müller. The summer of 1808 also saw the start of a period of frenetic political engagement for Kleist. He had been opposed to Napoleon’s European politics at least since his time in Switzerland in 1802, but now, inspired perhaps by the news of successful guerrilla efforts against French forces in Spain, and by growing tensions between France and Austria, Kleist translated his political ideas into activism. Not only did he write in the service of German liberation, he also became involved with anti-French resistance groups in 16 Dresden. Like his friend Pfuel, Kleist was, it seems, active in exchanging information with Prussian conspirators, and possibly spying, in late 1808 and early 1809.17 During the late summer and early autumn of 1808, he wrote his fiercely nationalistic play Die Herrmannsschlacht (The Battle of Armin-

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ius), which presents the Germans with a model for action against Napoleon in the uprising of Arminius against the Romans.18 Kleist was aware that it would simply have been too dangerous to publish his anti-French polemic in Saxony, but he hoped to have it performed in Austria, along with his earlier play Das Käthchen von Heilbronn (Kate of Heilbronn).19 Even though he was in debt, Kleist offered Die Herrmannsschlacht and three patriotic poems to the Austrian Court Secretary Heinrich Joseph von Collin at no charge (SWB, 4:431–32).20 Following the outbreak of hostilities in April 1809, he followed the exiled Austrian chargé d’affaires Buol-Mühlingen on foot to Prague, where they explored the possibility of setting up a weekly paper, Germania, which would promote an all-German uprising against Napoleon. The Austrian victory at Aspern on 21–22 May left Kleist in no doubt that the time had come when Prussia would join the fight against France, and that Napoleon would no longer be able to divide and rule Europe. He followed with interest the progress of the Prussian Major Schill, who had defied orders to lead his forces out against Napoleon (SWB, 4:434–36). In spring 1809 Kleist was highly productive across a wide range of literary forms. However, his hopes for Germania ended with the Austrian defeat at Wagram in early July, which was quickly followed by a ceasefire. Kleist told his half-sister Ulrike that recent events had destroyed all his plans, and he could see no future for his writing (SWB, 4:437). Little is known of Kleist’s activities over the following months, although it is known that he traveled to Frankfurt an der Oder and Frankfurt am Main. In February 1810, he settled in Berlin, which was to be his main abode until his death the following year. He managed to renew his acquaintance with the reform politicians Altenstein and Staegemann, and he was reconciled with Adam Müller. He lived near the writers Achim von Arnim (1781–1831) and Clemens Brentano (1778–1842), and was introduced to the house of the Jewish literary hostess, Rahel Levin. As in Dresden, Kleist enjoyed considerable intellectual stimulation from his immediate environment. In March, he appeared at the court to present Queen Luise with a birthday poem, in which he identified her as Prussia’s standard-bearer during the occupation and as the center of the patriotic resistance to Napoleon (SWB, 3:442–43). The tribute was of course also in Kleist’s interests, for he believed that the queen was paying him a small pension, which in reality was probably provided by his relative Marie von Kleist. Kleist was hopeful that the queen would be able to promote his career and that his work in progress, Prinz Friedrich von Homburg (The Prince of Homburg, first published 1821), would be performed at the national theater (SWB, 4:442–43). The publisher Georg Andreas Reimer, a fellow adversary of Napoleon, accepted his stories Michael Kohlhaas, Die Marquise von O. . . ., and Das Erdbeben in Chili for publication. In spring 1810, then, Kleist’s chances of a literary ca-

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reer in Prussia seemed relatively favorable, even if he remained in a financially precarious situation (SWB, 4:448). The sudden death of Queen Luise in July therefore devastated Kleist for two reasons: not only did it mean the loss of a point of crystallization for the anti-Napoleonic resistance in Prussia, but also it meant a blow to his finances and his career. He later claimed that the loss of income had in part led him into another new enterprise, the Berliner Abendblätter (SWB, 4:490). The paper, which appeared every day apart from Sundays, offered readers a mix of news, theater reviews, anecdotes, short essays, and stories in a manageable, inexpensive format. Kleist aimed to produce a paper that would appeal to all social classes, but also claimed an explicit moral and patriotic agenda.21 However, the publication proved controversial. The occasional indelicacy of Kleist’s references offended prominent readers (SWB, 4:454), but much more seriously, the paper aroused the anger of the Prussian government with its political discussions, particularly on the reputation of Kleist’s former teacher, Christian Jacob Kraus, whose liberal economic doctrines were the foundation for the government’s contentious policies. Kleist allowed both sides of the debate to be represented in his paper, but the government clearly did not welcome any publicity that was given to its detractors. The paper was therefore censored, not only in its explicitly political sections, but also in its news reports, which had overstepped the mark in reporting French defeats on the Iberian peninsula. Nonetheless, commentators have shown that Kleist still did manage to smuggle anti-Napoleonic references into his paper, though it remains unclear to what extent his readers understood them 22 as such. The popularity of the paper declined after its sensational first quarter, and particularly after Police Chief Justus Gruner’s crime reports were toned down and the majority of Kleist’s news had to come from rival papers. Kleist briefly entertained the hope of turning the Berliner Abendblätter into a semi-official publication, but his efforts to woo the government came to nothing. Finally, amidst recrimination between Kleist and both his publisher and Chancellor Hardenberg, the paper ceased to appear on 30 March 1811. In February 1811 Kleist received a new contract from Reimer for a second volume of stories, which appeared the following August. Kleist had worked frenetically throughout the winter, but, as before, his financial position remained precarious. For much of the time, he worked in bed, perhaps in part to keep warm.23 In May and June, Kleist petitioned Hardenberg and members of the royal family, without success, for compensation for the failure of the Abendblätter, or for his readmission to the civil service. Marie von Kleist used her connections at court to achieve Kleist’s readmission to the army, which was granted on 11 September, but only if Prussia became involved in conflict. Yet again, the politics of his age intimately influenced Kleist’s fate. He noted in early October that it seemed most unlikely that Prussia would break with France (SWB, 4:505). He had recently met the

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military reformer Gneisenau and passed on his own military essays to him, which were reportedly well received.24 Deeply impressed by the encounter, Kleist dreamed of finding his place in the world as part of Gneisenau’s entourage if Prussia did ally with Russia. But Kleist correctly assumed that such a turn of events was unlikely. All too often of late, he noted, he felt that the ground had been pulled from under him (SWB, 4:505). Just weeks later, Kleist was in deep despair, and it is clear that he had resolved to take his own life, having finally found in the terminally ill Henriette Vogel someone willing to join him in a suicide pact.25 They ended their lives together near Potsdam on 21 November 1811. Kleist had felt isolated in Berlin for some time, but his loneliness had been exacerbated by the remarks made to him in Frankfurt by his sisters, who, he believed, viewed him as a worthless member of society. Kleist made it clear that the political situation — specifically, Prussia’s rapprochement with France — also played a role in his suicide (SWB, 4:509). Thus Kleist’s suicide bears the ultimate testimony to the uncommon keenness with which he reacted to the politics of his age and to the profound investment that he felt in the future of his country.

Literature and Politics Why was Kleist’s life affected so powerfully by political matters? In part, it was due to the momentous changes that occurred, which deeply affected most people’s lives: the reshaping of Europe, first under the French Revolution and then under Napoleon, the collapse of the ancient Holy Roman Empire, and the extensive reforms undertaken in many German states. Kleist’s birth into an aristocratic family with a strong military tradition meant that he acquired first-hand experience of the army at senior level and that he later gained employment in the Prussian bureaucracy. Almost by default, Kleist was close to the center of power, and the Prussian elite was in any case a small world. He knew the king personally, and in his short life he became acquainted with numerous leading statesmen and thinkers. Given his intimate knowledge of the central players and the processes of decision-making in government, it is hardly surprising that Kleist should have reflected upon them in his literary work. At the same time, Kleist did not generally write about his immediate surroundings in an unmediated way. In this respect, Kleist’s manner typified the aesthetic climate of his age, although his literary method was highly distinctive. His complex literary work has prompted tremendously varied critical responses, and there is little agreement on the extent or the nature of his engagement with the political events of his times. Some commentators have questioned whether Kleist was really interested in the society around him and have suggested that, because of his experiences of professional, intellectual, and social alienation, Kleist 26 developed into a “poet without a society.” Georg Lukács argued that he

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lived in “total isolation,” and that most of his works had little connection to the historical reality that surrounded him.27 More recent criticism on the whole rejects such a view, and seeks to establish connections between Kleist’s works and his position in the historical world. In fact, Lukács argued at the same time that social isolation had intensified the influence that Kleist’s aristocratic upbringing had on him, making him small-minded and deeply conservative.28 Lukács’s essay, composed in 1936, reflects what was perhaps the prevailing early twentieth-century view of Kleist as a militant conservative. Reinhold Steig, in particular, set this tone when he argued that Kleist should be seen as an important player in a group of anti-Enlightenment, anti-liberal thinkers who used the Berliner Abendblätter as their principal weapon against Hardenberg’s reforms.29 Steig’s work did much to further the critical view of Kleist’s time in Berlin, but more recent work has emphasized the diversity of standpoints that his paper embraced. Nonetheless, Steig’s view of a conservative, aristocratically minded Kleist continues to find support, most notably in Wolf Kittler’s monograph.30 Kittler argues that Kleist’s entire literary oeuvre functions as an illustration of the practice of “total war,” and even suggests, somewhat implausibly, that the military essays that Kleist is reported to have passed to Gneisenau in 1811 could be almost any of his literary works.31 The study of Kleist’s attitude to the military reforms initiated under Gerhard von Scharnhorst was first established in the work of Richard Samuel. Samuel demonstrated convincingly the detailed correspondences between the genesis of Die Herrmannsschlacht in the second half of 1808 and contemporaneous developments in anti-Napoleonic agitation in Prussia and Spain.32 Although Samuel’s view of Kleist’s military ideas is in line with Kittler’s more recent arguments, his understanding of Kleist’s politics was quite different. He argued that the staunch partisan Kleist “had little sympathy with the politically orthodox aristocracy,” and that he emerged in his prose works as one of the most radical social critics of his time.33 Ruth Angress also argues powerfully that Kleist’s literary works show his interest in radical political ideas, actions, and forms of community.34 In her monograph, Christiane Schreiber argues that Kleist espoused liberal ideals and sees parallels between Kleist’s ideas and those of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau that extend almost to the choice of wording. Schreiber also considers aspects of the governmental reforms after 1806, arguing that the concept of “revolution from above” was central to Kleist’s political thought.35 In particular, Schreiber submits that Michael Kohlhaas and articles in the Berliner Abendblätter demonstrate Kleist’s support for the government’s abolition of trade guilds.36 Jochen Schmidt’s recent book also argues that Kleist was an enthusiastic supporter of the economic and legal reforms of the Stein-Hardenberg government.37

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Although there is some critical consensus on Kleist’s military ideas, significant divides remain over Kleist’s ideas on other political matters — and the most fundamental divide relates to the question of whether he should be categorized as a liberal or a conservative.38 The biographical evidence regarding his engagement with political matters is helpful only to a limited extent. As we saw, Kleist was well placed to form a judgment on some central political matters, but there are very few unambiguous statements of his political thinking. He did state his opposition to Napoleonic hegemony quite forcefully, but even here, there are some oddities that complicate the picture, such as his attempts to join the French army in 1803 and his professed willingness to publish the Napoleonic Code in Saxony. These difficulties have been explained, perhaps somewhat speculatively, with reference to Kleist’s depressed state in 1803 and his financial hardship in 1807. But other matters relating directly to Kleist’s positions on political and social matters in Germany are more deeply problematic. For instance, Kleist’s decision to omit the noble particle “von” from his signature has rightly been understood as an expression of his repudiation of the corporative state, but it is much less clear why he resumed its use again regularly after 1805. Whether Kleist was now affirming his belief in social hierarchy or had merely resolved to make use of the advantages that it brought remains opaque. Similarly, it is unclear whether the enthusiasm that Kleist professed to Altenstein for his economic reforms reflects his real sentiments or if his words were only intended to impress his superior. The available biographical evidence about Kleist’s attitude to politics does not provide us with a complete picture. For this reason, this study focuses on Kleist’s literary work with the intention of furthering our understanding of his political ideas. Kleist’s thinking is characterized by tensions between the competing imperatives of order and freedom, individualism and community, nationalism and cosmopolitanism. Such tensions attain their fullest expression only in his literary writing, thanks to the plurality of discourses that his works are able to sustain alongside one another. In contrast, many of the political frameworks deployed by critics seeking to interpret Kleist’s writing — economic liberalism, military reformism, aristocratic conservatism — have a more systematic, monolithic character that differs fundamentally from the multivalent texture of Kleist’s fictions. Post-structuralist critics might question the distinction between literature and other forms of communication, but it is questionable whether readers approach all forms of 39 discourse with the same expectations. By the same token, literary writing operates with a set of discursive conventions that are not its exclusive domain, but which are accepted by most readers and authors as integral to its production of meaning . It is imperative to retain an appreciation of what is distinctive about Kleist’s technique as a writer and to analyze how it bears upon the meaning of his works. Kleist’s work is characterized by a persistent

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ambiguity that militates against the attempt to categorize his thought within established political parameters. The reader is faced with constant interpretative challenges in his fictional worlds, where the borders between order and chaos, devotion and violence, dream and reality are highly porous. By turns his works offer the reader an excess and a dearth of interpretative guidance, reflecting perhaps the mind of a man whose life — even by the standards of this turbulent era — was marked by a vacillation between an absolute certainty of purpose and feelings of disorientation and paralysis. These epistemological and moral crises had profound implications for Kleist’s literary style, for they demanded a language capable of carrying such tensions. The result is a unique, complex syntax that, in its many sub-clauses, advances multiple strands of meaning simultaneously. The difficulty with the positivistic approach adopted by some critics, notably Kittler and Schreiber, is that they tend to neglect the range of ways in which Kleist’s literary method impacts upon his imagining and articulation of political issues. Kleist’s prose style has particularly important implications for such an analysis. His use of flawed narrators, whose understanding of the events they relate is often incomplete or biased, has significant effects on the political meanings of his writing. Bernd Fischer suggests that Kleist’s narrators are used as mouthpieces for the assumptions of the European Enlightenment, which are undermined by events in the stories. In relation to Die Verlobung in St. Domingo (The Betrothal in Santo Domingo, 1811), Fischer argues that the narrator’s conservative moral position is subjected to “a po40 litical deconstruction.” But the relationship between the unreliable narrator and the events narrated is often complex and unstable. In certain stories, the inadequacy of the narratorial framework serves to highlight the acuteness of the difficulties associated with interpreting the events narrated, for the text does not offer any other fully adequate framework for understanding events. In the cases of Michael Kohlhaas and Der Zweikampf (The Duel, 1811), unexpected events towards the end of the stories prove resistant to integration into the interpretative structures that the texts themselves have put forward, a device which emphasizes the shortcomings of all available legal frameworks.41 The present study gives considerable attention to issues of characterization. Kleist showed an especially intricate sense of the multifarious impulses that together constitute human motivation, and his finely worked linguistic constructions do much to add depth to his characters. As Wolfgang Kayser suggests in his seminal analysis of the prose works, the Kleistian protagonist is deeply embedded in the material world;42 indeed, the same could be said of Kleist’s dramatic figures. Michael Perraudin draws on Kayser’s ideas to question whether Kleist makes racist distinctions in Die Verlobung in St. Domingo and concludes that the characters’ psychological processes show fundamental similarities regardless of racial origin.43 Indeed, although Kleist

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regards race as irrelevant, he acknowledges culture as a powerful force that shapes and constrains human behavior, as the following chapter argues. Kayser’s observation has further important implications for our understanding of Kleist’s political thinking. In particular, it implies that his characters’ ethical autonomy is limited. This is significant, for it distinguishes Kleist’s conception of human nature from that deployed by the reformist statesmen of his day, who posited an ideal-type of an infinitely malleable44 and endlessly educable human subject. For Kleist, the restricted moral autonomy of the human subject necessarily circumscribes the possibility of achieving sustained political change. His characters are not purely rational individuals, but are driven by the complex interaction of their intellect and their passions (in the broadest sense). As such, they are rarely understandable within a conventional political framework. In particular, it is apparent that even when Kleist is describing real political figures in his letters, his observations have a strongly literary character. His account of his meeting with Köckeritz is striking in this respect (SWB, 4:322–24).45 Writing to Ulrike, Kleist portrays his first awkward encounter with the Prussian authorities since he had committed the potentially treasonable offense of trying to enlist in the French army. In fact, he depicts events with a surprising wry humor. As in his stories, he gives prominence here to the changing physiognomy of his characters. He relates the scene with a typically Kleistian combination of direct and indirect speech, and gives their exchange a distinctly competitive undertone that is reminiscent of remarks in the essay Über die allmählige Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden (SWB, 3:534–40). There is a characteristic attentiveness to non-verbal communication, to dramatic pauses in conversation, to each character’s interpretation of the other’s body language, and to the opaquely meaningful gesture in the form of Köckeritz’s use of his handkerchief. Altogether, these indications contribute to a sense that the outcome of this important interview did not depend primarily on Köckeritz’s application of regulations to Kleist’s individual case, but upon numerous essentially contingent elements arising from the circumstances of their interaction. Indeed, the parallels to the essay Über die allmählige Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden go deeper still, for here too Kleist speculates that the actions of another political figure were perhaps also conditioned by incidental circumstance. In this case, he imagines that Mirabeau may have been provoked into his revolutionary statement of popular sovereignty by a rather banal event: the brusque request by a functionary for deputies to vacate the chamber (SWB, 3:536–37). Of course, the import of this whimsical idea is not to suggest that the French Revolution was an altogether random event, but rather to draw attention to the importance of psychological processes in conditioning the outcome of encounters between human beings. With a characteristically extreme logic, Kleist implies that this applies as much to

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world-historical events such as the French Revolution as to his own more mundane encounter with the Prussian adjutant general. In insisting on the role of human psychological processes in conditioning politics, Kleist restores contingency to an arena that one might assume to be governed entirely by rational argumentation. For this reason, the concern of some critics to align Kleist with a particular political grouping is not helpful. As the following chapters will demonstrate in detail, certain critics overlook the ambiguities of his works as they seek to discern a consistent political ideology in his writing. Kleist’s fictions cannot be mapped straightforwardly onto existing political systems because they are not principally studies in ideology, but in human character. The mature Kleist showed a strong aversion to abstraction, and it is striking that throughout his writing, he conceives of political issues in concrete, human terms. There is a parallel here to the way in which Kleist’s thoughts about Napoleonic hegemony in Europe were often affected by what he perceived to be its effects on him as an individual. In some cases, Kleist’s focus on the personal threatens to obscure political issues entirely, as with his portrayal of his professor Christian Jacob Kraus in a letter to Altenstein, which focuses, to great comic effect, on Kraus’s physical appearance, gestures, and style of communication, and leaves content aside altogether (SWB, 4:340). This is not to argue, of course, that Kleist is not interested in political ideas, but rather to draw attention to the form in which he prefers to think about those ideas. Kleist’s writing makes frequent reference, usually indirectly, to the political ideas of his own and earlier times, and a knowledge of Kleist’s referents helps illuminate the structure of his writing. But these concepts are invariably tested in the arena of human interaction. Kleist commonly focuses on the discrepancy between theory and practice, and it is important to remain attentive to the ways in which events in Kleist’s literary world question models that claim to illuminate political problems. A further corollary of Kleist’s literary method is that it is problematic to try to extrapolate a political philosophy from individual works. Kleist is not an abstract thinker, and arguably there are contradictions, or at the very least substantial tensions, between the positions that he appears to adopt in different works. In the essay Über die allmählige Verfertigung, Kleist, then a civil service trainee, argues that it is problematic to ask an examination candidate to define terms such as statehood or property, for it is only ordinary thinkers who have a ready answer. Superior minds need an opportunity to think their way into the problem, and, Kleist writes, somewhat cryptically, “es ist allererst ein gewisser Zustand unsrer, welcher weiß” (it is chiefly a particular condition of ourselves which knows; SWB, 3:540). His works represent such an opportunity for him to think his way into problems (and to set related problems for his readers), and it is arguable that his ideas vary between different contexts.

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Significant shifts do occur in Kleist’s political thinking, and tensions arise between different areas of concern, particularly as a result of his heightened awareness of national issues during the last five years of his life. However, rather than dismissing these shifts as evidence of intellectual inconsistency, we should rather see them as the mark of a penetrating mind applying itself to difficult problems in an era of rapidly changing paradigms. No single text is a key to understanding Kleist, and in this variety lies the appeal and the importance of his work.

Notes 1

The fullest account available in English is Joachim Maass, Kleist: A Biography, trans. Ralph Manheim (London: Secker & Warburg, 1983); the original German version was published in 1957. However, several excellent accounts in German have appeared recently: Rudolf Loch’s comprehensive Kleist: Eine Biographie (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2003), the briefer Peter Staengle, Heinrich von Kleist (Munich: dtv, 1998), and Klaus Müller-Salget, Heinrich von Kleist (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2002). My account of Kleist’s life in this chapter is especially indebted to Loch’s study. 2 Kleist considered 10 October to be his birthday, and he may be correct in this; see Horst Häker, “10. oder 18. Oktober? Ein Plädoyer für Kleist,” BzKF 7 (1993): 149– 54. 3 The full title is Aufsatz, den sichern Weg des Glücks zu finden und ungestört — auch unter den größten Drangsalen des Lebens — ihn zu genießen!, which translates as An essay on the surest way of finding happiness and enjoying it without disturbance even amidst the greatest of life’s adversities! It was probably written in 1798 or 1799, but it was published in 1885, long after Kleist’s death. 4 For further details, see Loch, Kleist, 447–48 n. 10. 5 For a direct comparison of Kleist’s and Humboldt’s ideas, see Rudolf Vierhaus, “Heinrich von Kleist und die Krise des preußischen Staates um 1800,” KJb (1980): 9–33. 6 Most recent criticism has rightly questioned the thesis that this crisis in Kleist’s life was simply the outcome of his reading of Kant. See, for instance, Thomas Wichmann, Heinrich von Kleist, Sammlung Metzler, 240 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1988), 29–39; and Staengle, Kleist, 48–50. 7 This theme also features in one of Kleist’s essays. See SWB, 3:532. 8 For more on this theme, see especially Anthony Stephens, “Kleist’s Mythicisation of the Napoleonic Era,” in Romantic Nationalism in Europe, ed. J. C. Eade, Humanities Research Centre Monograph, no. 2 (Canberra: Humanities Research Centre, Australia National University, 1983), 165–79. 9 A reconstructed version of Robert Guiskard was first published in 1808 in Kleist’s journal Phöbus. 10 See R. H. Samuel and H. M. Brown, Kleist’s Lost Year and the Search for Robert Guiskard (Leamington Spa: Hall, 1981), 67–87; and Loch, Kleist, 189–97. 11 See Loch, Kleist, 193–96.

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See further Richard H. Samuel, “Heinrich von Kleist und Karl Baron von Altenstein: Eine Miszelle zu Kleists Biographie,” in Samuel, Selected Writings (Melbourne: University of Melbourne, Department of German Studies, 1965), 85–92. 13 See Staengle, Kleist, 78–80. 14 The first complete version of Michael Kohlhaas was published in 1810, although a fragment appeared in Phöbus in 1808. Extracts from Penthesilea and Der zerbrochne Krug were also published in Phöbus in 1808. These two plays were published in their entirety in 1808 and 1811 respectively. The title Das Erdbeben in Chili comes from the version of the story published in 1810. The story was first published in 1807 as Jeronimo und Josephe: Eine Szene aus dem Erdbeben zu Chili (Jeronimo and Josephe: A Scene from the Earthquake in Chile). 15 Richard Samuel suggests that the suspicion may not have been altogether unfounded. See further Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme an den politischen Bewegungen der Jahre 1805–1809, trans. Wolfgang Barthel (Frankfurt an der Oder: Kleist-Gedenk- und Forschungsstätte, 1995), 45–49. 16 See Helmut Sembdner, ed., Heinrich von Kleists Lebensspuren: Dokumente und Berichte der Zeitgenossen, new ed. (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1996), 291–93. 17 See Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme, 171–227. 18 An extract of Die Herrmannsschlacht was published in 1818; the full text of the play appeared in 1821. 19 Fragments of the play appeared in Phöbus in 1808. Publication of the full text followed in 1810. 20 But see Staengle, Kleist, 110–11, on Kleist’s awareness of the commercial potential of the poems. 21 See his Gebet des Zoroaster (Prayer of Zoroaster, 1810) in SWB, 3:541–42, and his letters to Fouqué and Lichnowsky (SWB, 4:451–52, 454). 22 On this point, see Otto Johnston, The Myth of a Nation: Literature and Politics in Prussia under Napoleon (Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1989), 68–83; Nancy Nobile, The School of Days: Heinrich von Kleist and the Traumas of Education (Detroit, MI: Wayne State UP, 1999), 113–40; and John Hibberd’s articles, “Heinrich von Kleist’s Report on Heligoland,” GLL, n.s., 51 (1998): 431–42, and “Kleist’s Berliner Abendblätter and the Peninsular War,” GLL, n.s., 54 (2001): 219–33. 23 See Achim von Arnim’s remarks in Sembdner, ed., Lebensspuren, 319. 24 See Helmut Sembdner, ed., Heinrich von Kleists Nachruhm: Eine Wirkungsgeschichte in Dokumenten, new ed. (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1997), 108. 25 Kleist had met Henriette Vogel the previous year. Both Kleist and Vogel were among the godparents of Adam Müller’s daughter Cäcilie, and the two practised their music together. Critical interest in Henriette Vogel has grown in recent years. For more on Vogel’s contribution to Kleist’s last known poetic text, the so-called Todeslitanei, see Katherine Ebisch-Burton, “‘Wie über alles Gedachte und zu Erdenkende lieb ich Dich’: Kleist’s and Henriette Vogel’s Todeslitanei as Poetic Figuration

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of the Beloved – A Reassessment of Kleist’s Feminine Credentials,” GLL 55 (2002), 235–47. 26 See Karl Otto Conrady, “Das Moralische in Kleists Erzählungen: ein Kapitel vom Dichter ohne Gesellschaft,” in Heinrich von Kleist: Aufsätze und Essays, ed. Walter Müller-Seidel, Wege der Forschung, 147 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967), 707–35. 27 See Georg Lukács, Deutsche Realisten des 19. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1952), 20, 32–33. 28 See Lukács, Deutsche Realisten, 48. 29 See Reinhold Steig, Heinrich von Kleist’s Berliner Kämpfe (Berlin: Spemann, 1901). 30 See Wolf Kittler, Die Geburt des Partisanen aus dem Geist der Poesie: Heinrich von Kleist und die Strategie der Befreiungskriege (Freiburg: Rombach, 1987); GonthierLouis Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion in Kleists Werk im Spannungsfeld der Französischen Revolution,” KJb (1988–89): 64–88; and Manfred Botzenhart, “Kleist und die preußischen Reformer,” KJb (1988–89): 132–46. 31 See Kittler, Geburt, 369–70. 32 See Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme, 99–169. 33 See Richard Samuel, ed., “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg”: Ein Schauspiel by Heinrich von Kleist, rev. ed. (London: Harrap, 1962), 22; and Samuel, “Heinrich von Kleists Novellen,” in Deutsche Weltliteratur: Von Goethe bis Ingeborg Bachmann: Festgabe für J. Alan Pfeffer, ed. Klaus W. Jonas (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1972), 73–88, here 84. 34 See Ruth K. Angress, “Kleist’s Treatment of Imperialism: Die Hermannsschlacht and Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” Monatshefte 69 (1977): 17–33; and her “Kleist’s Nation of Amazons,” in Beyond the Eternal Feminine: Critical Essays on Women and German Literature, ed. Susan L. Cocalis and Kay Goodman, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 98 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 1982), 99–134. 35 See Christiane Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!”: Heinrich von Kleist und die preußischen Reformen, Germanistische Arbeiten zu Sprache und Kulturgeschichte, 18 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1991), especially 290–92. 36 See Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!” 109–29. 37 See Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Die Dramen und Erzählungen in ihrer Epoche (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003), especially 207–44. 38

John Hibberd’s work on the Berliner Abendblätter is an exception in this respect. Hibberd argues that Kleist showed “astuteness in avoiding identification with any of the political camps in Berlin, liberal or conservative.” See Hibberd, “Hot Air over Berlin: Kleist, Balloon Flight and Politics,” Colloquia Germanica 31 (1998): 37–53, here 50. 39 For example, it would be surprising if judges looked for irony when interpreting legislation. 40 See Bernd Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik: Die Erzählungen Heinrich von Kleists (Munich: Fink, 1988), 111.

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See further John M. Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist: Studies in the Character and Meaning of his Writings, University of North Carolina Studies in the Germanic Languages and Literatures, 94 (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1979), 116–17. Compare also Anthony Stephens, “On Structures in Kleist,” in A Companion to the Works of Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Bernd Fischer (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2003), 63– 79. 42 See Wolfgang Kayser, “Kleist als Erzähler,” in Kayser, Die Vortragsreise: Studien zur Literatur (Bern: Francke, 1958), 168–83, here 181–82. 43 This question is discussed in greater detail in the next chapter. See Michael Perraudin, “Babekan’s ‘Brille,’ and the Rejuvenation of Congo Hoango: A Reinterpretation of Kleist’s Story of the Haitian Revolution,” OGS 20/21 (1991–92): 85–103. 44 Kleist uses this metaphor, with negative connotations, in his letter to his half-sister Ulrike of 25 November 1800. 45 One of the few critics to comment on this episode is Hilda Brown; see the engaging analysis in her book Heinrich von Kleist: The Ambiguity of Art and the Necessity of Form (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 57–59.

3: The Nation, the State, and the Subject

K

LEIST’S EARLY LETTERS bear witness to his engagement with questions surrounding forms of statehood and their relationship to national culture and to the individual. His break with the army in 1799 was prompted by what was essentially a moral judgment: that the ethos of the army prevented him as an individual from conducting himself according to his own insights as a rational being. Kleist criticized the absolutist state for its functionalization of the individual, and for similar reasons he was loath to accept a position within the bureaucratic structure supporting absolutism. The experience of living in Berlin and Paris led Kleist to develop a critique of both national cultures and to highlight the inhuman aspects of both environments. But his attempt to turn away from the civilized world and escape into an idyllic, supposedly natural existence in Switzerland also failed following Napoleon’s military intervention, and forced Kleist to acknowledge that the political world could not be avoided. In later years, as Napoleon extended his power over the European continent, the impossibility of escaping politics was to become an important theme of Kleist’s work. As we saw previously, the French Revolution and the hegemony of Napoleonic forces in Europe had forced Prussian politicians to reflect critically on the weaknesses of the absolutist state, and prompted them to make proposals for reform that sought to establish a direct connection between the aims of the state and the interests of the individual. Kleist takes up these questions in his literary work, and does so in an increasingly nuanced form. Whereas his early letters approached these issues primarily from an individual perspective and concentrated on the ways in which the autonomy of the individual could be undermined by cultural or political influences, his literary works are more complex because they suggest that the achievement of self-realization is not a matter of casting off the constraints imposed by received forms of culture and politics. He achieves a growing insight into the importance of the cultural and political community for the individual, and of the contribution that the individual can in turn make to the community. Kleist therefore points to a complex and dynamic relationship between the individual and the group; and thus, while the individual’s behavior remains the primary object of Kleist’s interest, it is not correct to suggest that Kleist is somehow hostile to society. Indeed, we will see that Kleist’s works carefully build up an impression of a culture and a community around their central protagonists, and that they engage in the debates outlined in chapter 1 regarding the relationship between culture and politics.

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Die Familie Schroffenstein Kleist’s first play, Die Familie Schroffenstein, deals with some of the themes that had preoccupied him since his break with the army. It represents the origins of a feud between two ruling counts, Rupert and Sylvester von Schroffenstein, who head different branches of the same family, and each of whom stands to inherit the other’s property if he dies without an heir. The children of the family attempt to escape the conflict between their fathers, and two of them fall in love. The plot is clearly modeled on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, but in Kleist’s version, the two lovers meet their death at the hands of their own fathers. The play is of interest to the current discussion because of its treatment of the relationship between the natural world and the political arena, and thus it raises questions that had assumed some importance for Kleist in the period between his decision to leave the army and his failed attempt to escape society by taking up farming in Switzerland. The natural world features in the play as the location of the lovers’ secret meetings, but importantly, it is also the subject of the characters’ reflections. This applies especially to the two counts, who invoke views of the natural world in order to justify their political choices. This is most apparent in the case of Rupert, who believes that Sylvester had his son Peter murdered. He argues that the killing has given the lie to the notion that nature is essentially benevolent, and that vengeance is therefore the only adequate response (ll. 40–73). Significantly, Rupert has not always held these views; they are the sentiments of a disap1 pointed man who did once value kinship. But now that he has decided on revenge, he finds images of nature to support his course, such as the metaphor of the two lines of the family as trees that have been planted too close together, so that they inevitably crash against one another (ll. 1971–72). But Sylvester, his counterpart at Warwand, also uses nature to justify his decision not to take revenge following the murder of his son, which his wife blames on Rupert. Indeed, Sylvester’s worldview is underpinned by a dogmatic belief in the unchanging benevolence of nature (ll. 490–503), which leads him to dismiss as foolish his gardener’s suggestion that the life of his daughter may be in danger (ll. 509–10), and to argue that his wife’s dissent from his position demonstrates that she is sick (ll. 513–22). It becomes apparent in the course of the play that nature does not provide an absolute, unchanging value system, even for Sylvester. When he is accused of murder by Jeronimus, Sylvester faints, and while he lies unconscious, another messenger is killed. But Sylvester still interprets his fainting as a sign of his vigor, for, like the healthy oak, he has been felled outright by the “storm” of the accusation (ll. 960–66). However, when he later believes that Rupert has killed his daughter Agnes, he revises the metaphor of the oak in order to justify his latest decision in favor of revenge, arguing that the tree

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that is only bent in the storm is all the more powerful when it returns to the upright position (ll. 2578–82). Thus it becomes apparent that nature is not an infallible moral guide, as Kleist had argued in his letters to Wilhelmine in 1801; rather, it is open to manipulation in order to support a range of political actions, from unconditional forgiveness to uncompromising revenge.2 There is, therefore, no way out of the political realm and into the natural world because all ways of talking about nature stop at the ideological and cultural boundaries that separate Rossitz and Warwand. Many critics have detected the influence of Kleist’s philosophical interests in Die Familie Schroffenstein. It has been argued that the play bears the traces of his reading of Kant, and that through the figure of Jeronimus he demonstrates the failure of reason to untangle a complex reality and the superiority of Sylvester’s “intuitive” approach to the world.3 Others have argued that the play shows the influence of Rousseau’s ideas about the evils of property ownership, which Kleist represents through the mechanism of the contract of inheritance that applies to both families.4 However, this view does not explain why Sylvester initially behaves differently from Rupert. Indeed, the inheritance contract is only ever claimed to be as relevant to the feud as the apple was to the biblical Fall — and thus perhaps the contingent symbol of a condition to which it is not causally connected.5 These Kantian and Rousseauist readings share a common faith in the ability of the younger generation to resolve the difficulties of their parents, if only they had the chance. It has been suggested that, while most of the characters are trapped in their own subjectivity, the lovers Ottokar and Agnes have succeeded in breaking out of this trap into a Rousseauistic natural idyll.6 But while Ottokar and Agnes do manage to escape into the natural world from their respective political environments, their access to nature is hampered by the patterns of thought and language that they have inherited from their parents. Nonetheless, many critics argue that it is precisely the lovers’ ability to communicate openly that enables them to overcome the mutual suspicion of their families.7 Such a reading takes its cue from the lovers’ own language. During their first meeting, Agnes avoids telling Ottokar her name, telling him falsely that she has not been baptized. Later, when he reminds her of this event, he uses it as an opportunity to recreate an image of their meeting as “innocent” lovers meeting in a natural idyll, and to try to hold back the encroachment of their family backgrounds upon their relationship (ll. 1254–68). Thus the lovers’ self-image is “a romantic tableau of their own making.”8 Like their fathers, Agnes and Ottokar do not speak of nature as it really is, but, rather, they offer a highly stylized vision of pastoral bliss. Johann is also complicit in this avoidance of tragic reality. In the opening scene, he too uses poetic language to avoid naming Agnes; he speaks of their first encounter in terms reminiscent of the meeting of Diana and Actaeon (ll.

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265–93),9 and compares her to an angel (ll. 293–98), thereby stylizing and partially obscuring the erotic aspects of the encounter. Neither he nor Ottokar confronts Rupert over his call to revenge, and they take comfort in each other and in their shared sensibility (ll. 323–27). Ottokar uses his linguistic dexterity to avoid acknowledging the political conflict that threatens his relationship with Agnes: he tries to avoid swearing revenge on Agnes by cursing only Sylvester (ll. 28–29); he implies that he has never met Agnes (ll. 117– 19); and he suggests to Johann that it would be prudent not to try to discover the identity of the “angelic” Agnes (ll. 316–18). Indeed, Ottokar’s self-deception is so effective that he appears to be truly shocked when he learns Agnes’s identity (l. 352). Agnes too participates in this disingenuous behavior and mimics her father in telling Ottokar that her house is at peace with its neighbors (ll. 741– 47). But she also uses the language of suspicion that she has heard at home and transforms it into the language of trust. Thus she quotes her mother, who worries that Ottokar may try to poison her (ll. 1110–13), as she stylizes herself as a tragic lover ready to sacrifice herself completely for love (ll. 1298–300). But it is clear that she never really believed that Ottokar might poison her (ll. 1335–38). She does not take seriously the threat to her life from Rupert’s branch of the family and manipulates it as part of her courtship with Ottokar. Ottokar responds to Agnes’s lead by gesturing selfconsciously to the model of tragic love provided by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (ll. 1333–34). This is, therefore, hardly an authentic exchange; it 10 is, rather, one that is fundamentally based on literary convention. The lovers’ self-deception reaches its bloody climax in act 5, as the lovers meet in the cave. Here, Ottokar claims that happiness is silent (ll. 2415–18), but, in what follows, it is his narrative that enables them to anticipate the future joys of married life. But the scene is punctuated by Barnabe’s series of alerts of Rupert’s approach. Agnes grows ever more alarmed, but she is seduced and then forced into silence by Ottokar (ll. 2431, 2481). He even lies to Agnes (l. 2495) and only reveals the truth when his father appears, having increased the danger by procrastinating. In this scene, it becomes especially clear that the lovers’ perfect communication is an invention fashioned by Ottokar and that their sophisticated play acting is leading them into danger, rather than out of it. Die Familie Schroffenstein shows how cultural forms are passed on within the domains of Warwand and Rossitz and demonstrates how the cultural and philosophical systems established by Rupert, Sylvester, and the three children are employed to justify their behavior. The play is an important document of Kleist’s early awareness of the subtle connections that exist between politics and the cultural and philosophical constructs of social groups. There is no space in the play that offers an escape from civilized society, for the fathers even penetrate the lovers’ highly artificial idyll.

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Kleist seems to agree with Rousseau about the ills of society, but sees no way back out.

Penthesilea Penthesilea represents an important development in Kleist’s thinking about the relationship between culture, politics, and personal identity, as here he offers nothing less than a history of the development of Amazon personality, culture, and statehood from its origins. As with Die Familie Schroffenstein, Penthesilea concerns itself with questions of environmental conditioning and with the possibility of crossing cultural boundaries. However, much of the impact of the play derives from its intense focus upon Penthesilea’s development through the dynamic interaction of personal experience and her acquired Amazon consciousness. The play demonstrates how the cultural community is strained by the individual’s search for self-expression, but also by the political and military framework that the members of the group must live within for the community to survive. Kleist’s primary interest is in the internal dynamics of the national community, and he demonstrates how effectively national culture can adapt to changing circumstances. The audience is introduced to the Amazons from the perspective of the Greek forces, who are quite perplexed by the women’s behavior. In the opening scene, Odysseus confesses that he cannot understand why the Amazons are attacking both the Greeks and the Trojans, which nearly forced them to join forces against the women’s onslaught. Thus the Amazons’ appearance threatens to bring about deep-seated changes to political allegiances. Indeed, the political ground rules seem to have been transformed overnight, for, as Diomedes notes, there seems to be little respect for monarchy and attempts at negotiation are rebuffed (ll. 549–52). But the Amazons also pose a deeper challenge to the Greek worldview, for in Odysseus’s view of nature, a single dynamic of action and reaction is adequate to describe all phenomena So viel ich weiß, gibt es in der Natur Kraft bloß und ihren Widerstand, nichts Drittes. Was Glut des Feuers löscht, lös’t Wasser siedend Zu Dampf nicht auf und umgekehrt. (SWB, 2:148; ll. 125–28) [As far as I know, within nature there is only force and resistance, no third element. What quenches the heat of fire does not turn water boiling to steam, and vice versa.]

This quasi-Newtonian understanding of the world reaches a point of crisis when it is faced with the Amazon forces; as a result, the Greeks have to label Penthesilea a freak of nature.11 At the same time, they are shown to be less rational than they think they are. Their consternation at the report of Achil-

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les’ capture, which later turns out to be incorrect, is not a reasoned response to the loss of an important fighter, but a superstitious reaction to Calchas’s prophecy that Troy would not fall without Achilles’ participation.12 The play repeatedly makes reference to the specific casus belli, the rape of Helena, but this too is made to seem ridiculous by Achilles (ll. 2518–26). Thus the play discloses some blind spots within the Greeks’ mindset, and thereby relativizes their claim to act rationally.13 Achilles may be critical of his fellow Greeks, but he is hardly more sympathetic towards Amazon culture, which he regards as unfeminine and unnatural (ll. 1903–4). His negative reaction is based on the assumption shared by his fellow Greeks that nature and gender are universally and unchangeably given in the order of things. Many critics share Achilles’ judgment on the Amazons, but in the course of the play, such a perspective comes to seem arrogant.14 In scene 2, the Greeks emphasize Penthesilea’s irrational (l. 314) and animalistic (l. 331) qualities as they watch her pursuit of Achilles; and they maintain this disparaging view even when they believe that the chase has ended in capture. Achilles shares this attitude of complacency towards the Amazon women, but it is an important factor in his downfall. Achilles assumes that the women would die defending him, even if in an over-zealous moment they had set their dogs to kill him (ll. 1428–37). He believes, then, that the Amazons are incapable of carrying out their threats of violence. However, it is striking that in essence Achilles’ words predict the manner of his death. He repeats this error later in talking about Penthesilea, believing that her challenge to him is just a silly formality that is important to her (l. 2460), and that both Penthesilea and her dogs are tame. Like his fellow Greeks, Achilles fails to take account of the diversity of cultural forms within the universe. Such a misjudgment has fatal consequences. The audience is originally offered the unsympathetic Greek perspective on the women’s community, but much of the play is devoted to rendering vividly the cultural forms that they have developed. These include not only the political symbolism of the bow of Tanaïs, but also the ceremonies and songs that accompany the beginning and end of their military campaigns and mark the stages of their reproductive quest. The Amazons’ battle dress is also rendered precisely (ll. 18, 977, 1083). Given this wealth of detail, it seems unlikely that this cultural background is merely intended as a backdrop for Penthesilea herself. Kleist 15 evinces here a serious interest in the development of human culture. Indeed, in scene 15, he offers a view akin to Herder’s, which stresses the material, rather than metaphysical, origins of human culture. Like Herder, Kleist gives considerable weight to the physical environment as an element shaping cultural development. Penthesilea originally tells Achilles that her native culture originates in an obscure mythic past (ll. 1905–8), but it soon becomes apparent that it is the product of specific historical circumstances. Her ac-

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count makes it clear that the belligerent character of her people was established long ago, when the Scythian tribe constantly had to defend its fertile land from attack: Wo jetzt das Volk der Amazonen herrschet, Da lebte sonst, den Göttern untertan, Ein Stamm der Scythen, frei und kriegerisch, Jedwedem andern Volk der Erde gleich. Durch Reih’n schon nannt’ er von Jahrhunderten Den Kaukasus, den fruchtumblühten, sein. . . . (SWB, 2:213; ll. 1913–18) [Where now the Amazon people rule, there lived formerly, subject to the gods, a free and belligerent tribe of Scythians, the equal of any other people on earth. Throughout the centuries it called the fertile Caucasus its own.]

Kleist here cites Rousseau’s image of the noble savage, which Rousseau had specifically applied to the Scythians.16 In Kleist’s account, their fertile homeland was a hard-won prize that they had to defend constantly through the generations. Their historical claim to the land meant nothing in reality, for, as Penthesilea goes on to note, their land came to be conquered by Ethiopian warriors who were principally interested in “unsrer reichen Felder Früchte” (the fruit of our rich fields; l. 1927). Penthesilea’s account demonstrates therefore that the Amazons’ culture, and even their religious practices, are profoundly influenced by their environment.17 It is also implied that the timing of the Amazons’ mating campaigns is closely linked to the fertility of the land, even though officially it is Mars who determines the time of the campaigns (ll. 2048–53).18 Penthesilea’s attachment to her homeland is nowhere more apparent than in her pleading with her vanquisher Achilles to follow her to Themiscyra (ll. 2280–90). In particular, the reality of the women’s community is evoked by the relationship between Penthesilea and Prothoe, in which bitter disagreements are concluded with tender reconciliation and a reaffirmation of sisterhood. The women’s common history constitutes a point of integration that is accepted by all Amazons without question (ll. 1909–10). For similar reasons, the greatest horror that Meroe can imagine is civil war (ll. 2613–17). However, unlike Herder, Kleist does not privilege the national community as the natural political unit. The play suggests that it was solely the Scythians’ success in defending their land that legitimated their statehood. Nor is there any claim that the Amazon state enjoys divine protection, even if it claims divine origins. We learn that an anonymous voice at Tanaïs’s coronation argued that the women would need to make defense a priority (ll. 1977–82). For this reason, the women’s uprising against their Ethiopian

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oppressors cannot be a single act. They need to accept the military imperative and be prepared to accept a permanent change in their lives.19 This prompts Tanaïs to follow the advice of the anonymous speaker, and to remove her right breast to enable her to use her bow more freely. Indeed, the experience of rape and oppression and the success of the liberation effort have already transformed the women from the submissive wives who wept on their husbands’ graves into the fiercely independent misandrists who now even kill their male children (ll. 1963–67). The women accept that the price of their freedom is a redefinition of their bodies and of their behavior as mothers. They are also called upon to use their sexuality in defense of the state. Indeed, the harnessing of erotic energy started when the women fashioned weapons to use against the Ethiopians from jewelry. Penthesilea herself actually wears jewelry in battle (ll. 1254, 1257–61). Sexual purity is so closely guarded in this state that those who are not participating in the courtship celebration, the Rosenfest, are forbidden even to watch — on pain of death. Indeed, it seems that sexual maturity is a prerequisite for entry into battle, particularly because the women’s libidinal energy is channeled into their combat (ll. 928–41, 2035– 36). But Penthesilea’s criticism of Prothoe (ll. 819–37) as weak and unpatriotic demonstrates that it is taboo to express sexual desire openly, although 20 the lyrical tone of her words suggests that she shares these feelings. However, it is doubtful that the play is suggesting that the state is unreasonable in expecting its citizens to make such sacrifices merely because they are difficult. Indeed, such a call to self-giving would have been especially resonant for many spectators in the French-occupied Germany of Kleist’s day. The play demonstrates, then, that political action by a group changes the culture of that group. In the Amazons’ case, the most striking outcome of the liberation struggle is its effect on their attitudes to gender and sexuality. Thus culture cannot be seen separately from politics. At the same time, the formation of political structures also involves the creation of hierarchies and cliques, which threaten to undermine the cohesion of the community. We learn that Penthesilea’s mother was concerned that rival dynasties might seize power (ll. 2133–36), and we see how Penthesilea herself violates Prothoe’s rights by threatening to expel her from the community if she defies her (ll. 831–35). For this reason too, it is clear that Kleist rejects any simple equation of the nation with the state. The relationship between individual and collective identity proves to be equally complex. Both Herder and Fichte argued that individuals only achieved true self-fulfillment by their devotion to the national community. However, Penthesilea herself confesses that she felt resentment when she saw the happiness of others around her (ll. 1690–93). In this respect too, Penthesilea contradicts the official Amazon ideology of communitarianism, and, indeed, the play might be interpreted as the story of Penthesilea’s search for

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self-fulfillment and self-expression independently of her cultural community.21 Certainly, her attachment to her mother initially made her loath to accept the crown (ll. 2150–69), and on her mother’s instructions she specifically goes in pursuit of Achilles, again in violation of Amazon morality. But Penthesilea needs to achieve a sense of identity independent not only of the state, but also of her mother, which becomes apparent when she remarks that her mother never encountered a man like Achilles (ll. 89–90). Her need for an autonomous identity is suggested by her response to Achilles’ question about who he should tell his soul that she is: Wenn sie dich fragt, so nenne diese Züge, Das sei der Nam’, in welchem du mich denkst. — (SWB, 2:210; ll.1814–15) [When it asks you, name these features; may they be the name by which you think of me. — ]

Thus it appears that, for Penthesilea, Achilles represents the promise of the recognition of her selfhood as unique from those around her. For this reason, she demands assurances from him that she is being valued independently, before she reveals to him the history of her nation. However, Penthesilea does not experience Amazon tradition simply as a burden to be cast off. Indeed, she was initially reluctant to go into battle, but she reveals that unexpectedly it awakened an instinctive affinity within her (ll. 2173–77). Indeed, the play reveals that Penthesilea’s thoughts are profoundly conditioned by the norms of her community. This is particularly true of her attitude to love, which she mainly experiences as a weakness to be overcome (ll. 646–50). She regards her beauty as a weapon and curses her adornments for their failure to succeed where her weapons have failed (ll. 1257–58). She is therefore disappointed both as a woman and as a fighter when she exclaims: “Staub lieber, als ein Weib sein, das nicht reizt” (Better 22 to be dust, than a woman who is not desired; ll. 1253). Thus it is untenable to regard Penthesilea’s allegiance to the state as something that she needs to overcome in order to achieve self-realization because the conventions of the community are deeply rooted in her psyche. In any case, Penthesilea’s killing of Achilles demonstrates that love cannot overcome all barriers between cultures. However much Achilles and Penthesilea question their native cultures, they still misunderstand one another: Achilles believes that the Amazon women cannot hurt him, and Penthesilea presumes that Achilles’ challenge to her is issued with the intention of killing her (ll. 2386–91). In response, she channels her anger into making good the loss of prisoners that the Amazons have suffered on her account. When she realizes her error, she tries in sardonic, almost darkly comic mode to reinterpret her killing as an act of love (ll. 2991–96), but it is apparent

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that her love did not overcome the cultural divide that separated her from Achilles. She also formulates her suicide as a means of rejoining her beloved Achilles (ll. 3012–13), but this only emphasizes how their differences prevented them from understanding one another in life. Indeed, it demands a concerted effort on Penthesilea’s part — which has aptly been termed “Spracharbeit” (speech-work) — to break out of Amazon norms.23 Indeed, even after she has asserted her autonomy from the laws of the state, she is again tempted to use her arrows to commit suicide (l. 3021), before finally, by an effort of extreme will, she manages to find a suitably destructive feeling within her breast and to destroy herself. Many commentators assume that the Amazon state will end with Penthesilea’s death, following her secret orders to Prothoe to scatter Tanaïs’s ashes in the wind (ll. 3008–9).24 However, the play demonstrates that the principles of the Law of Tanaïs are deeply embedded in the women’s consciousness, and it seems unlikely that its retention is dependent on material reminders. As the High Priestess’s closing remarks demonstrate, it is one individual who has been destroyed, not an entire culture; even from Prothoe’s more sympathetic perspective, it was Penthesilea’s extraordinary personality that made it difficult for her to integrate into Amazon society (ll. 3004–5).25 We can also discern features of the political world of Kleist’s day in the play’s representation of the encounter between the Greek kings and the Amazon warriors. The Greeks’ combination of dismissiveness and astonishment is reminiscent of the response of the conservative German powers to the French Revolutionary army. Indeed, it has been argued that Kleist’s Amazons should be read as an allusion to the women’s emancipation movements that formed after the French Revolution. Inge Stephan and Dirk Grathoff have pointed to intertextual connections with Schiller’s “Das Lied von der Glocke” (The Song of the Bell), which suggests that the Revolution has provoked a relapse into an uncivilized state of nature, where women have become hyenas. In Kleist’s play, the Greek king Antilochus draws a comparison between Penthesilea and a frenzied hyena (l. 331). Stephan suggests that Kleist’s portrayal of Penthesilea is largely positive, but maintains that the play 26 sounds an unequivocal warning about female emancipation. However, as we have seen, conventional moral perspectives are themselves subject to thoroughgoing critical scrutiny in the play. As Grathoff rightly argues, Penthesilea questions the distinction that Schiller’s poem made between nature and culture. Kleist rather demonstrates the proximity between these states and undermines the superior position of culture by demonstrating its tragic failure in the encounters between Achilles and Penthesilea.27 Indeed, some critics interpret the play as a response to the French Revolution itself. For Sigrid Lange, Penthesilea is critical of the Revolution for its imperfect realization of self-determination and for replacing state authority with a “totalitarian self-discipline.”28 But while the Amazon state undoubt-

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edly places a heavy burden on its citizens, the women not only affirm its discipline, but also achieve a degree of self-realization through their commitment to it. Certainly, the Greek state hardly represents an alternative model state. From the individual perspective, the play poses a single basic problem in both the Greek and Amazon camps: can the individual achieve happiness by complete devotion to private matters, even if this means violating the principles of the community? The fate of Achilles serves as a graphic demonstration of the dangers of ignoring cultural differences. However, Penthesilea’s story is more complex. She may selfishly be seeking sexual satisfaction, but her encounters with Achilles also hold the promise of military achievement — and in this respect, they are inspired by the highest ideals of the Amazon state. In scene 9, her unrealizable will to match up to the celebrated warrior Achilles is really not so different from the determination of the state’s founding mothers that they should never again be dominated by men. In this sense, Kleist seems to suggest that the ideals and goals of the individual may in part match those of the collective.

Die Herrmannsschlacht Like Penthesilea, Die Herrmannsschlacht is concerned with the question of the relationship between national culture and the individual. The play is set in A.D. 9, but its depiction of the liberation of Germany from the Romans would clearly have resonated with many of Kleist’s fellow Germans living under Napoleonic occupation. It represents Germania as a community with its own distinctive cultural ceremonies and values. Religious traditions have a prominent position in this culture, which is shown by the uproar that ensues when the Romans fell the sacred oaks dedicated to Wodan. In act 2, scene 10, we hear of important dates in the German calendar, such as the Nornentag and Alraunentag, and in act 5, scene 4, we even encounter a mysterious German prophetess, the Alraune. There is a solid consensus in this community about the moral issues raised by the rape of the young girl Hally, and strikingly, the bystanders all agree that Hally has been dishonored by the attack. Entertainment is provided by hunting (ll. 2298–99) and social drinking (ll. 137–41). The play also makes repeated reference to the landscape, such as rivers, forests, marshes, cliffs, and mountains; and familiarity with this topography also gives the population a sense of belonging. Indeed, the marshy 29 landscape plays an essential part in the German battle plans. Taken together, such details create an impression of a living cultural community. Nonetheless, Kleist also introduces irony into this picture when Herrmann claims that he loves his wife Thusnelda in the German sense, respectfully and with longing (ll. 667–68). In fact, although Herrmann clearly does love Thusnelda deeply and is pained when she flirts with the Roman legate Ventidius (l. 121), he is more often ironic and condescending in his treatment of

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her. Certainly, the play radically revises the idealized and rather earnest picture of Herrmann offered in Klopstock’s plays and poems, which constitute an important referent for Kleist. What is striking about this portrait of a community is that Kleist emphatically does not follow Fichte in viewing the German language as an important constitutive element of cultural homogeneity. For Fichte, language structured the national psyche and made it impenetrable to other peoples. But Kleist places this idea in the mouth of a Roman general, who complains that he has been led to the wrong destination — Iphikon rather than Pfiffikon — because the German language is too crude to distinguish the two names (ll. 1897–1904). Kleist is clearly making a joke at the foreigner’s expense, but as with much else in the play, there is a deeper meaning here. The Roman surmises that the Germans must compensate for their barbarous language by lip reading, and we might see this as analogous to Fichte’s idea of national consciousness. In fact, though, there is no substance to this idea: we discover that Herrmann has told Varus’s guides that, as a Roman, he will mispronounce his desired destination, Pfiffikon, as “Iphikon.” Thus the only reason why Varus did not reach his destination was Herrmann’s politically 30 motivated intervention. National consciousness played no role here. The implication is that the divide between the Romans and the Germans is actually rather less absolute than a linguistically structured national consciousness: it is the political will of their leaders. At the same time, Die Herrmannsschlacht creates a detailed picture of Roman manners and culture. The Romans are characterized by their apparent concern for justice; thus Varus twice (ll. 1135–38, 1940–43) insists that due process be followed in situations where he might easily have acted more expediently. But the Romans’ social behavior is surprisingly frivolous. Ventidius speaks of his infinite patience in his quest for Thusnelda’s favor (ll. 581–89), but then he immediately takes a lock of her hair after having been forbidden to do so. He uses fine words to make an impression, but words seem to have no meaning for him. He is well-informed about the latest Roman fashion trends, but the flip side of his narcissism is a lack of respect for human life. We later learn that in a letter to Empress Lydia, he has promised 31 to return with Thusnelda’s beautiful hair. But Herrmann argues that this behavior is only an extreme manifestation of the Romans’ acquisitive imperialist culture (ll. 1061–65). There are distinct parallels here with Kleist’s observations from Paris, in which he associated a hedonistic, sensual, and fashion-conscious social life with an indifference to human life. In October 1806, he predicted that the Napoleonic occupation would strip Germany of its treasures (SWB, 4:264– 71, 363–64). Nonetheless, it is not adequate to describe the play as a straightforward exercise in vicious anti-French propaganda.32 Kleist does not portray the Romans as innately villainous, just as he recognized that there

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might be some good individuals among the Napoleonic occupation force in Prussia.33 Thus Varus is portrayed as fair-minded and genuinely pluralistic in his respect for German culture. However, his primary concern is with achieving the military goals set for him, and when he learns that he is to subdue the Germans altogether, he describes them as a rabble that needs to be subdued to ensure the security of Rome (ll. 1273–79), whereas just moments earlier he argued that they were as harmless as sheep (ll. 1251–53). Thus Die Herrmannsschlacht suggests that political imperatives shape the interaction between cultures and are at the root of national stereotyping. Herrmann is acutely aware of the possible consequences for the German people of Rome’s political ambitions, but his fellow princes are too preoccupied with their own interests to realize that Rome is pursuing a divideand-rule policy. Thuiskomar has allowed Varus to occupy his territory in order to attack Holm, and Selgar and Dagobert are in dispute over a strip of land and thus reluctant to unite against the Romans. After the first major Roman victory over Ariovistus, Fust and Gueltar deserted the German side to save their own territories (ll. 1212–27). This general constellation would have seemed familiar to Kleist’s compatriots, for it mirrored the state of Germany in 1808, as the princes of many of the small and medium states had consolidated their power by allying with France and by joining the Confederation of the Rhine, and as Austria and Prussia had repeatedly failed to coordinate their campaigns. In the play, it falls to Herrmann to forge a unified force to defend Germania as a whole. He maintains that Germania’s plight is not simply the result of individual princes’ greed, but that Rome has tempted them to depart from their normal instincts (ll. 242–63). Herrmann argues that they need to be ready to sacrifice more than just their gold and silverware; they may have to send away their dependents and expose their own territories to complete devastation (ll. 374–82). However, the princes reply that Herrmann is sacrificing just what they wish to defend, which demonstrates that their materialism is preventing them from acting in the interests of national solidarity. Accordingly, Herrmann does not motivate his fellow princes with calls to patriotic sacrifice. His call-to-arms opens in patriotic style, but fear is his main weapon; he argues that the Roman cause is lost and threatens collaborators with death (ll. 2070–77). Indeed, the princes’ behavior demonstrates that Herrmann’s pragmatic approach is justified. Even Marbod, while he is inclined to trust Herrmann, only commits himself fully after he is told that the Romans have deserted him (ll. 1457–59). Nor do the other princes formerly allied to Rome respond spontaneously; their decision is a tactical one in favor of the stronger side (ll. 2081–89). Such conduct raises the question of why the princes should place the national cause ahead of their own territorial interests. This theme is mainly pursued in the action involving Aristan, prince of Ubien. He tells Herrmann

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that he had no reason to join the German side under Ariovistus, for he regarded Rome as his friend (ll. 1229–34). At the end of the play, Aristan justifies his decision to ignore Herrmann’s call-to-arms by arguing that as a sovereign ruler, he can make alliances as he chooses. He poses the difficult question: “was galt Germanien mir?” (What was Germania to me?; l. 2606). Herrmann replies that he is familiar with this position, but he ridicules Aristan for what he regards as obfuscation: Du . . . Fragst, wo und wann Germanien gewesen? Ob in dem Mond? Und zu der Riesen Zeiten? (SWB, 2:553; ll. 2612–14) [You’re asking, where and when Germania was? Was it on the moon? Or in the days of the giants?]

Herrmann’s words have been seen as an indirect attack on Goethe and Schiller’s cosmopolitanism, as expressed in their epigram of 1797, “Das deutsche Reich” (The German Empire).34 They had urged Germans to concentrate on cultivating their moral selves and to leave aside national ambitions. Herrmann recognizes that Aristan’s question is difficult to answer directly (l. 2612), just as the child in Kleist’s Katechismus der Deutschen (Catechism for the Germans, first published 1862) categorically refuses to justify his patriotism with ready answers, such as the beauty or culture of his homeland (SWB, 3:481).35 Kleist too refuses to simplify his point to make it more morally acceptable or more serviceable as propaganda. Patriotism is a subjective attachment that cannot be taught; it is not that “there was never a German cause to betray,” as Allan has suggested.36 Indeed, Aristan’s position is discredited altogether when even his ally Varus terms him the lowest of the German princes (ll. 2094–95). At the same time, the play does not exonerate the other German princes from blame. Marbod quietly tells Wolf — whom Herrmann previously described as a true patriot (l. 1503) — that he approves of Herrmann’s decision to execute Aristan. He describes it as a good lesson, presumably for their fellow princes (ll. 2620). The distinction between Herrmann and his fellow princes is again shown in act 5, scene 22, where Herrmann gains sufficient self-control to allow Fust to kill Varus. The implication is that the true patriot is able to renounce personal power and glory for the good of the nation. The German people behave differently from their leaders. Apparently spontaneously, they rise up against the Romans’ sacrilegious behavior (ll. 925–26), and they do so again later in response to Herrmann’s propaganda 37 (ll. 2447–48). The ordinary soldiers of Cheruska even refuse to fight when they believe that they are being asked to support the Romans against Mar-

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bod’s Suevans (ll. 2137–40), and thus they place freedom and kinship ahead of personal allegiance to their leader. Herrmann, then, is acting in step with the feelings of ordinary Germans. Even Marbod was concerned initially with gaining overall control of Germania (ll. 176–80), but finally he offers allegiance to Herrmann (ll. 2578–84). Some critics argue that Herrmann always wanted to achieve this absolute power or that he has become dictatorial in the course of the play.38 But this thesis is unconvincing, given that Herrmann chooses to assume the leadership of Germania only as temporary regent, pending the princes’ next meeting (ll. 2589–94). At some moments, however, Herrmann appears to have lost all connection with the people. Shortly before the battle commences, he compares himself, in a soliloquy that has often puzzled commentators, to a traveling salesman (ll. 1656–65). He speaks of his territory of Cheruska as his “wares,” which he could choose to sell for a bill of exchange. One critic interprets the speech as expressing Herrmann’s “chilling indifference” to Germania’s inhabitants.39 In fact, Herrmann is reflecting here on the disjunction between his methods and his final aims: to save Germania, he has had to risk everything that holds meaning for him, including Germany’s settlements and soldiers, and his own loved ones. Paradoxically, Herrmann must be prepared to exploit all resources — human, material, and cultural — to rescue what he loves.40 He sees the meaning of Cheruska in his personal relationships and the settlements that bear witness to shared human endeavor. But the ultimate aim of the conflict is the achievement of freedom, and in this sense even Cheruska is contingent; or, put differently, the real meaning of Cheruska is ethical and not material (ll. 1854–55). Life and territory are secondary concerns — hence Herrmann’s apparent nonchalance about the destruction of Teutoburg (l. 2565). Ruth Angress argues powerfully that Die Herrmannsschlacht is primarily concerned with the ethical implications of total war. Her thesis, that “the politics of liberation take precedence not only over private feelings but also over a morality that respects such feelings,” has found widespread critical acceptance, while disagreements focus on the actual principles that 41 Herrmann — and Kleist — are endorsing. What has not been noted is the clarity with which the play expresses the paradox that in total war national liberation demands a willingness to destroy the symbols of national culture. What is crucial is the defense of the freedom of the nation to produce that culture. This is why Herrmann is unperturbed at the devastation of Germania, and he is even joyous at news of the destruction of the forest of Thuiskon.42 With this place name, Kleist again alludes to Klopstock’s play Hermanns Schlacht (The Battle of Arminius, 1769), where it denotes the grove from which the Germans fetch oak leaves to make a wreath for Hermann’s father Siegmar. Klopstock’s Germans are “die Söhne Thuiskons” (the sons of Thuiskon).43 Kleist seems to suggest that such solemn attach-

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ment to cultural symbols is no longer appropriate in the political world under Napoleon. Indeed, Herrmann is quite prepared to have further crimes committed by German soldiers posing as Romans if it helps to achieve liberation. However, he only succeeds in stirring the people to open rebellion by publicizing the rape of the young girl Hally by Roman soldiers.44 The play carefully shows Herrmann’s private dismay at the incident (l. 1588), but he has no qualms about exploiting the incident to apply a mythic dimension to the liberation struggle.45 Die Herrmannsschlacht can therefore be seen as a protest against the policies of the absolutist governments of Germany towards Napoleonic France, but the play also engages critically with the forms of anti-absolutist protest of the previous generation of German intellectuals, particularly Klopstock. On the one hand, it suggests that the princes only have legitimacy to the extent that they act in the national cause — and, if necessary, to the detriment of their territorial interests. On the other, it argues that the veneration of culture above all else brings its own threats to personal and national liberty because it threatens to inhibit national defense. In both Penthesilea and Die Herrmannsschlacht, Kleist portrays the basic cultural homogeneity of the national group beyond all political structures, founded upon shared experiences, needs and traditions, rather than blood ties or linguistic commonalities. But in Die Herrmannsschlacht he is particularly emphatic in arguing for the primacy of the political and the military over the cultural sphere. The play is anomalous within Kleist’s work in presenting in Herrmann a character who achieves complete self-mastery and serves as a model for self-sacrifice, and in its representation of successful political action. In this sense, it is one of Kleist’s more optimistic political writings.

Die Verlobung in St. Domingo Die Verlobung in St. Domingo presents a politically charged interracial encounter set in 1803 during the independence struggle of the slave population of the French colony of San Domingo. It has been argued that here, as in Die Herrmannsschlacht, Kleist argues for the primacy of political priorities over private life and rejects a morality that does not have regard to the community’s political imperatives.46 However, there are important differences between the two works. Congo Hoango is not committed as a freedom fighter to the same extent as Herrmann, for he allows the Strömlis to escape in order to save his sons’ lives.47 Another critic sees Babekan as the “True Believer,” as she exposes her daughter Toni to a charge of treason, but the text suggests that her denunciation is partially inspired by her jealousy of Toni’s intimate relationship with Congo Hoango (SWB, 3:250–51).48 Nor does the black slave woman whose story Gustav tells share Herrmann’s extremism, for she immediately reveals to her victim that she has infected him with yellow

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fever, and thus indirectly helps to prevent it from spreading through the white population. Thus in this story, Kleist depicts characters whose political commitments interact with other impulses, whereas for Herrmann, nationalism was key. Die Verlobung is unique amongst Kleist’s stories for its focus on racial belonging. Race influences the way that characters interact, but in the course of the story its meaning becomes increasingly elusive, however confidently the narrator and most characters deploy it. But beneath this confidence, there is considerable ambiguity. Indeed, the text records Toni’s skin color in several different ways, and it seems to vary according to lighting and to the observer’s mental state. Toni is the only character who rethinks her racial identity, but even she does not understand the implications of such a redefinition. Her conversion is a complex and rather obscure process that appears to involve both sexual attraction to the Swiss mercenary Gustav and identification with Gustav’s saintly former fiancée Mariane Congreve, who saved his life by sacrificing herself to the revolutionary mob in her native Strasbourg. However, the text suggests multiple, but unspecified sources for the “menschliches Gefühl” (human feeling; SWB, 3:238) that overcomes Toni in the course of her seduction. Toni aligns herself with the beleaguered ruling class by describing herself as a white woman (SWB, 3:256). This may be a reductive description of a physical reality, but these are the only terms that are available in revolutionary San Domingo. Whiteness and blackness are not simply physical descriptions, freighted as they are with various political and moral connotations. All too often the characters forget this. Crucially, Toni fails to realize that Gustav may not share her self-image as a white woman. Indeed, Gustav’s view of Toni is complex: he finds her extremely beautiful, but he is repelled by her skin color (SWB, 3:235). Earlier, he was induced to trust Toni and Babekan on the flimsy and manifestly racist grounds that he could detect a trace of whiteness in their faces (SWB, 3:227). Thus Gustav comes to this encounter with considerable misgivings. Hence when Toni later ties him up as part of her rescue plan, she intends to reassure him with a kiss, but to Gustav it may 49 seem like a Judas kiss. As in Penthesilea, here too Kleist thematizes the difficulties of crossing cultural boundaries. He is also concerned to portray the slave community as culturally homogeneous. Thus we are told of a codified system of law regulating interracial contact, while numerous other details attest to the former slaves’ considerable technical competence and cultural sophistication.50 There seems little reason to believe that Babekan’s interest in reading is merely an elaborate disguise that she learned from her mistress.51 Indeed, her keen intelligence is indicated by her predilection for trenchant irony, which she demonstrates in her undertaking to help the Strömlis in memory of Toni’s European father. Certainly, the rebels may have learned from their white

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masters, but they show an independent appreciation for what is useful and good, and they do not destroy indiscriminately what their former masters have left behind. The slave population is highly diverse in its origins, drawn as it is from different continents: Congo Hoango was born on the African Gold Coast, Toni in Paris, and Babekan’s father, who was white, came from Cuba. Kleist’s imaginative grasp of cultural patterns is again at work, as he shows how this heterogeneous background has generated complex patterns of kinship. The nuclear family is not the norm here: Congo Hoango seems unconcerned to marry his lover Babekan and has two sons by two other women. Moreover, both Babekan’s former husband Komar and Congo Hoango accept Toni as if she were their own daughter, even though she bears her natural father’s surname, Bertrand. But the moral code here is no less rigorous, and we learn that the minimum age at which women can marry is higher in San Domingo than in Switzerland. Congo Hoango shows genuine devotion towards his lovers and children, and places his sons’ lives above compliance 52 with the anti-white laws (SWB, 3:254). Thus the story evokes an attitude to family that is not directly comparable to the European model, but has its own set of values. Despite this focus on the socio-cultural formation of identity, the reader is encouraged to accept racial identity as a defining characteristic because it acts as a determinant of the narrative position. Looking back at the text, it is easy enough to see that the narrator’s version of events contains falsehoods, such as his allegation in the opening paragraph that Congo Hoango compelled Babekan to participate in the rebellion.53 But the narrator is not wholly unsympathetic to the slave population, as he also refers in the first paragraph to the tyranny and the cruel treatment under which Congo Hoango and Babekan have suffered. It has been suggested that the narrator’s clichéd presentation of these characters should make the reader suspicious and make it possible to form an alternative interpretation while reading.54 However, a complete reconstruction of the grievances behind the rebellion is hampered by a lack of information. In particular, the reader gains little access to the emotional life of the non-white characters.55 It has been observed that the narrative focus switches between characters at different points and that the reader’s insight into the characters’ mental processes is thus uneven.56 To be sure, certain passages, particularly towards the beginning, focus on Babekan, and at other times the reader can surmise much from the way that characters speak and act. But important qualitative differences remain. The reader is privy to Babekan’s logical thought processes and tactical reflection, but her emotional life as narrated is limited to the hatred she feels for others. In contrast, the narrator acknowledges the emotional life of Gustav and the “white” (post-conversion) Toni, and we gain at least sporadic glimpses into their sensibilities. We begin to access

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Gustav’s emotional life when he is shown to his room, and begins to feel increasingly uneasy at being allotted the room formerly occupied by the plantation owner Villeneuve. The reader follows Gustav’s gaze as he studies Toni’s body and learns of his intention to test “ob das Mädchen ein Herz habe oder nicht” (whether or not the girl had a heart; SWB, 3:235). Throughout the scene, Toni’s body language is recorded through Gustav’s eyes. At one point, she starts suddenly, but we remain uncertain whether she really believed that someone was about to come in, as the narrative suggests (SWB, 3:236). The reader gains greater insight into her mind as the couple’s love-making approaches, such as her embarrassment at Gustav’s observation of her (SWB, 3:237) and her increasingly sympathetic attitude towards him after hearing the story of Mariane Congreve (SWB, 3:238). However, the reader is left to wonder along with Gustav what the consequences of his seduction of Toni will be, or why Toni weeps (SWB, 3:238). The reader only gains full access to Toni’s mind once she has expressed her opposition to Babekan, and we are now aware that she has decided to feign compliance (SWB, 3:242). In contrast, we learn little about Babekan’s feelings as she stands at the food cupboard, and only later do we realize that she was planning to poison Gustav. All that is really communicated of Babekan’s private thoughts is that she is surprised at Toni’s forceful conduct (SWB, 3:243), and later that she is exasperated when she thinks she has forgotten where she put Gustav’s letter to his family (SWB, 3:246). Similarly, later, we only hear that Congo Hoango approves of Babekan’s plan for trapping the Strömlis (SWB, 3:251), rather than what he is feeling at this moment. In neither case do the mental processes go beyond the merely logical, whereas the reader is extensively apprised of Gustav’s and Toni’s sensibilities. The elision of Babekan’s and Congo’s emotions has a dehumanizing effect because it prevents the reader from experiencing sympathy with them; they appear only as the malicious characters who are scheming to frustrate the young couple’s happiness. By contrast, the narrative dwells on Toni’s view of herself as Gustav’s wife (SWB, 3:245, 248), and we are told that she thinks everything is in good order when she has Gustav tied up (SWB, 3:250). The reporting of Toni’s affective life creates the impression of a perfect emotional harmony between her and Gustav. It is hardly apparent that the narrative perspective has shifted from Gus57 tav’s viewpoint to Toni’s. Indeed, Gustav grows increasingly pensive when he thinks he has been betrayed and behaves much as Toni did after she made love with him and decided to change sides (SWB, 3:257). Thus the gunshot with which Gustav murders Toni marks a break at the level of the narrative, disrupting the intimacy it invites its readership to share with the “white” couple at its center. This intimacy proves illusory, however, as the apparent understanding between Gustav and his “white” bride Toni breaks down.

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However, while the idea of racial uniformity is thoroughly debunked, the possibility of cultural homogeneity remains. Indeed, why did Toni regard their love-making as a betrothal, as indicated in the title of the story, while Gustav did not? A possible answer to this question can be found if we look again at the cultural codification of kinship in the text. The slave community has precise rules on sexual relationships, as demonstrated by the instruction that Toni should stop short of sexual intercourse when she tries to entrap whites with her erotic charms (SWB, 3:223). Toni’s consent to sex with Gustav is therefore a considerable transgression, while he may have the image of the black slave woman in mind.58 He may even share the narrator’s belief in the laxity of black sexual morals, which is manifested when he prudishly records that Babekan greeted Gustav at the window wearing only a skirt (SWB, 3:224) and twice notes that Congo Hoango’s son Nanky is illegitimate (SWB, 3:244, 254). Gustav curses himself for doubting Toni (SWB, 3:236) and swears eternal love for her (SWB, 3:239), but he fails to sustain this implicit trust throughout the text. In contrast, for Toni, this intimacy takes on the status of a binding commitment — hence the misunderstanding. 59 To what extent does the story endorse the slaves’ rebellion? We might expect Kleist to give enthusiastic support to any rebellion against Napoleonic rule. But the text does not offer a clear rationale for the indiscriminate violence of the uprising, even though Kleist could have made political points about the injustice of the planned reintroduction of slavery on the island. Any reconstruction of the rebels’ thoughts must remain speculative. Various other explanations of the rebellion remain open: the uprising has certainly brought economic benefits to some (SWB, 3:236), and it has been suggested that Congo Hoango is enjoying himself.60 Both explanations seem plausible, although they are also characteristic of the manner in which the narrator discredits the revolutionaries. Certainly, Gustav’s defense of the status quo is thoroughly illogical (SWB, 3:234). The representatives of this community show considerable intelligence and organizational talent, and only a few critics have doubted that the rebels are ready for self-government.61 In fact, though, this indeterminacy is quite consistent with Kleist’s general stance on nationhood. He sees no need for the state to prove its legitimacy by adducing cultural arguments, and argues that political priorities should take precedence over cultural traditions. Indeed, Die Herrmannsschlacht is rather unusual in suggesting that there is a moral imperative to save German independence. Kleist is more dispassionate outside the German context. He is acutely aware, however, of the powerful influence of culture on the individual and the community. In Penthesilea, he offers a masterful demonstration of the dissemination of historical experience through cultural forms, to the extent that national identity is written on the bodies as well as the minds of the Amazons, however much they may attempt to resist the

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demands of the community and to fulfill their private desires. Indeed, the importance of culture in Kleist’s representation of political systems has not been widely recognized by critics. In particular, Kleist is acutely aware of how the culture of a community can influence the political forms it adopts, and of how culture is often resistant to political change. As we will see in the following chapters, the relationship between politics and culture often proves to be a difficult and dynamic one.

Notes 1

By contrast, many critics regard Rupert as innately evil. See, for instance Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu seiner poetischen Verfahrensweise (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1979), 30; and Robert E. Helbling, The Major Works of Heinrich von Kleist (New York: New Directions, 1975), 89–90. 2 See further Anthony Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist: The Dramas and Stories (Oxford: Berg, 1994), 17. 3

See Helbling, Major Works, 91–93. See Siegfried Streller, “Heinrich von Kleist und Jean-Jacques Rousseau,” WB 8 (1962): 541–66; and Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu seiner poetischen Verfahrensweise, 27–34. See Eva Irlbeck, Tragödien der Freiheit: das Problem der Freiheit im dramatischen Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe I: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur, 956 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1986), 71–83, for a judicious appraisal of these arguments. 4

5

See Anthony Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 27–28.

6

See Günter Blöcker, Heinrich von Kleist oder das absolute Ich (Berlin: Argon, 1960), 23, and Hermann Reske, Traum und Wirklichkeit im Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Sprache und Literatur, 54 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1969), 63–65. 7 See Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu seiner poetischen Verfahrensweise, 33. 8

See Seán Allan, The Plays of Heinrich von Kleist: Ideals and Illusions (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996), 70. 9

See Anthony Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 27.

10

In contrast, Hinrich Seeba argues that the lovers’ use of actions, rather than words, to express themselves is the basis of their successful communication. See Seeba, “Der Sündenfall des Verdachts: Identitätskrise und Sprachskepsis in Kleists Familie Schroffenstein,” DVjs 44 (1970): 64–100. 11

See further Ruth Angress, “Kleist’s Nation of Amazons,” in Beyond the Eternal Feminine: Critical Essays on Women and German Literature, ed. Susan L. Cocalis and Kay Goodman, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 98 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 1982), 99–134, especially 121–22; and Carol Jacobs, Uncontainable Romanticism: Shelley, Brontë, Kleist (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1989), 88–95. 12

See Allan, Plays, 147. For this reason, Manfred Durzak’s thesis that the Greeks — in contrast to the Amazons — follow a rational “law of Athene” seems questionable. Nor is the distinc13

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tion between the animalistic Penthesilea and the rational Achilles consistently maintained, as Hans Joachim Kreutzer argues, for they are both referred to as mad in the play (lines 273, 2561). See further Durzak, “Das Gesetz der Athene und das Gesetz der Tanais: Zur Funktion des Mythischen in Kleists Penthesilea,” Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts 6 (1973): 354–70; and Hans Joachim Kreutzer, Die dichterische Entwicklung Heinrichs von Kleist: Untersuchungen zu seinen Briefen und zu Chronologie und Aufbau seiner Werke, Philologische Studien und Quellen, 41 (Berlin: Schmidt, 1968), 226. 14 See, for example, Sigrid Lange, “Kleists Penthesilea: Geschlechterparadigmen: Die Frau als Projektionsfigur männlicher Identitäten — oder doch nicht?” WB 37 (1991): 705–22; and H. M. Brown, Kleist and the Tragic Ideal: A Study of Penthesilea and its Relationship to Kleist’s Personal and Literary Development, 1806–1808, European University Papers, 1st ser., vol. 203 (Bern: Peter Lang, 1977), 65. 15 Pace Georg Lukács, Deutsche Realisten des 19. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1952), 33. 16

See Bernhard Böschenstein, “Kleist und Rousseau,” KJb (1981–2): 145–56, here 154. For a sustained reading of Penthesilea in the light of Rousseau’s work, see Hans M. Wolff, Heinrich von Kleist als politischer Dichter, University of California Publications in Modern Philology, 27, no. 6 (Berkeley: U of California P, 1947), 437–64. 17 For a different view of Mars, as an active force in the play, see E. L. Stahl, Heinrich von Kleist’s Dramas (Oxford: Blackwell, 1948), 83. 18 This is even more explicit in the earlier version of the play; see SWB, 2:73, lines 1783–88. 19

Hilda Brown’s view — that the state is now “woefully inadequate and out of date” and that it should have adapted after repelling the “threats from barbarian oppressors” — therefore seems quite untenable. See Brown, Kleist and the Tragic Ideal, 73. 20

See Hilda Brown, “Penthesilea: Nightingale and Amazon,” OGS 7 (1973): 24–33, here 31–32. Siegfried Streller argues that, like Rousseau, Kleist believes that a woman’s purpose is childbearing, rather than combat. See Streller, Das dramatische Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Neue Beiträge zur Literaturwissenschaft, 27 (Berlin: Rütten and Loening, 1966), 100.

21

See especially Falk Horst, “Kleist’s Penthesilea oder die Unfähigkeit, aus Liebe zu kämpfen,” Germanisch-Romanische Monatschrift 36 (1986): 150–68. 22

Pace Brown, Kleist and the Tragic Ideal, 97.

23

See Hans Peter Herrmann, “Sprache und Liebe: Beobachtungen zu Kleists Penthesilea,” Text + Kritik: Zeitschrift für Literatur: Sonderband Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold (Munich: Edition Text + Kritik, 1993), 26–48, here 33. 24 See Brown, Kleist and the Tragic Ideal, 108; and Peter Horn, “Penthesilea: The Revival of a Greek Myth as an Endorsement of Kleist’s Social and Political Ideals,” English Studies in Africa: A Journal of the Humanities 18 (1975): 99–106. For the opposite view, see Angress, “Kleist’s Nation of Amazons,” 132–33. 25

For very different readings of these closing statements as judgments on the Amazon state, see Brown, Kleist and the Tragic Ideal, 110; and Ruth Angress, “Kleist’s Nation of Amazons,” 132.

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26

See Inge Stephan, “‘Da werden Weiber zu Hyänen . . .’: Amazonen und Amazonenmythen bei Schiller und Kleist,” in Feministische Literaturwissenschaft: Dokumentation der Tagung in Hamburg vom Mai 1983, ed. Inge Stephan and Sigrid Weigel, Literatur im historischen Prozess, n.s., 11 (Berlin: Argument-Verlag, 1984), 22–42, here 40. To my mind, it is striking that where the mature Kleist deals directly with matters relating to sexual equality, he does so with an even-handed cynicism — see, for example, his epigram “Eine notwendige Berichtigung” (A Necessary Correction, 1808), in SWB, 3:416. 27 See Dirk Grathoff, “Liebe und Gewalt: Überlegungen zu Kleists Penthesilea anläßlich der Berliner Rosenfest-Feier der Freunde Carla Tatò und Carlo Quartucci,” in Rosenfest: Berlin 1984, ed. René Block, Anne Marie Freybourg, and Kurt Thöricht (Berlin: Künstlerprogramm des DAAD, 1984), 99–105, especially 104–5 (reprinted in Dirk Grathoff, Kleist: Geschichte, Politik, Sprache: Aufsätze zu Leben und Werk Heinrich von Kleists, 2d ed. [Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2000], 125–31); and Christa Wolf, “Kleist’s Penthesilea,” in Christa Wolf and Gerhard Wolf, Ins Ungebundene gehet eine Sehnsucht: Gesprächsraum Romantik (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1985), 195–210. 28

Compare Lange, “Kleist’s Penthesilea,” 708; and similarly, Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 121. 29

See lines 248–49, 1328–32, 1891–96 and 2060–62. Pace Otto Johnston, The Myth of a Nation: Literature and Politics in Prussia under Napoleon (Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1989), 42. Bernd Fischer also reads the Alraune’s prophecy of doom to Varus in act 5, scene 4 as an exposition of a Fichtean linguistic theory. See Bernd Fischer, Das Eigene und das Eigentliche: Klopstock, Herder, Fichte, Kleist (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1995), 314–15.

30

31

Regina Schäfer suggests that this letter is a forgery, but this thesis fails to explain why Ventidius asks the messenger to wait before leaving for Rome. The only logical explanation is that Ventidius intends to obtain a sample of Thusnelda’s hair to send on to Lydia. See Regina Schäfer, “Der gefälschte Brief: eine unkonventionelle Hypothese zu Kleists Hermannsschlacht,” KJb (1993): 181–89. 32

Pace Reske, Traum, 75; and Friedrich Gundolf, Heinrich von Kleist (Berlin: Bondi, 1922), 117–18. 33 See Kleist’s portrayal of General Clarke in SWB, 4:370–71. 34

See Lawrence Ryan, “Die ‘vaterländische Umkehr’ in der Hermannsschlacht,” in Kleists Dramen: Neue Interpretationen, ed. Walter Hinderer (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1981), 188–212, here 200. Wolfgang Wittkowski argues that Herrmann is not attacking cosmopolitanism itself, but those who cite it in order to avoid getting involved in a dangerous conflict; see Wittkowski, “Terror der Politik oder Politik des Terrors? Kleists Hermannsschlacht und Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” BzKF 8 (1994): 93–108. For more on Die Herrmannsschlacht as a challenge to “the idealist aesthetics and transcendent denouement” of Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell (1804), see Seán D. Allan, “Ideals and Allusions: The Subversion of Discourse in the Plays of Heinrich von Kleist” (Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 1993), 229–41, here 233. 35

Kleist’s short essay Betrachtungen über den Weltlauf (Observations on the Way of the World, 1810) is also relevant here, as a tendentious rewriting of the history of

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classical antiquity. Whilst Goethe and Schiller had focused on the cultural achievements of the classical age, Kleist claims that the civilizations of Greece and Rome exchanged the actual heroism of their origins for the substitute heroes of their literary work and the abstract virtue of philosophy — whereupon “wurden sie schlecht” (they became bad; SWB, 3:542). 36 See Allan, Plays, 218. Hans-Dieter Loose’s monograph on Die Herrmannsschlacht even argues that Herrmann is working towards an open, cosmopolitan Germany. However, the play is primarily concerned to argue that cosmopolitanism is naïve and irresponsible in the French-occupied Germany of Kleist’s day. See further Loose, Kleists “Hermannsschlacht”: Kein Krieg für Hermann und seine Cherusker (Karlsruhe: von Loeper, 1984). 37

For a different view of the Volk, see Ryan, “Die ‘vaterländische Umkehr’ in der Hermannsschlacht,” 195; and Gonthier-Louis Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion in Kleists Werk im Spannungsfeld der Französischen Revolution,” KJb (1988): 64–88, especially 86–88. 38

William Reeve sees this final exchange, in my view mistakenly, as a contest of magnanimity, in which Herrmann trumps Marbod. See Reeve, In Pursuit of Power: Heinrich von Kleist’s Machiavellian Protagonists (Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1987), 95. For a view of Herrmann as a dictator, see Elisabeth Madlener, Die Kunst des Erwürgens nach Regeln: Von Staats- und Kriegskünsten, preußischer Geschichte und Heinrich von Kleist, Schnittpunkt Zivilisationsprozeß, 8 (Pfaffenweiler: CentaurusVerlag, 1994), 190; and Allan, Plays, 219. 39

See Anthony Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 162. Peter Hanenberg’s view of Herrmann as a nihilist who experiences the battle as an anarchistic celebration of the meaninglessness of the world is unconvincing in view of Herrmann’s manifest concern for his family and for the future of Germania. See further Hanenberg, “Ein Entwurf der Weltbewältigung: Kleists Herrmannsschlacht,” JbDSg 39 (1995): 250–66. 40

41

See R. K. Angress, “Kleist’s Treatment of Imperialism: Die Hermannsschlacht and Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” Monatshefte 69 (1977): 17–33, here 19. 42

See the stage direction following line 899. Compare Klopstocks sämmtliche Werke, [no editor] (Leipzig: Göschensche Buchhandlung, 1854), 6:97 and 72 respectively. 44 Herrmann has her body divided up and sent to the fifteen tribes of Germania. There is a biblical model for this episode: see Judg. 19–20. This incident has led Barbara Kennedy to argue that “the woman’s body [is] the chief casualty of a nationalist fervour,” but I find this unpersuasive, in view of Herrmann’s disrespect for all persons. See further Kennedy, “For the Good of the Nation: Woman’s Body as Battlefield in Kleist’s Die Hermannsschlacht,” Seminar 30 (1994): 17–31, here, 30; and, in a similar vein, Hans Peter Herrmann, “Arminius und die Erfindung der Männlichkeit im 18. Jahrhundert,” Der Deutschunterricht 47 (1995): 32–47. 43

45

See further Ilse Graham, Heinrich von Kleist: Word into Flesh: A Poet’s Quest for the Symbol (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1977), 210. 46 See Angress, “Kleist’s Treatment,” 19.

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47

See Michael Perraudin, “Babekan’s ‘Brille,’ and the Rejuvenation of Congo Hoango: A Reinterpretation of Kleist’s Story of the Haitian Revolution,” OGS 20–21 (1991–92): 85–103, here 90–91. 48

See Ray Fleming, “Race and the Difference It Makes in Kleist’s Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” German Quarterly 65 (1992): 306–17, here 316.

49

On the story’s allusions to the Crucifixion story, see further Lilian Hoverland, Heinrich von Kleist und das Prinzip der Gestaltung, Theorie — Kritik — Geschichte, 20 (Königstein/Ts.: Scriptor-Verlag, 1978), 156. 50

For further details on these matters, see Perraudin, “Babekan’s ‘Brille,’” 100–102. Compare Hilda Meldrum Brown, Heinrich von Kleist: The Ambiguity of Art and the Necessity of Form (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 179–94. 51

52

Pace Sigrid Weigel, “Der Körper am Kreuzpunkt von Liebesgeschichte und Rassendiskurs in Heinrich von Kleists Erzählung Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” KJb (1990): 202–17, here 213; and Roswitha Burwick, “Issues of Language and Communication in Kleist’s Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” German Quarterly 65 (1992): 318–27, here 321–22. 53

Gonthier-Louis Fink’s undifferentiated discussion does not address the question of the narrator’s bias and unreliability, nor does he countenance any distinction between Kleist and his narrator. See Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion,” 75. For a critique of Fink’s position, see Hans H. Hiebel, “Reflexe der Französischen Revolution in Kleists Erzählungen,” in Les Romantiques allemands et la Révolution française, ed. Gonthier-Louis Fink, Collection Recherches Germaniques, 3 (Strasbourg: Université des Sciences Humaines, 1989), 253–65. 54

See Bernd Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik: Die Erzählungen Heinrich von Kleists (Munich: Fink, 1988), 104 n. 231. 55

I disagree with Ray Fleming’s suggestion that Kleist does not wish to presume to know the mind of the racial Other. See Fleming, “Race,” 310. 56

See Barbara Gribnitz, Schwarzes Mädchen, weißer Fremder: Studien zur Konstruktion von “Rasse” und Geschlecht in Heinrich von Kleists Erzählung “Die Verlobung in St. Domingo,” Epistemata: Reihe Literaturwissenschaft, 408 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2002), 196. 57 Two critics see signs earlier in the text that all is not well. Roland Reuß notes that on four occasions the earliest published versions of the text rename Gustav “August.” Most previous editors assumed that this was simply an error, but Reuß links Gustav’s change of name to his loss of faith in Toni. Reuß rightly calls attention to this issue, but his interpretation lacks firm evidence. It may be more appropriate to regard the name change as another Kleistian textual detail that resists interpretation. Bianca Theisen calls attention to the narrator’s allusion to a change in Gustav’s color (SWB, 3:257), and, perhaps too specifically, takes it to mean that he has “become black,” which for the narrator connotes treachery. Even if one accepts this reading, it hardly prepares the reader for the gunshot that follows later in the same sentence. See Reuß, “Die Verlobung in St. Domingo: eine Einführung in Kleists Erzählen,” Berliner KleistBlätter 1 (1988): 3–44, here 39–40; and Theisen, “Strange News: Kleist’s Novellas,” in A Companion to the Works of Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Bernd Fischer (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2003), 81–102, here 89.

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58

On this episode, see especially Susanne Zantop, Colonial Fantasies: Conquest, Family, and Nation in Precolonial Germany, 1770–1870 (Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1997), 157–58. 59

See Peter Horn, Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen: Eine Einführung (Königstein: Scriptor, 1978), 117–28. 60

See Perraudin, “Babekan’s ‘Brille,’” 92. See Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion,” 80–81; and Herbert Uerlings, “Preußen in Haiti? Zur interkulturellen Begegnung in Kleists Verlobung in St. Domingo,” KJb (1991): 185–201, here 190–92. 61

4: Education and Social Change

T

HE PRUSSIAN REFORMS of Kleist’s age were founded upon fundamentally pedagogical considerations. Long before the rout of 1806, the reformers recognized the need to mobilize the energies of the entire population in order to match the achievements of revolutionary France, and the comprehensive defeat of the old corporative state at Jena and Auerstedt gave them the opportunity to implement their ideas. Their primary insight was that the French Revolution had revealed the importance of giving soldiers a reason to fight for their country, which led them to conclude that elements of the corporative state needed to be dismantled in order to open up new opportunities for those with talents to use them. Taking France as their model, they expected that the liberalization of legal and economic frameworks would encourage hard work, commitment, and innovation throughout the population. This was a relatively new concept in Prussia. For much of the eighteenth century, not even progressive educationalists had questioned the rigid social hierarchy. The Pietist educationalist August Hermann Francke was a pioneer in his concern for the moral improvement of the socially marginal, but the education that he offered poor children was strictly functional, consisting substantially in instruction in religion, literacy, and numeracy. The development of the intellect was a secondary concern. The Pietists were progressive in arguing that all children should be literate, and their influence was duly 1 felt in Prussia as literacy was officially recognized as an educational goal. Their emphasis on work as a sacred duty was attractive to cameralist thinkers, who were primarily concerned with maximizing the economic productivity of the state. But the Pietists and the cameralists shared the conviction that a child’s education should be relevant to the sort of work that would be available to an individual from such a social background.2 This consensus was first challenged by the work of the Swiss educationalist Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, whose institute at Burgdorf, founded in 1800, quickly became famous throughout Germany following the publication of the official report of the school inspector Johann Samuel Ith (1747–1813).3 Ith noted the astonishing achievements of Pestalozzi’s pupils, some of whose parents were not able to pay the school fees. Pestalozzi’s “Method” emphasized the importance of encouraging pupils to observe precisely and to make their own discoveries and judgments. He argued that education should progress according to the child’s own development and

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that it should aim for the harmonious development of all aspects of the child’s personality, physical, moral, and intellectual. Pestalozzi conjectured that the child’s moral and religious sense developed through its relationship with its mother, and for that reason he argued that it was necessary to recreate the nurturing environment of the family home in his schools.4 Pestalozzi popularized the view that the purpose of education was to develop a child’s innate capacities, rather than to mold the child according to a pre-determined model. Pestalozzi was influenced by Kant’s concept of “selfactivity,” the free development of the intellect, but he was not so radical as to allow this to challenge existing social boundaries. While he was concerned with the education of the socially marginal, he still believed that schooling had to prepare children for a specific function in life. However, Pestalozzi’s ideas were taken up and radicalized by Humboldt in his reform of Prussian educational institutions. Humboldt worked to reduce state influence over education, and he argued that all children should receive the same basic education so that the whole nation would have a common basis of understanding. Social background was no longer to be a consideration, for no longer was education intended to create a workforce of literate and pious subjects. Pupils’ schooling would therefore only stop only when they would no longer benefit from it academically. In practice, the state’s financial debility meant that Humboldt was unable to secure free education, but he did remove the restrictions that had been placed on the entry of peasant children to univer5 sity. Many nobles feared that educating the peasantry would make social control more difficult; there were also concerns that the corporative order would be undermined because nobles would increasingly have to compete with non-nobles for army commissions and civil service appointments. Kleist’s experiences as a young man led him to make comparable observations in his letters. As we saw previously, he left the settled career path that his social background prescribed for him precisely because of the unease he felt at being a mere cog in the absolutist machine. He formulated his objections to the corporative state in terms of its infringement of his moral and intellectual autonomy, and argued that all social classes had the same potential for moral conduct. However, Kleist’s early letters and essays viewed the questions of education and social hierarchy from his perspective as an individual; they did not consider how reform might affect society as a whole. Such a perspective is present in his mature work, which offers a critical view of institutions, such as the church, the family, and the state, which seek only to educate obedient subjects.

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Das Erdbeben in Chili The possibility of predicting, directing and interpreting social behavior is the question at the heart of Kleist’s story Das Erdbeben in Chili. Set in 1647, during an earthquake in the Chilean city of Santiago, the story uses a historical event to frame a fictional story about the effects of the disaster on an urban population. At first, those who escape the destruction form a new society based upon cooperation and mutual support in total disregard of the former corporative order. However, the impression of an all-embracing social harmony proves illusory when four people are brutally killed at the end of the story. The characters themselves understand the earthquake in different ways. For many minor characters, it is simply a natural disaster. Many do survive, but they lose family members or their homes. For the protagonists Jeronimo and Josephe, the earthquake brings liberation from the punishments that they have received for their illicit sexual intimacy. Thus Josephe views the earthquake as an unprecedented heavenly blessing upon her (SWB, 3:207). In contrast, at the mass held after the disaster, the Catholic priest argues in his sermon that the earthquake is a divine warning to the citizens of Santiago for their moral laxity. Finally, the narrator seeks to invest the earthquake with meaning by positing that it had a direct role in inspiring heroism and more basic kindnesses. Thus the reader is offered multiple frameworks for interpreting the text, but is also made to share something of the uncertain6 ties to which the characters are exposed. It is principally the narrator who introduces the question of human perfectibility to the text. He advances the view, albeit hypothetically, that the earthquake, in destroying social distinctions, has restored the burghers of Santiago to their true humanity. He expounds his theory with some vehemence: Und in der Tat schien, mitten in diesen gräßlichen Augenblicken, in welchen alle irdischen Güter der Menschen zu Grunde gingen, und die ganze Natur verschüttet zu werden drohte, der menschliche Geist selbst, wie eine schöne Blume, aufzugehn. Auf den Feldern, so weit das Auge reichte, sah man Menschen von allen Ständen durcheinander liegen, Fürsten und Bettler, Matronen und Bäuerinnen, Staatsbeamte und Tagelöhner, Klosterherren und Klosterfrauen: einander bemitleiden, sich wechselseitig Hülfe reichen, von dem, was sie zur Erhaltung ihres Lebens gerettet haben mochten, freudig mitteilen, als ob das allgemeine Unglück Alles, was ihm entronnen war, zu einer Familie gemacht hätte. (SWB, 3:207) [And indeed, amidst those dreadful moments, when people’s entire earthly goods were destroyed, and the whole of nature threatened to be swallowed up, the human spirit itself, like a beautiful flower, seemed to

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be unfolding. As far as the eye could see, one saw people from all estates lying in the fields mixed up together, princes and beggars, matrons and peasant women, state officials and day laborers, monks and nuns, pitying each other, helping each other, joyfully sharing whatever they had salvaged to sustain themselves, as if the shared calamity had made its survivors into one single family.]

The narrator is not an objective, reliable interpreter. He is heavily immersed in the action of the text and is sometimes influenced by his characters’ points of view. Here his viewpoint is akin to Josephe’s.7 The narrator attributes the blossoming of the human spirit to the eradication of the legal distinctions between estates and the financial distinctions of property ownership. His theories recall Rousseau’s, as he makes society responsible for the corruption of humanity and suggests that the return to the state of nature is desirable. In fact, the earthquake imposes a state of nature by destroying property and social institutions, and, in this sense, the story can be seen as a reflection upon Rousseau’s ideas.8 Many commentators have followed the narrator’s interpretative lead in advancing political and sociological interpretations of the story. Helmut Koopmann sees this passage as the key to the story, which he understands as an allegory of the failure of the French Revolution. According to this view, the death of the viceroy is symbolic of the abolition of the monarchy in France.9 In fact, however, it is uncertain that the viceroy is dead. Even if he is, it is a natural disaster that has killed him, not a revolutionary mob, a significant objection that Koopmann fails to address.10 In contrast, Robert Brown regards the story as a reflection on the possibilities of warding off revolution by reforming the corporative state. He suggests that Don Fernando represents a model for Kleist because he seeks to mediate between social classes and tries to reintegrate the lovers into society while working — unsuccessfully — to rescue the old social order, after Jeronimo and Josephe’s mésalliance has plunged it into crisis.11 It is not clear, however, that Jeronimo and Josephe have caused this crisis. One might argue, indeed, that the real crisis for the old order is the earthquake itself and the chaos it brings to the streets of Santiago. In other respects, Santiago is a remarkably homogeneous society. The Catholic religion commands widespread respect and devotion. Social discipline is not imposed against the people’s will, but on their bidding; indeed, the main criticism leveled at the authorities is that Josephe’s punishment is too lenient. The church has great influence over judicial procedures, to the extent that even the viceroy cannot commute Josephe’s death sentence.12 Moreover, the church functions as a point of social integration, providing for shared public worship and other social events, such as Josephe’s execution (SWB, 3:191).

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The text’s generally rationalistic and secular narrator condemns this lack of tolerance. But Josephe and Jeronimo do not challenge the moral code of the church publicly; indeed, their conduct demonstrates that they too are profoundly imbued with Catholic morality. Their relationship takes on a form akin to marriage; the couple are unable to exchange vows, but they have exchanged rings (SWB, 3:195). Indeed, they have considerable difficulty in comprehending the society that has punished them, to the extent that they are surprised when Don Fernando’s party treats them kindly (SWB, 3:205). To them it seems that society has not punished them for a legal or moral offense, but somehow arbitrarily. Their interpretation of the earthquake as divine intervention restores coherence to the world. This is why they are so profoundly shocked later when the priest attributes the earthquake to their sexual misconduct (SWB, 3:215). Certainly, it is apparent from the way that they organize their relationship that they still take the Catholic model of monogamous heterosexual love as their ideal. Far from being rebellious, Josephe felt only grief at the destruction of the patriarchal institutions of Santiago (SWB, 3:199). The couple’s conditioning again becomes apparent in their decision to return to the city and participate in the church service. However, the apparent homogeneity of this community conceals significant differences. In particular, Jeronimo and Josephe’s fellow worshippers assess their actions quite differently. The priest argues that the town has been punished for its “gottlos” (godless) toleration of the couple’s presence, but the rioters pick up on this term and apply it to Josephe and Jeronimo themselves, as they set about the violent implementation of divine will “heiliger Ruchlosigkeit voll” (with holy abandon; SWB, 3:215). However, these same people entered the church, we are told, in a spirit of unprecedented devotion (SWB, 3:213). Their brutality reflects the strength of their faith, and they indeed share with the lovers the sincere belief that their actions are consistent with the will of God. Here too, Kleist demonstrates how a shared social morality can have a profound influence on individual conduct, but also that a single social code may be interpreted differently by individuals. Indeed, the cathedral accommodates individuals who are essentially irreconcilable enemies, but share the belief that they are good Christians. The Catholic Church uses all means possible to drill its moral teaching into the congregation, but the effect that it achieves is not uniform. Moreover, one might question whether such prescriptive moral education is necessary given the relative harmony that persists in the countryside after the disaster, beyond the compass of all religious and corporative discipline. The narrator argues that the people’s social morality improves uniformly following their release from this rigid society, but the true effect of this liberalization is arguably not so clear-cut. Indeed, the earthquake serves

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to break the calm surface of social homogeneity and sets this society forcibly in motion. This impression is rendered in a series of highly vivid tableaux (SWB, 3:193): some people are rendered passive, while others fight for survival, and still others risk their lives to rescue their fellow human beings. Some are paralyzed by fear and incomprehension at the apparent collapse of order in what they believed was a divinely created world, while one woman is bent double as she tries to rescue her worldly possessions and her children (SWB, 3:195). Some citizens proclaim the apocalypse, others engage in looting, which in turn prompts others to punish innocent people on suspicion of theft. Nonetheless, general opinion seems to confirm the narrator’s impression that social conduct has been improved. In one important passage, the narrator reports the conclusions that people have drawn from recent events: Statt der nichtssagenden Unterhaltungen, zu welchen sonst die Welt an den Teetischen den Stoff hergegeben hatte, erzählte man jetzt Beispiele von ungeheuern Taten: Menschen, die man sonst in der Gesellschaft wenig geachtet hatte, hatten Römergröße gezeigt; Beispiele zu Haufen von Unerschrockenheit, von freudiger Verachtung der Gefahr, von Selbstverleugnung und der göttlichen Aufopferung, von ungesäumter Wegwerfung des Lebens, als ob es, dem nichtswürdigsten Gute gleich, auf dem nächsten Schritte schon wiedergefunden würde. Ja, da nicht Einer war, für den nicht an diesem Tage etwas Rührendes geschehen wäre, oder der nicht selbst etwas Großmütiges getan hätte, so war der Schmerz in jeder Menschenbrust mit so viel süßer Lust vermischt, daß sich, wie sie meinte, gar nicht angeben ließ, ob die Summe des allgemeinen Wohlseins nicht von der einen Seite um eben so viel gewachsen war, als sie von der anderen abgenommen hatte. (SWB, 3:207–9) [Where once the world had provided the subject matter for inconsequential tea table conversations, now people reported examples of extraordinary deeds: people who had thus far been little regarded in society had shown the heroism of Romans, countless examples of fearlessness, of joyous contempt for danger, of self-abnegation and divine self-sacrifice, of life laid down without hesitation, as if it could be recovered like some worthless possession at the next turn. Indeed, since there was not one person who had not had something touching happen to them, or who had not themselves done something noble, the pain in every human heart was mixed with so much sweet joy, that, she thought, it was impossible to tell whether the sum of general happiness had not increased just as much on the one hand as it had fallen on the other.]

This account initially appears to be a panoramic representation of society, but a close inspection demonstrates that it is the perspective of a social elite,

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which seems to have assumed previously that the lower classes were incapable of civic virtue. Indeed, as we saw previously, people’s responses were really much more varied than it is suggested here. Some did respond heroically, whereas others were more concerned to save themselves or their property. Jeronimo and Josephe too acted differently from each other. Moreover, Josephe’s own reflections also intrude into the report here, as indicated almost parenthetically by the words “wie sie meinte.”13 For these reasons, the reader should be wary of accepting the view that the earthquake is perhaps to be welcomed as the bringer of moral progress, for this is apparently a partial account. Moreover, this is a top-down view of society in that it often draws on the vocabulary of cameralist thought as it attempts to analyze social change in terms of a perceived common good, rather than according to its effects on individuals. The account no longer accepts the cameralist division of society into estates, but it nonetheless assumes that it is possible to reach an objective general view about the effects of the earthquake on society. However, the attempt to predict social trends is revealed as presumptuous when Jeronimo and Josephe return to the city. They originally plan to leave the country, but then they decide that the change in people’s behavior is permanent (SWB, 3:209). It is clear that the couple do not wish to live as social outcasts, and it appears that their optimism is informed by their desire to return home. Accordingly, Jeronimo persuades himself that the viceroy was always well-disposed towards him, and Josephe believes, perhaps not wholly without justification, that she can be reconciled to her father. The return to the city demonstrates that there are also clear continuities in the behavior of the burghers of Santiago. They still believe in the immorality of the lovers’ conduct, and remain influenced by cultural and religious norms. Moreover, corporative distinctions retain their force, which becomes apparent when people step aside reverently as Don Fernando’s party leaves the church (SWB, 3:219). The transformation has been less than total, and the lovers seem to have based their decision to return on an over-optimistic appraisal of the extent of social change. Kleist’s skepticism about the possibility of revolutionizing human consciousness also becomes apparent in his treatment of Don Fernando. He approaches Josephe to suckle his starving child, and she agrees, commenting that under such terrible circumstances no one will refuse to share what they have (SWB, 3:203). However, the final sentence of the text is ambiguous about Don Fernando’s decision to adopt Jeronimo and Josephe’s baby Philipp; it is unclear whether it is a recapitulation or a negation of Josephe’s morality. Don Fernando, we are told, feels that he ought to feel pleased at taking on an adoptive son, but this implies that these may not be his first instincts (SWB, 3:221). His decision to care for the infant is commendable, but it appears that it is not instinctive and natural but the result of a process of self-persuasion.

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Das Erdbeben in Chili does not argue explicitly for a conservative or a liberal social policy. Rather, it demonstrates graphically how difficult it is to predict the long-term effects of social change. It does not suggest that it is necessarily vital, or indeed desirable, to control public conduct with a prescriptive social pedagogy such as the church employs — and indeed, it implies that rapid liberalization may lead to improved social behavior. But it may be foolish, or even dangerous, to try to predict social dynamics, as Jeronimo and Josephe discover to their cost. It demonstrates that the cultural conditioning of the people is such that, even though a violent disruption may cause a temporary change in conduct, there is a strong tendency to revert to old ways of thinking and behaving. The story therefore poses questions highly pertinent to the reform debate in Prussia, and it may be significant that Kleist worked on the story while he was undergoing civil service training in Königsberg. In his Riga Memorandum, Hardenberg had spoken of how the powerful tremors (“gewaltsame Impulse”) of revolution had reinvigorated French society by destroying outmoded and weak elements. For this reason, he argued, the Prussian government in its wisdom should intervene to bring about a revolu14 tion in a good sense, which would lead to the edification of humanity. Hardenberg assumed that it was possible to change citizens’ behavior and inspire in them greater commitment to a supposed common good; he also believed that this could be achieved by a government that stood above society and acted unilaterally to reshape its structures. In Das Erdbeben, the narrator and protagonists take up positions that are akin to Hardenberg’s because they believe that human behavior can be predicted, and that the apparent moral progress made by the people during the earthquake will not be reversed when they return to the town. Kleist appears to question whether such a rapid transformation is sustainable, though not because of his support for the old order, but rather because of his awareness of the difficulties of predicting and controlling the movements of the human psyche.15

Kleist’s Essays on the Prussian Economic Reforms As editor of the Berliner Abendblätter, Kleist wrote a number of essays commenting on government policy, which also reflect on the possibilities and limits of a “top-down” reform of the state. His essay on luxury taxes was published on 20 December 1810 following the promulgation of Hardenberg’s Finance Edict. The essay picks up on Hardenberg’s own language by describing these indirect taxes as a patriotic contribution to the rescue of the state.16 The main part of the essay contains a fictional letter from a nobleman, who tells his friend how he plans to avoid paying the taxes by concealing most of his servants, horses, dogs, and carriages, or by claiming that they form an indispensable part of his business (SWB, 3:504–7). The essay

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therefore seems skeptical about whether the edict will elicit the patriotic response that it seeks, although it seems sympathetic to the thinking behind the legislation.17 In a further essay published on 18 January 1811, Kleist again suggests that the government may not see the results it expects from this legislation. In this case, he discusses the remarkable offer made by the estates of the district of Stolpe to pay off their share of the war debt unilaterally within six months in order to avoid the introduction of indirect taxation, which they see as an abrogation of the Prussian constitution. The essay speculates that the government may not have brought forward such radical plans because they wanted them implemented, but in order to provoke just such a reaction (SWB, 3:510). However, this suggestion, that politicians can reliably manipulate public opinion, is thrown into question in the following paragraph: Börhave erzählt von einem Holländer, der paralytisch war, daß er, seit mehreren Jahren schon, nicht die Kräfte gehabt habe, die Türe seines Zimmers zu öffnen. Als aber zufällig Feuer in dem Zimmer entstand: hatte er die Kraft, ohne auch nur die Klinke oder den Schlüssel zu versuchen, die Türe, auf den ersten Anstoß, einzusprengen: er befand sich, ohne daß er angeben konnte, woher ihm das Vermögen dazu gekommen war, auf der offenen Straße, und war gerettet. (SWB, 3:510) [Börhave tells of a Dutchman who was paralyzed, so that for many years he had not had the strength to open the door of his room. But when a fire happened to break out in the room, he had the strength to break down the door with his first blow, without even trying the handle or using the key. He found himself out on the street, unable to say where his strength had come from, and was saved.]

In fact, this anecdote suggests that a pressing danger can provoke a reaction that is unforeseeable even to the individual concerned. Kleist’s praise of the government’s wisdom is thus cast in a quite different light. He does not necessarily oppose the government’s plans, but he again seems skeptical that it can predict public reaction as precisely as the essay originally suggests. Kleist uses a similar technique in the essay Über die Aufhebung des laßbäuerlichen Verhältnisses (On the Abolition of Serfdom, 1810). Many commentators had argued that peasant emancipation needed to proceed slowly to prevent social unrest. This position is also presented in Kleist’s essay before it introduces the following comparison: Kurz, wird ein Mensch, dem so lange der Gebrauch gewisser Kräfte untersagt war, in deren freien Gebrauch wieder eingesetzt, so muß er erst lernen, von dieser Freiheit Gebrauch zu machen, so wie ein Blindgeborner, der durch die wohltätige Hand des Arztes sein Gesicht wieder erhielt, allmählich sehen lernen muß. (SWB, 3:508)

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[To sum up, if a person who has been prevented for so long from using certain capacities is again enabled to make free use of them, then he must first learn to make use of this freedom, just as someone who is born blind, but whose sight is restored by a doctor’s benevolent hand, gradually has to learn to see.]

Most commentators assume that Kleist belongs to the conservative side of the debate. However, his choice of comparison complicates matters because it is unclear that one really needs to learn how to see. Nor does the essay illustrate the process by which Prussia’s peasants should learn to use their new freedom appropriately. It seems quite possible that this is a subtle satire on the conservative agenda. But the ironic mode that Kleist employs here means that his position on the government’s actions remains ambiguous; there may be criticism of the government here, but it need not originate from a conservative standpoint.18 So Kleist remains reluctant to engage in any attempt to predict individual behavior and social patterns, for the examples that he cites do not so much clarify as render ambiguous the arguments he presents.

Der Findling Das Erdbeben in Chili demonstrates that both the Chilean authorities and the narrator make unjustified assumptions about human behavior. The former decide that they need to control the people with their prescriptive pedagogy, while the narrator, like some of the characters, wrongly believes that society will be improved permanently by its liberalization. Josephe’s father tried to prevent his daughter from seeing her former tutor by placing her in a convent, but all he achieved by doing so was to magnify the extent and the gravity of her transgressions. This example might lead the reader to expect that in Der Findling (The Foundling, 1811), in which the education of a child plays a central role, Kleist would again call for a compassionate, nurturing form of upbringing. But at first sight, the text seems to demonstrate the folly of this form of pedagogy. The wealthy land dealer Piachi is poorly repaid for his kindness to the destitute orphan Nicolo, whom he adopts and educates, and to whom he finally signs over his business and fortune. Nicolo is disobedient, deceitful, and unfaithful, and finally throws his adoptive parents out of the home they have given him. The narrator’s presentation of these events inclines the reader to interpret the text as a cautionary tale about overly liberal parenting. However, the reader may be prompted to dig a little deeper because of the textual elements that remain mysterious. Chief among these is Piachi’s violent treatment of Nicolo at the end of the story, whereas through much of the text we were encouraged to believe in the mild-mannered benevolence of the businessman, whom the narrator consistently, and perhaps misleadingly, terms

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“der Alte” (the old man).19 Nor do we obtain a full account of Elvire’s relationship to Colino. The narrator claims that her grief is only resurrected when his name is mentioned, but it emerges that she regularly venerates the colossal portrait of her rescuer, which she keeps in her bedroom. Critics have taken various approaches to explaining the perplexities surrounding the main characters. Anthony Stephens suggests that Der Findling is “a successful, if gloomy, experiment in divided characterization,” and that Kleist does not intend his characters to be consistent.20 Thus Piachi is both humane and tyrannical, Elvire both passive and passionate, Nicolo both victim and rapist. However, Stephens’s interpretation is unsatisfactory, since it seems that divided characterization is purely a literary experiment, and it is not clear how it relates to Kleist’s thematic concerns. Hilda Brown suggests, not implausibly, that the tensions in Piachi’s character are an extreme form of those present in Michael Kohlhaas. But Brown cannot find precedents for the character of Nicolo, whom she sees as “unchanging in his malevolence”; hence she regards him chiefly as a catalyst, and not the primary object of Kleist’s interest.21 This appraisal is, however, inappropriate in two respects. First, Nicolo does change. As a child, he is honest enough to admit to Piachi that he is infected with the plague and is responsive to Piachi’s kind deed (SWB, 3:266).22 Second, it is unclear why Nicolo’s apparently sincere religiosity and relations with Xaviera Tartini are indications of malevolence, unless they are simply calculated to annoy Piachi. John Ellis marshals the detail of Kleist’s story impressively to uncover a different set of relationships between the characters. Ellis holds that the narrator adopts a perspective akin to Piachi’s, and that if the reader can move beyond this limited perspective, the conclusion of the story will no longer seem shocking.23 Ellis argues that Piachi sincerely believes that Nicolo has abused his kindness and that Nicolo’s amorous attachments and piety indicate the boy’s disregard for his values. But Ellis also shows plausibly that Piachi’s behavior towards both Nicolo and Elvire is authoritarian and patriarchal. However, Ellis perhaps goes too far in exonerating Nicolo from blame. He rightly notes that his relationship with Xaviera Tartini is in no sense promiscuous, but then also argues that his seduction of Elvire is motivated by love, rather than revenge.24 In fact, it seems that affection, sexual desire, vengefulness, and egotism are all components of Nicolo’s deed. We should recall that Nicolo exploits Elvire’s vulnerability and shocks her profoundly when he confronts her dressed as Colino and is prepared to throw her out of the house. Clearly, the characters’ psychological composition is less monolithic than Ellis suggests. We need to go beyond Ellis’s reversal of the usual equation of Piachi with good and Nicolo with evil to achieve a more nuanced appreciation of the causes of the catastrophe. To understand the motivations of these characters, we need to consider how their upbringing and social position influences their conduct. We learn

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nothing of Piachi’s childhood, but we can ascertain a good deal about how his social education influences his character, for he does not exist in isolation from the society around him. He is a businessman dealing in land, and his personal relationships are deeply embedded in his commercial practices. We learn that his friends include the lawyer Dr. Valerio and that he first met Elvire through his business contacts with Colino’s family (SWB, 3:269). We also learn of his interest in education, and that he plans to give the ivory letters with which Nicolo learned to read to a neighbor’s child (SWB, 3:277). Piachi’s social commitments are therefore characterized by a middle-class concern for commerce and education. However, his personal relationships are more complex. This is shown by his initial responses to Nicolo. His first instinct is to fling the child away from his carriage, but he is moved to pity when Nicolo faints, and so he picks him up. Ever the businessman, however, Piachi negotiates (“unterhandelt[e]”; SWB, 3:266) at the first inn to get rid of Nicolo again. He consistently struggles to subject his emotional impulses to rational control. But rationalism does not always prevail; he overrides his commercial interests in Ragusa because he is concerned not to jeopardize his son (SWB, 3:265). Later, he is distraught by his son’s death, but the text records that it is the sight of the empty spot in his carriage that moves him to cry (SWB, 3:266). This suggests that Paolo fulfilled a certain function in Piachi’s life that is connected to the business journeys they undertook together. This impression is reinforced when we learn that he picks up Nicolo “an seines Sohnes statt” (in place of his son; SWB, 3:266). It seems that even if Piachi loved Paolo as an individual, he is not irreplaceable. Piachi’s work ethic is hostile to Nicolo’s association with the apparently corrupt Carmelite monks, whom he believes to be interested only in his fortune. It therefore seems plausible to suggest that Piachi’s adoption of Nicolo is informed by his need for a son and heir to prevent the church from seizing 25 his assets. Here too, his emotional life is shaped by his business sense. He is implacably opposed to any influences upon Nicolo that might keep him from being economically productive. But Piachi also has ideological reasons to disapprove of Nicolo’s piety, for he is not merely secular and rationalistic in his thinking, but militantly anti-clerical (SWB, 3:267). Piachi’s extreme attachment to his rational self-determination becomes apparent again when he resists the intense pressure put upon him to accept absolution before his execution. The pope gives orders, in contravention of state law, that the sentence should be carried out quietly, even if Piachi refuses to cooperate. As elsewhere, Kleist shows a keen sense of the political dimension of organized religion, and in this case he demonstrates how dissent is only reinforced when pressure is applied by a corrupt, coercive state. In Piachi’s terms, this comes to expression in his claim that he wants to go to Hell to pursue vengeance further — even though it seems unlikely that he really believes in such a possibility.

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The story demonstrates how Piachi’s character affects his treatment of Nicolo, and how he, in turn, is influenced by the values of his profession and by the authoritarian political environment in which he lives.26 At the same time, it certainly recognizes the need for the child to undergo a process of socialization.27 It notes that Nicolo was socially awkward at first (SWB, 3:267) in his attitude to Elvire. The episode with the ivory letters with which Nicolo learned to read suggests that he was self-absorbed, given that only those composing his name can be found (SWB, 3:277). Clearly, the child may initially be interested in the most immediately relevant objects of educational discovery, but it is necessary to overcome such self-centeredness in the longer term. In fact, self-absorption seems to remain a significant destructive trait of Nicolo’s personality, since one of the elements motivating his unscrupulous seduction of Elvire is his egotistical pleasure at “der Gedanke, die Leidenschaft dieser, als ein Muster der Tugend umwandelnden Frau erweckt zu haben” (the thought of having aroused the passion of this woman, who presented herself as a model of virtue; SWB, 3:275–76). Nicolo’s education focuses on strictly functional skills — reading, writing, and arithmetic — that serve him well when he is then put to work in the business (SWB, 3:267). The business is only transferred to him once he is married, on the presumption that the putative threat posed by Xaviera Tartini has been overcome. Indeed, the outlets for Nicolo’s personality and tastes are closed off at every turn; he is a mere functionary who fulfills the role of another expendable employee. It is his productivity at work that causes Piachi to rejoice, and we learn elsewhere that he holds Nicolo dear in proportion to how dearly he acquired him (SWB, 3:267). It becomes clear that Nicolo’s upbringing falls short of the Pestalozzian ideal; he is not developed as an individual in a nurturing environment. Yet some commentators remain skeptical of the relevance of the domestic environment and even re28 gard it as an anachronistic explanation for Nicolo’s later cruelty. In fact, the necessity of an emotionally sensitive pedagogy was at the heart of educational debate in Kleist’s day. Piachi might be appropriately characterized as typical of the enlightened educationalists of the eighteenth century, because of his concern with creating a useful, literate worker, integrating the poor into the workforce, and improving their moral conduct. No doubt he sincerely believes that he is helping Nicolo, but he remains subject to Kleist’s critique. The authoritarianism of Nicolo’s home environment is only apparent from a few minor details. Its most powerful symbol is the whip that Piachi keeps on the bedroom wall, a detail of which we only learn after Piachi discovers Nicolo’s attempted seduction of Elvire. We are not told that Piachi uses the whip — and yet Nicolo cowers on the floor. Indeed, it is only when Nicolo realizes that he is achieving nothing by adopting this passive position at Piachi’s feet that he is polarized into open confrontation (SWB, 3:280–

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81) — and it is only when Piachi learns that he has lost his case against Nicolo that he actually uses extreme violence. The text thereby implies that the physical violence that Piachi finally employs is only an external manifestation of the latent mental violence that has hitherto secured the boy’s submission.29 Indeed, at first, nothing changes even when Piachi signs over the majority of his capital to Nicolo (SWB, 3:268). We learn that Nicolo is not invited to join the excursion with Elvire’s young relative on account of his work duties (SWB, 3:276). It seems, then, that Nicolo only has theoretical control of the business and remains psychologically subjugated to his work and to Piachi. Even more strikingly, we are told earlier that Nicolo is forced to make false promises to Piachi that he will not see Xaviera in order to gain his backing in the matter of Constanze’s estate, which again seems highly unusual given that he is the deceased’s husband and already has control of Piachi’s fortune. All this suggests that Nicolo has actually become psychologically incapable of offering direct resistance to Piachi. However, the text suggests that his inability to be candid leads him to develop other vices. Thus his dishonesty about not seeing Xaviera is accompanied by other developments: Aber dies Versprechen war er wenig gesonnen zu halten; vielmehr schärfte der Widerstand, den man ihm entgegen setzte, nur seinen Trotz, und übte ihn in der Kunst, die Aufmerksamkeit des redlichen Alten zu umgehen. (SWB, 3:273) [But he was little inclined to keep this promise; rather, the resistance that he had to face only redoubled his defiance and trained him in the art of avoiding the old man’s attention.]

Thus Piachi’s severity merely leads Nicolo to cultivate his defiance and dissimulation. Indeed, when Piachi tricked him into believing that it was Xaviera, and not Constanze, who was being buried in the church (SWB, 3:272), the long-term effect of the shame that Nicolo initially felt inflamed his hatred towards Elvire, whom he held responsible.30 The text records how Nicolo’s fear of his father leads him to suppress his better instincts. Nicolo, on returning late from an illicit meeting with Xaviera at the carnival, startles Elvire, causing her to faint: Nicolo, von Schrecken bleich, wandte sich um und wollte der Unglücklichen beispringen; doch da das Geräusch, das sie gemacht hatte, notwendig den Alten herbeiziehen mußte, so unterdrückte die Besorgnis, einen Verweis von ihm zu erhalten, alle andere Rücksichten. (SWB, 3:270–71) [Pale with fright, Nicolo turned around and was about to rush to the unfortunate woman’s assistance, but as the noise she had made was bound to summon the old man to the scene, his anxiety about being scolded by him overcame all other considerations.]

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Nicolo’s sense of self-preservation overcomes his instinct to help Elvire. Nicolo quickly hides and later feigns puzzlement at her predicament, even though his knowledge might help explain Elvire’s subsequent illness and depression. The narrator’s viewpoint is strikingly similar to Piachi’s brand of rationally tempered emotionalism. Thus the narrator feels impelled to explain why Constanze’s death is, as he so soberly puts it, regrettable (“bedauernswürdig”; SWB, 3:271). Piachi himself regarded the marriage as a way of ending Nicolo’s interest in Xaviera (SWB, 3:268), and now the narrator argues that Constanze’s death is unfortunate because it will give Nicolo an excuse to cultivate his vices. Nicolo’s marriage to Constanze appears entirely natural to Piachi, and it is only Nicolo’s continued interest in Xaviera that appears unnatural. It seems that marriage, like all other human relationships, is perceived by Piachi on a strictly functional basis. Piachi’s own marriage seems entirely loveless. The narrator suggests that Elvire can expect no more children from Piachi, perhaps not so much because he is no longer capable of producing children, than because he has no need of further children. However, most critics accept that the marriage is passionless because of Piachi’s respect for Elvire’s total devotion to her res31 cuer Colino. However, there are hints that this explanation may not be altogether accurate. We learn that Elvire’s breakdowns are caused by a fever that she fell into straight (“gleich”) after their marriage (SWB, 3:270). The temporal proximity of Elvire’s sickness and her marriage implies that it may be a reaction to married life with Piachi. Certainly, there is no mention of any earlier nervous condition. Moreover, there is reason to doubt Elvire’s devotion to Colino before her marriage. The narrative records that she did not leave Colino’s bedside during his three-year illness, but we also learn that Colino’s mother had to ask her to come and look after him, and that she did not come unbidden. Elvire’s relationship with Colino gives no indication of the passion that she later conceives for him, and before his death, Colino takes leave of Elvire with a mere handshake (SWB, 3:269). It also seems curious that Elvire should have married Piachi if she were still mourning Colino. It seems more plausible to suggest that she actually began to worship Colino after her marriage to Piachi, as a direct response to his lack of emotional warmth. This would help explain why her attachment to Colino assumes the form of a quasi-religious mania, rather than a reasoned gratitude. Like the reserved sacrament, Colino’s portrait hangs in her bedroom, in a recess behind a curtain, lit by a lamp (SWB, 3:274). In fact, it seems probable that Elvire is actually replacing Piachi with a fantasy version 32 of Colino, rather than vice-versa. From this perspective it is much less surprising that Piachi is just as keen as Elvire to keep her attachment to Colino hidden away. She is usually able to play her formal social role as Piachi’s wife

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effectively, and her devotion to Colino is convenient for Piachi because it obviates the need for him to give her emotional support. Der Findling makes numerous allusions to Lessing’s play Nathan der Weise (Nathan the Wise, 1779). Both works feature the replacement of a dead child with an adopted child and the rescue of a woman from a burning building. However, Lessing’s Nathan acts to enlighten his daughter Recha, who believes that her rescuer was an angel. He encourages her to seek him out, so that she can find out whether he needs her help. Both Piachi and Nathan are successful businessmen, but Nathan does not feel the need to repress his emotional attachments. Recha thrives in Nathan’s care in a way that Elvire and Nicolo cannot, precisely because Piachi’s lack of affection drives them to repress or hide away their emotional lives. Recha is freed from passivity and becomes able to do good works thanks to Nathan’s education, whereas Elvire lives a divided, unhappy life of passivity, precisely because Piachi is complicit in sustaining her delusions about her relationship with 33 Colino. Ruth Angress argues that Nicolo’s character cannot be improved by education, but in doing so, she fails to consider the differences between Nathan and Piachi, which might reveal why they achieve such different pedagogical outcomes.34 Even so, Nicolo is not blameless, particularly as he responds to Piachi’s coercive behavior with violence towards the defenseless Elvire; in a sense, though, his treatment of Elvire mirrors the treatment that he receives from Piachi. It is clear that Piachi’s attempt to ban Nicolo from having contact with the Carmelites is meant in Nicolo’s interest, and he succeeds in creating in Nicolo an exemplary worker. But, above all, the story shows that Piachi’s proscriptions and commands actually encourage Nicolo to cultivate his vices secretly, with the result that they are compounded by his gathering spitefulness towards Elvire. The latent violence of the father-son relationship may be hidden in the detail of the text in order to imply that the same holds for such relationships in real life. The subjugation of children within society occurs under the mantle of the process of socialization and education and is formalized to such a degree that the violence of the relationship rarely becomes apparent to the individuals concerned. Kleist seems supportive of Pestalozzi’s ideal of free and harmonious child development, although this representation of domestic pedagogy implies some skepticism about the notion that somehow parents can instinctively achieve this goal.

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Kleist’s Essays and Epigrams on Educational Methodology It is striking that Kleist regularly attacks those who confidently assert their own expertise. This tendency is particularly pronounced in the epigrams that Kleist published in Phöbus in 1808. Some of these are aimed at the critics of his writing, such as Goethe, and the outraged readers of his Die Marquise von O. . . . . In the latter case, he suggests that his female detractors believe that the Marquise wanted to be violated — which itself raises questions about their moral probity (SWB, 3:414). He is similarly brazen in “Der unbefugte Kritikus” (The Unauthorized Critic), in accusing the critics of his art of being unable to read — presumably in the sense that they lack the intelligence and sensitivity required to do justice to his writing (SWB, 3:416). He is similarly dismissive of those involved in education. In “Die unverhoffte Wirkung” (The Unexpected Effect), he is concerned to attack those who, like Piachi, believe in the effectiveness of admonitions: Wenn du die Kinder ermahnst, so meinst du, dein Amt sei erfüllet. Weißt du, was sie dadurch lernen? — Ermahnen, mein Freund! (SWB, 3:416) [When you admonish children, you think that your work is done. Do you know what they learn from it? — To admonish, my friend!]

Kleist takes delight in the child’s ability to deflate the self-importance and self-satisfaction of the rebuker and assumes a similarly unrepentant stance towards his critics. His epigram “Der Pädagog” (The Pedagogue) criticizes educationalists for merely overseeing human progress, like a foreman directing a building site, rather than helping to construct the great edifice (SWB, 3:417). For Kleist, educational theorizing is fruitless because it does not achieve tangible progress. The following epigram, “P . . . und F . . .,” then makes a more focused attack: Setzet, ihr traft’s mit euerer Kunst, und erzögt uns die Jugend Nun zu Männern, wie ihr: lieben Freunde, was wär’s? (SWB, 3:417) [Let’s suppose you succeed in your art, and mold our young people into men like yourselves: my dear friends, would it mean much?]

The epigram is almost certainly directed at Pestalozzi and his colleague Fellenberg. Its choice of target suggests that Kleist may have been ignorant of Pestalozzi’s aims, given that he sought to allow his pupils to develop their personalities freely and fully, and reacted against the harsh discipline of other schools.35 By contrast, Fellenberg was much more authoritarian in his ways.

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It is also possible that Kleist is referring to the bitter dispute between the two men over the running of Pestalozzi’s educational institute at Münchenbuchsee.36 Whether or not it is justified, the object of Kleist’s attack is clearly any attempt simply to make children conform to a pre-existing model, and in this sense it seems to be an argument for a more liberal education. Seán Allan points out that in several essays, including the Brief eines jungen Dichters an einen jungen Maler (Letter from a Young Writer to a Young Painter, 1810), Kleist condemns mere imitation in art and encourages more active creativity. Allan suggests that Kleist criticizes education-by-example because imitation will not take humanity “beyond current paradigms of virtue.”37 Allan cites a passage from Kleist’s Allerneuester Erziehungsplan (The Very Latest Educational Plan, 1810) that suggests that it would be calamitous if parents merely made their children in their own image: da die Menschheit, wie bekannt, fortschreiten soll, und es mithin, selbst dann, wenn an ihnen nichts auszusetzen wäre, nicht genug ist, daß die Kinder werden, wie sie; sondern besser. (SWB, 3:551–52) [for, as is well known, humanity must progress, and thus even if they are beyond reproach it is not enough for their children to become like them — they must become better.]

This passage, with its use of the phrases “wie bekannt” and “fortschreiten soll,” suggests that Kleist’s intent here is satirical. The writer is distancing himself from the current fashionable assumption that human progress is unstoppable. There is further satire in the notion that education-by-example would still not satisfy some, even if it created perfect humans. Thus it suggests that educational theory has become obsessed with progress, to the detriment of the actual results they achieve. The Allerneuester Erziehungsplan is presented as a submission to the Berliner Abendblätter, which the editor has decided to print in order to expose it to public ridicule. The plan that it presents is hardly meant to be taken seriously, as the school does not even offer any academic teaching. Nonetheless, the essay makes some cogent points. Its basic principle is the “Gesetz des Widerspruchs” (law of contradiction), which suggests that humans will generally oppose any strong opinions that are put to them. The writer, a deputy headmaster, then suggests that, as a result, the most effective means of instilling virtue in young people would be to expose them to the most varied examples of extreme vice, in the hope that in response they will embrace a life of moderate virtue. He offers the United States and Botany Bay as examples of criminal colonies that have made good for this reason and notes that the educationalists Campe and Basedow have themselves used 38 these negative methods. However, it becomes clear that the “Lasterschule” (School of Vice) is not so much a positive model that Kleist commends, as a

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device to criticize existing educational policies. In the postscript, the proprietor notes that parents should not worry that his “Lasterschule” will ruin their child, since education is not especially effective anyway: Aber das Kind ist kein Wachs, das sich, in eines Menschen Händen, zu einer beliebigen Gestalt kneten läßt: es lebt, es ist frei; es trägt ein unabhängiges und eigentümliches Vermögen der Entwickelung, und das Muster aller innerlichen Gestaltung, in sich. (SWB, 3:551) [But a child is not wax that can be molded at will into any shape in a person’s hands: it lives, it is free; it carries an independent and unique capacity for development and the blueprint for all inner dispositions within itself.]

The passage is not suggesting that human personality is wholly inborn, but that nurture can only modify a pre-existing character.39 Kleist’s deputy headmaster Levanus then admits freely that his school is actually setting up in competition with many other institutes of educational invention (“pädagogische Erfindung”); and he predicts that in his school, as in all these institutions, just as many pupils will be improved as corrupted. His cheerful insouciance about the implications of his education may be intended by Kleist as criticism of the vogue for educational experimentation; essentially the deputy headmaster seems invigorated by the competition but unconcerned about the pupils.40 This frivolity becomes clear in the final flourish of the essay, when Levanus claims that the final judgment on his establishment will be a sardonic one: “Hilft es nichts, so schadet es nichts” (Even if it doesn’t help, it doesn’t do any harm either; SWB, 3:552). Thus Kleist suggests that the vogue for educational experimentation should be seen as rather frivolous tinkering. Moreover, Levanus includes the educationalist Karl August Zeller in this context, who in 1809 had been invited to set up an institute in Prussia to train teachers in the Pestalozzian methodology.41 Controversially, then, the essay suggests that Prussian politicians are indulging in similarly trivial experimentation. The device of the Lasterschule is effective in two senses: first, the deputy head is able to point to the weaknesses of Tugendschulen (Schools of Virtue), which attempt education through imitation, rather than creativity; and secondly, the educationalist is all too candid about the real chances of success in any establishment, and thus discredits all such institutions. Moreover, Kleist is deriding the educationalists named in the essay by placing them on a level with a teacher who confesses to “Liederlichkeit, Spiel, Trunk, Faulheit und Völlerei” (profligacy, gambling, drunkenness, sloth, and gluttony; SWB, 3:551). It comes to seem that Levanus is trying to build an educational method around his favorite pastimes — and that his colleagues have little more scientific backing for their claims. There may also be satire here of the

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(Pestalozzian) concept that schools should seek to recreate a family atmosphere, for here a dissolute couple will assume the parental role. Kleist’s essay Über die allmählige Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden is similarly based upon the law of contradiction, but the argument here is less purely satirical than in the Allerneuester Erziehungsplan. Drawing on Kleist’s experiences as a civil service trainee in Königsberg, the essay claims that the act of completing half-finished thoughts while speaking clarifies those thoughts. Kleist notes that he is not only forced to think through his ideas rapidly so that he can finish the sentence, but that this pressure also adds a certain mental stimulation that improves the quality of thought. However, his comments also have a bearing upon examination procedures. He argues that superior intellects need to be given some mental stimulation to enable them to define the state, or property (SWB, 3:539– 40). Mediocre minds will learn a definition and repeat it verbatim in an exam; the more intelligent will be interested in creating their own considered definitions. In his letter to Martini of March 1799, Kleist had spoken of how important it was for him to take an active role in his learning, and how he found listening to his mathematics teacher’s explanations confusing and unproductive (SWB, 4:28–30). Similarly, in this essay, Kleist argues that examiners should act as midwives to the pregnant intellect and assist at the birth 42 of ideas (SWB, 3:540). In May 1805, Kleist used a similar metaphor to great comic effect to describe Professor Kraus lecturing on cameralism (SWB, 4:340). His point in that letter was that Kraus’s labor produced thoughts that were of higher quality than other lecturers, who brought along a pile of books as a stand-by, and who were reliant on knowledge that they had assimilated elsewhere, rather than produced themselves. There are parallels here too between Kleist and Humboldt, for Kleist ostensibly endorses Humboldt’s conception of university study, which placed original research and the critical appraisal of knowledge above its mere acquisition. But, as we saw previously, Kleist does not confine his remarks to the academic area. In his examination scenario, he suggests that one possible question would be a definition of the state, a question that had been immeasurably complicated by the events of the French Revolution. This theme continues in an anecdote within the essay, in which Kleist suggests that Mirabeau’s revolutionary defiance of the king’s steward might actually have been the result of a similarly sudden inspiration. To some extent, the anecdote is provocative in drawing attention to elements of contingency in the processes that bring forth world historical events such as the French Revolution, but this hardly means that Kleist is denying that there were social grounds for 43 the events of 1789. Indeed, the anecdote suggests that the status quo was founded upon the superior power of the king, rather than the rightness of his position. The interaction between Mirabeau and the steward is significant because it gives Mirabeau the confidence to challenge the king’s authority.

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Kleist speculates that a nervous twitch or gesture from the steward might have sufficed to tip the balance. Hence verbal interaction, accompanied by the signals of body language, disrupts the established structures of society. On the other hand, written language, like the definitions that mediocre examination candidates commit to memory, is “official,” and helps to buttress the political status quo and to minimize dissent. Indeed, the use of anecdotes in this essay does not so much clarify the original thesis about how valuable insights can be produced as complicate it — and with this technique it anticipates Kleist’s essays on the Finance Edict. From La Fontaine, Kleist borrows a story of how the truth is overturned by the quick-witted fox, with the result that the innocent donkey is held accountable for the outbreak of the plague. In this case, speech does not necessarily produce valuable insights, but merely useful ones. But this story is linked to the anecdote about Mirabeau in the sense that both demonstrate how speech can reconstitute reality and effect a revolution in the accepted state of affairs. There is a further example of this phenomenon in Das Erdbeben in Chili, where the priest’s spontaneous idea of mentioning Jeronimo and Josephe’s transgressions in his sermon leads to extreme public disorder. Kleist also makes the connection in the epigram “Das Sprachversehen” (The Speech Error): Was! Du nimmst sie jetzt nicht, und warst der Dame versprochen? Antwort: Lieber! vergib, man verspricht sich ja wohl. (SWB, 3:416) [What? You take her not, and the lady took your word? 44 Response: Forgive me, my friend: words can easily be mis-taken.] It is more than simply word play, then, that leads Kleist to equate the social scandal of breaking an engagement, which Kleist himself committed, with a mere slip of the tongue, for speech itself comes to seem socially transgressive in Kleist’s works. Similarly, Penthesilea argued that her (highly taboo) killing of Achilles was based on a verbal confusion (ll. 2981–83). Nonetheless there is considerable evidence that Kleist is especially concerned with promoting an educational system and a social structure that favor verbal spontaneity over rote learning, for it seems that it is in speech that the human personality is most emancipated from the shackles placed upon it. More generally, we can see that Kleist’s writings about education are deeply embedded in ongoing debates. Kleist’s thinking is reflective of the misgivings of his contemporaries about social change, although he does not share their sense that social liberalization is in itself dangerous. Rather, he is critical of the attempt to determine and control social dynamics, since patterns of human behavior are deeply embedded in the individual’s personal background and the variety of possible human responses is not accounted for

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in these generalized psychological models, such as those deployed in Das Erdbeben in Chili. Historical and cultural developments are not only significant in influencing general societal behavior, but also in their effect on the approach taken by the educator. In Piachi, Kleist demonstrates how personal experiences and beliefs lead to the attempt to control a child’s character with damaging results. Kleist’s attachment to his personal autonomy also finds expression in his writing, although he does accept the necessity of socializing the child in accordance with certain norms. He is highly antagonistic to those who place themselves in the position of disciplining, assessing, or refining another’s intellect or morals. This tendency is most conspicuous in his scorn for educationalists, teachers, critics, and preachers. His comments about politicians’ schemes in the Berliner Abendblätter are less overtly hostile, but again, some essays do imply criticism. The following chapter therefore addresses the tensions between Kleist’s views on educational and military issues, for it is in this arena that any inclinations that Kleist shows towards social liberalism are most severely tested by his acute sense of national crisis.

Notes 1

See further James Van Horn Melton, Absolutism and the Eighteenth-Century Origins of Compulsory Schooling in Prussia and Austria (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1988), 34–48. 2 On the connections between Pietism and cameralism, see Melton, Absolutism, 109– 44. 3 See further Kate Silber, Pestalozzi: The Man and his Work, 2d ed. (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965), 127–33. 4

For further discussion of Pestalozzi’s “Method,” see Silber, Pestalozzi, 133–50; and Michael Heafford, Pestalozzi: His Thought and its Relevance Today (London: Methuen, 1967), 39–73. 5

For further details of these restrictions, see Melton, Absolutism, 115–19. John Ellis even argues that Kleist seeks to demonstrate the uncertainty of all interpretation. See further Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist: Studies in the Character and Meaning of his Writings, University of North Carolina Studies in the Germanic Languages and Literatures, 94 (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1979), 36–53. 6

7

See Wolfgang Kayser, “Kleist als Erzähler,” in Kayser, Die Vortragsreise: Studien zur Literatur (Bern: Francke, 1958), 169–83, here 169. Anthony Stephens speaks of a “duality of narrative voices”; see Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist: The Dramas and Stories (Oxford: Berg, 1994), 205. 8 See further Harry Steinhauer, “Heinrich von Kleists Das Erdbeben in Chili,” in Goethezeit: Studien zur Erkenntnis und Rezeption Goethes und seiner Zeitgenossen. Festschrift für Stuart Atkins, ed. Gerhart Hoffmeister (Bern: Francke, 1981), 281– 301.

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9

See Helmut Koopmann, Freiheitsonne und Revolutionsgewitter: Reflexe der französischen Revolution im literarischen Deutschland zwischen 1789 und 1840, Untersuchungen zur deutschen Literaturgeschichte, 50 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989), 93–122. 10

More plausibly, Helmut Schneider suggests that the story expresses Kleist’s disappointment at the failure of the Revolution to realize its utopian goals. See Schneider, “Der Zusammensturz des Allgemeinen,” in Positionen der Literaturwissenschaft: Acht Modellanalysen am Beispiel von Kleists “Erdbeben in Chili,” ed. Wellbery (Munich: Beck, 1985), 110–29. 11 See Robert H. Brown, “Fear of Social Change in Kleist’s Das Erdbeben in Chili,” Monatshefte 84 (1992): 447–58. 12

On the relationship between the religious and secular authorities, see further IlSang Jin, Die gesellschaftlichen Formationen in Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Series 1: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur, 1619 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1997), 23–30. 13

On the difficulty of distinguishing between the narrator’s and Josephe’s viewpoints, see also David Wellbery, “Semiotische Anmerkungen zu Kleists Das Erdbeben in Chili,” in Positionen der Literaturwissenschaft, ed. Wellbery, 69–87, here 80. 14

See Deutsche Geschichte in Quellen und Darstellung, vol. 6, Von der Französischen Revolution bis zum Wiener Kongreß, 1789–1815, ed. Walter Demel and Uwe Puschner (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1995), 87–88. 15

Friedrich A. Kittler argues that the story shows Kleist’s support for Gneisenau’s proposal for the arming of the masses. Thus the earthquake acts as a primer in revolutionary warfare by teaching the people to sacrifice their lives and property for the greater good, and preparing them to fight a partisan war against Napoleon. However, the comparison is unconvincing: the effects of the earthquake are much more diverse than Kittler indicates, and the killing ceases after the accomplishment of its limited aims, and Kittler’s putative “class enemy” Don Fernando survives. The story’s depiction of violent mob action may well be an allusion to the events of the French Revolution, but primarily it is a reflection on the difficulties of using over-neat sociopolitical models to predict social trends. See further Kittler, “Ein Erdbeben in Chili und Preußen,” in Positionen der Literaturwissenschaft, ed. David E. Wellbery, 24–38. 16

Dirk Grathoff rightly argues that Kleist’s positions need to be carefully differentiated from those of his collaborator Adam Müller. He suggests that the emphatic tone that the essay adopts here suggests that Kleist was convinced on this point. See further Grathoff, “Die Zensurkonflikte der Berliner Abendblätter: zur Beziehung von Journalismus und Öffentlichkeit bei Heinrich v. Kleist,” in Ideologiekritische Studien zur Literatur: Essays I, ed. Klaus Peter and others (Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1972), 35–168; here 116–27. 17

By contrast, Reinhold Steig suggests that the essay is intended as a primer in tax evasion. See Steig, Heinrich von Kleist’s Berliner Kämpfe (Berlin: Spemann, 1901), 116–19. 18

Pace Wolfgang Wittkowski, “Schrieb Kleist regierungsfreundliche Artikel?: Über den Umgang mit politischen Texten,” Literaturwissenschaftliches Jahrbuch im

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Auftrag der Görres-Gesellschaft 23 (1982): 95–116, here 101–8; and Gonthier-Louis Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion in Kleists Werk im Spannungsfeld der Französischen Revolution,” KJb (1988–89): 64–88, here 70. Steig even attributes the essay to a government source. See Steig, Heinrich von Kleist’s Berliner Kämpfe, 119–20. For a balanced assessment of Kleist’s political aims as editor of the Berliner Abendblätter, see Heinrich Aretz, Heinrich von Kleist als Journalist: Untersuchungen zum “Phöbus,” zur “Germania” und den “Berliner Abendblättern,” Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 133 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 1983), especially 117–31. 19

For more on the narrative devices that heighten the obscurities of the story, see Marjorie Gelus, “Displacement of Meaning: Kleist’s Der Findling,” German Quarterly 55 (1982): 541–53. 20

See Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 233–34; and similarly, Stefanie Marx, Beispiele des Beispiellosen: Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen ohne Moral, Epistemata: Reihe Literaturwissenschaft, 129 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1994), 86–114, here 112. 21

See Hilda Meldrum Brown, Heinrich von Kleist: The Ambiguity of Art and the Necessity of Form (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 196–97. Lilian Hoverland takes a similarly functional view of Nicolo; see Hoverland, Heinrich von Kleist und das Prinzip der Gestaltung, Theorie — Kritik — Geschichte, 20 (Königstein/Ts.: Scriptor-Verlag, 1978), 165. 22

See Ford B. Parkes, “Shifting Narrative Perspectives in Kleist’s Findling,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 76 (1977): 165–76. 23 24

See Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist, 18. See Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist, 15.

25

See further Walter Müller-Seidel, Versehen und Erkennen: eine Studie über Heinrich von Kleist (Cologne: Böhlau, 1961), 68. 26

On this point, see also Stefanie Marx, Beispiele des Beispiellosen, 99–100. Numerous critics have applied a psychoanalytic framework to their interpretations, but such an approach seems forced given that Elvire is not Nicolo’s biological mother and that he was well beyond infancy when he first met her. See further Gail Newman, “Family Violence in Heinrich von Kleist’s Der Findling,” Colloquia Germanica 29 (1996): 287–302; and Joachim Pfeiffer, Die zerbrochenen Bilder: gestörte Ordnungen im Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Epistemata: Reihe Literaturwissenschaft, 45 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1989), 41–54. 27

28

See, for example, Brown, The Ambiguity of Art, 197.

29

Compare also Die Marquise von O. . . ., which also discloses the underlying violence within the family, particularly with its use of military metaphors to describe the interaction between the Marquise and her parents.

30

See further Ditmar Skrotzki, Die Gebärde des Errötens im Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Marburger Beiträge zur Germanistik, 37 (Marburg: Elwert, 1971), 49–50.

31 32 33

See, for instance, Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist, 229. Compare Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist, 4–5.

See Ruth K. Angress, “Kleists Abkehr von der Aufklärung,” KJb (1987): 98–114, here 106. See also Helmut J. Schneider, “The Facts of Life: Kleist’s Challenge to

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Enlightenment Humanism,” in A Companion to the Works of Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Bernd Fischer (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2003), 141–63, which examines the relationship between Kleist and Lessing within a Freudian framework. 34

See Angress, “Kleists Abkehr,” 107. See also Ulrich Vohland, Bürgerliche Emanzipation in Heinrich von Kleists Dramen und theoretischen Schriften, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Series 1: Deutsche Literatur und Germanistik, no. 142 (Bern: Lang, 1976), 189–202. 35

36

See further Silber, Pestalozzi, 161–63. For further discussion of these epigrams, see Walter Hettche, Heinrich von Kleists Lyrik, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Series 1: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur, 859 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1986), 139–42; Michael Moering, Witz und Ironie in der Prosa Heinrich von Kleists (Munich: Fink, 1972), 106–7; and Nancy Nobile, The School of Days: Heinrich von Kleist and the Traumas of Education (Detroit, MI: Wayne State UP, 1999), 22–47. 37 See Seán Allan, “Liederlichkeit, Spiel, Trunk, Faulheit und Völlerei, behalte ich mir bevor: Heinrich von Kleist’s Last Word on Modern Educational Theory,” in GLL, n.s., 48 (1995): 353–61, here 358. 38 In my view unjustifiably, Wolf Kittler reads the essay as an exposition of absolute war. See further Kittler, Die Geburt des Partisanen aus dem Geist der Poesie: Heinrich von Kleist und die Strategie der Befreiungskriege (Freiburg: Rombach, 1987), 342. 39

Nancy Nobile argues convincingly that Kleist is an “attentive reader” of Jean Paul’s Levana (1806). The parallels are indicated by the name “C. J. Levanus,” which Kleist gives to the writer, but Nobile argues that Kleist’s Levanus is more radical than Jean Paul in seeking to preserve the uniqueness of the individual. See Nancy Nobile, The School of Days, 53–74. 40

I would therefore dispute Nobile’s contention that the deputy headmaster’s views “largely escape the blade of satire’s knife”; see Nobile, The School of Days, 50. 41

See further Steig, Heinrich von Kleist’s Berliner Kämpfe, 325–28. Nancy Nobile views the essay as a repudiation of Kant’s Metaphysik der Sitten (The Metaphysics of Morals, 1798–1803), from which it draws the metaphor of midwifery. Nobile argues plausibly that Kleist disapproves of Kant’s suggestion that pupils should be taught moral lessons by catechization. See further Nobile, The School of Days, 75–111, here 107–11. 42

43

Pace Fink, “Das Motiv der Rebellion,” 69. I am grateful to Ronald Speirs for his advice on this translation. The translation offered remains a loose one, however, and does not quite capture the sense of the original German, which plays on the double meaning of “versprechen”: to promise, and to make a slip of the tongue. 44

5: The Theory and Practice of War

T

of the eighteenth-century state often set the parameters for political life. Under Frederick the Great, Prussia’s military organization had been based on corporative divisions, which made it difficult to bring about political change without compromising state security. In revolutionary France, the introduction of universal conscription also affected the political world, as it advanced the cause of the Jacobins.1 It was only the crushing defeat of 1806–7 that brought change to Prussia, as it demonstrated unmistakably the bankruptcy of the old regime. Thus the years after the defeat saw the first steps towards the abolition of serfdom, but universal conscription was only introduced — temporarily — in 1813. The French Revolutionary army had demonstrated what could be achieved by an army of citizens, rather than subjects. As the Prussian reformer Gerhard von Scharnhorst had noted as early as 1797, the French soldiers were fighting to prevent the reintroduction of autocratic government, 2 which led them to show unprecedented courage and self-sacrifice. The greater number of soldiers available to the French army enabled it to take greater risks; it could also fight in more open formations because it was composed of highly motivated soldiers who could be relied upon not to desert. These patriotic fighters could be expected to endure greater privations than a standing army, and thus the French army was able to reduce its dependence on supply chains and to rely on soldiers foraging. Napoleon’s revolution in the French army was built on this basis. His principal innovations came in the field of strategy, rather than tactics.3 The Napoleonic army routinely covered great distances — up to 30 kilometers a day — which enabled it to surprise and entrap the enemy; this tactic was used to devastating effect against Austria in 1805.4 Eighteenth-century armies were often unable to achieve decisive victories once an engagement had taken place. In contrast, Napoleon’s army was equipped to crush its opponents.5 His army of 1805 was organized into eight corps, each of which could operate semi-autonomously, as it combined different types of weapons. It was this flexible system that made possible Napoleon’s devastating envelopment of the Prussians at Jena in 1806, and, even more tellingly, that enabled the victory at Auerstedt, where Marshal Davout’s Third Corps found the main body of the Prussian army and defeated them unassisted, much to Napoleon’s surprise. The Napoleonic forces followed up this victory HE MILITARY REQUIREMENTS

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by pursuing the enemy for several days, which prevented them from regrouping and forced Saxony into immediate capitulation.6 Thus Napoleon’s great achievements were his strategic mastery in pressing home an advantage, which itself was founded on his organizational achievements. In contrast, the Napoleonic age saw few great advances in military technology other than the invention of lighter and more accurate artillery. Combat was still structured around the smoothbore flintlock musket and the rifle and attention generally focused on improving their speed, accuracy, and utilization.7 Under Frederick II, the Prussian army had achieved the heaviest firepower of all European armies, thanks to constant drilling; its men were taught to deploy, fire, and reload rapidly, but were actually forbidden to take aim.8 However, events in France revolutionized attitudes to the rank and file, and in the course of 1793–94, the French army introduced infantry formations other than the line, such as squares and columns, in order to achieve greater flexibility and effectiveness in defense and attack. French strategy also focused on making fighters more adaptable in moving between tasks and positions to enable them to respond effectively to unforeseen events on the battlefield. However, the new emphasis on the individual fighter did not only require different training, but an altogether changed mindset. As the Prussian reformer Gneisenau noted, the skirmisher needed intelligence and speed, courage and persistence, skill and judgment. Gneisenau placed emphasis on the elements of uncertainty associated with warfare, and how these might be 9 turned to positive advantage. In contrast, many enlightened thinkers of the previous century had tried to eliminate these “moral forces,” and to formulate universal theories of warfare modeled upon the procedures of Newtonian science, or to establish what the optimum formations might be by applying geometrical formulae.10 The work of the military thinker Carl von Clausewitz (1780–1831) saw the culmination of the growing attack on this “science” of warfare. Clausewitz emphasized the psychological variables that army officers needed to consider in executing their campaign. This could mean motivating troops to pursue an enemy by giving them the hope of seizing enemy property, or conversely, demoralizing an enemy by forcing them to march at nighttime.11 Clausewitz also stressed that his students should not content themselves with listening to his theories, but that they should develop a practical knowledge of warfare from historical accounts and personal experience.12 However, Clausewitz was not arguing either that practical knowledge was adequate in itself, and he held that it was the demands made on the intellect to be creative that made partisan war such an interesting subject.13 The introduction of a rigorous academic element to officer training was an essential element of Scharnhorst’s reforms, although the move was heavily criticized by conservatives, who feared that intellectualism might dull the aggressive impulses.14

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Thus the dominant trend in Kleist’s day was towards the democratization and decentralization of military structures, as leaders became convinced that their troops were not simply animals who needed to be drilled and beaten into submission, but thinking beings capable of spontaneous innovation in response to changing circumstances. Indeed, it was now necessary for the ancien régime powers to harness that creative ability, since their systematic suppression in the wars from 1792 to 1806 had brought them uncomfortably close to the brink of annihilation. Moreover, it had become clear that Frederick the Great’s radical distinction between the army and civil society had to be removed; all classes had to serve the cause of German liberation with their physical strength and their private property. The investment in the new warfare had to be total, since the enemy was prepared to commit all its resources to the fight — and combat would now have to be motivated by conviction, rather than fear of punishment.

Penthesilea Kleist’s resignation from the army was motivated by his disquiet at the level of compulsion that it imposed upon him as an individual. Thus he anticipated on a moral level some of the ideas of Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, and Clausewitz, which combined both ethical and operational concerns. The main stage of the military reforms took place after October 1806, coinciding with much of Kleist’s work on Penthesilea between August 1806 and October 1807.15 The play primarily contributes to discussions of military organization in two respects: first, in its focus upon the psychological motivation of the individual fighter; and second, in its arguments about the relationship between military aggression and politics. Kleist’s play represents the confrontation of a well-established, successful, yet conventional military system with a new nation of highly motivated and emancipated warrior citizens. A comparison with the history of Europe after 1789 therefore seems highly pertinent although it has attracted limited critical discussion, even in the literature about warfare in Kleist.16 The Amazon women are motivated by an ideological commitment to the state’s war aims, which dates back to a common memory of past oppression. They do not seek to conquer territory, but merely to sustain their autonomy, although their future depends entirely on winning victories in order to ensure the birth of new generations. The centrality of war to this culture is expressed in its founding myth, which presents the community as founded by Mars (ll. 1824–27). In this respect, they resemble the French armies raised in defense of the Revolution, whose military successes were crucial to the future of the state. Indeed, the Amazon state also needs to harness what might be described as the “moral forces” of the individual if it is to survive, and in this sense it is

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not a purely rational state.17 The women’s excited anticipation of the encounter with the Greeks (ll. 2054–60) is the instrument for promoting their aggression; even Penthesilea’s enemies see animalistic sexual undertones in her pursuit of Achilles (ll. 395–96). It appears that the tight controls placed on the women’s sexuality by the conventions and taboos of their culture serve a military function too: to channel their energy and aggression into socially acceptable forms. The same point is made by the hunting metaphors that predominate in descriptions of Penthesilea’s aggressive pursuits, for they emphasize the role of personal motivation in warfare. In Penthesilea, Kleist takes a particular interest in discovering ways of exploiting militarily the non-rational aspects of human psychology, rather than seeking to eradicate them through discipline. However, he also thematizes the danger inherent in this strategy, that the focus on the individual and the creation of a meritocratic basis to the army may threaten the cohesion of the group. In the play, Penthesilea’s ambition reaches cosmic proportions, far beyond her will to subjugate the great Achilles (ll. 1375–76). The dangers of such ambition are demonstrated when she causes the loss of the Amazons’ captives. At the same time, it becomes clear in scene 5 that personal interests are at the heart of the women’s motivation, for they argue for the continuation or cessation of hostilities according to whether they have achieved their 18 personal goals. Yet it is precisely her personal ambition that makes Penthesilea such a remarkable fighter. The High Priestess’s perspective is that all ambition is damaging, as she predicts that Penthesilea will be the victim of her pride (ll. 1106–8).19 She fails to recognize that the elimination of all personal motivation would only diminish the Amazons’ offensive capacity. Similarly, in scene 2, as Penthesilea repeatedly tries to scale a cliff to reach Achilles, the Greek observers suggest that she is insane, but their position is undermined as she finally finds a path to him. This demonstrates the value of the highly motivated, resourceful, and brave individual in combat and disproves the dismissive attitude of the Greeks towards Penthesilea. The play repeatedly notes that the defining characteristics of Amazon combat are speed and concentration of force. They are often compared either to animals or to elemental forces such as storms, torrents, or thunderbolts. In contrast, the Greeks appear sluggish in scene 2 as they listen to the lengthy narrative about Penthesilea’s fierce pursuit of Achilles, and only decide at its end to intervene. Like the old regime powers of Kleist’s day, the Greeks employ closed formations when they are attacked (ll. 39–42). Indeed, the Greeks, like the Prussians in the decade after 1795, seek to attain their ends by diplomatic means, although their approaches to Penthesilea are sharply rebuffed. The Greek mind, constantly in search of regularity and order, necessarily finds Amazon warfare incomprehensible. Thus they compare Amazon warfare to the primal chaos of the world (ll. 437–38). Odysseus

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criticizes Achilles’ involvement in what he regards as a senseless conflict (l. 211) because he can only endorse war when it has clear strategic objectives. By contrast, the Amazons embrace the principle of uncertainty that was also central to Clausewitz’s theoretical innovations. Indeed, when Penthesilea trips on a stone during battle, the Greek observers can even imagine that it was the result of Achilles’ brilliant planning (ll. 513–19). However, the play also thematizes the problems with Amazon warfare, which recognizes no boundaries and allows no negotiation. This extraordinary violence culminates as Penthesilea merges with the hunting pack to destroy Achilles. The Amazon state is entirely dependent upon aggression, yet it also threatens to destroy the cohesion and sense of common cause of the Amazon women. This problem of controlling aggression is also addressed at the close of Kleist’s play Die Herrmannsschlacht, where Herrmann gives orders to advance on the enemy capital and to destroy it. But in this case, aggression is directed outwards, and thus the problem is to some extent hidden.

Die Herrmannsschlacht and the Political Essays and Anecdotes of 1809–11 Kleist’s writings of 1808–9 are shaped by a sense of deep political crisis. In the course of 1808, it became apparent that Austria, the last major German power to remain unoccupied, would go to war with France. After several conflicts in which Prussia and Austria had been defeated when they fought France separately, Kleist felt the need to persuade his compatriots, and especially their monarchs, to cooperate for the sake of national liberation. He was living in Dresden in 1808, and many around him were sympathetic to French rule.20 In one short essay, Kleist responds aggressively to those who criticize Ernst Moritz Arndt’s propagandist writings for exaggerating the perils of Germany’s situation and argues that the apocalyptic vision that he presented in Geist der Zeit was quite justified. Kleist suggests that no one has ever foreseen moments of world-historical significance, such as the pillaging of Athens or the destruction of Jerusalem (SWB, 3:494). Like Fichte and Arndt, Kleist regards the defense of German autonomy as a task of overwhelming historical importance and even describes the impending conflict on a cosmic scale in the Katechismus der Deutschen (SWB, 3:484–85). In the essay Was gilt es in diesem Kriege? (What is at stake in this war?, first published 1848), Germany is described as the defender of the principle of selfdetermination and as a community that must be defended for the good of all humanity: Eine Gemeinschaft mithin gilt es, die dem ganzen Menschengeschlecht angehört; die die Wilden der Südsee noch, wenn sie sie kennten, zu beschützen herbeiströmen würden; eine Gemeinschaft, deren Dasein

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keine deutsche Brust überleben, und die nur mit Blut, vor dem die Sonne erdunkelt, zu Grabe gebracht werden soll. (SWB, 3:479) [What is at stake is thus a community that belongs to all humanity, which the savages of the South Seas, if they knew of it, would still rush to defend; a community whose existence no German heart should outlive, and which should only be laid to rest with blood that makes the sun go dark.]

Kleist’s representation of the Holy Roman Empire and its institutions is not always so positive, but here he presents it as a cosmopolitan community, and the embodiment of non-belligerence and cultural openness. Yet he calls for all-out war, at the risk of life and property, as the only adequate moral response to the force that is preventing its reestablishment. The reference to the sun suggests that this is a struggle for the survival of enlightenment, which may be extinguished by the brutality of the conflict itself. Kleist therefore draws attention to the moral paradoxes underlying the kind of war he is advocating, in which an ethical goal is pursued by unethical means. In other works, Kleist even suggests that war can have a positive effect on the morality of the nation by eradicating excessive attachment to rationalism and ma21 terial goods. However, Kleist does not always present warfare as a righteous undertaking. At some moments, he concentrates rather on subrational, visceral motivations. The poem “Kriegslied der Deutschen” (The Germans’ War Song) depicts the French as dangerous animals that need to be eradicated with all available weapons (SWB, 3:434). Moreover, in Katechismus der Deutschen, Kleist suggests that patriotism cannot be legitimated rationally; when asked why he loves Germany, the son repeats a single mantra: “Weil es mein Vaterland ist” (Because it is my fatherland; SWB, 3:480–81). One theme that runs through Kleist’s work of 1808–9 is the idea of the German nation as a moral power in itself, which demands sacrifices from all its members. Indifference is not an option during war, and the neutral individual is more culpable than any other (SWB, 3:487). The moral consequences of this position are worked out most clearly in Kleist’s Über die Rettung von Österreich (On the Salvation of Austria, first published 1876), where he argues that, in the light of the defeat at Wagram, the Austrian government should make whatever demands of the people that are necessary (SWB, 3:501). This position is particularly striking in view of Kleist’s strong attachment to human self-determination. However, the occupation of Germany is an emergency that requires special authoritarian measures, and Kleist argues that it is not only the people, but also the government that is obligated to remedy it. He also suggests that private morality is no longer a valid concept in this time of national crisis. This question is posed in an acute form in the Herrmannsschlacht, when Herrmann tells Thusnelda that it is

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precisely the best Romans that are the worst (ll. 1697–98) because they make it more difficult for him to sustain the hatred that he needs to feel for them in order to combat them effectively. However, Kleist is sometimes skeptical about the value of highly moralized propaganda to the cause of liberation. In Katechismus der Deutschen, he discusses two possible approaches to the writing of propaganda. The less successful one is to persuade the people that material goods are worthless; it will be more productive to tell them that if they fail to act, the French will steal their possessions anyway (SWB, 3:489). Kleist’s Herrmann behaves similarly when he follows up his patriotic appeal to his fellow princes with threats of retribution (ll. 2070–77). Having established that the cause of national liberation is a moral good, Kleist argues that the means of achieving that good are irrelevant; efficacy is the sole relevant criterion. Kleist’s proposals were heavily influenced by the guerrilla warfare that had proved successful against the Napoleonic armies in 22 Spain. Wolf Kittler has suggested that the tactics represented in Die Herrmannsschlacht — the use of everyday objects as weapons, the lack of uniforms, the involvement of women and children in the conflict, and the exploitation of difficult and dense terrain — are typical of the partisan warfare of Kleist’s day.23 However, it is striking that Herrmann often shows little interest in the matters of detail, and that he is often more interested in instilling confidence in his fighters; thus when Eginhardt calls for extra defensive precautions against a manœuvre sur les derrières, Herrmann merely counters with bluff rhetoric (ll. 1851–58). Kittler’s thesis that Kleist’s ideas resemble those of the Prussian reformers has some substance, but Christiane Schreiber correctly points out that the reformers did not advocate violence against the German population.24 But Schreiber also suggests that Kleist does not support Herrmann’s propaganda methods and that he intends the Romans to function as a counterexample.25 However, as we have seen, the play suggests that individual morality is invalidated for as long as the nation is at war. Thus Kleist’s position is considerably more radical than that of the liberal reformers. His arguments here are rather simpler and more prescriptive than in either Penthesilea or Homburg, perhaps because, as he told the Austrian Court Secretary Collin, Die Herrmannsschlacht was intended as a direct response to the current crisis (SWB, 4:428–29). Kleist does not question monarchy as the foundation for governance in Germany, but nor does he acknowledge a divine right to rule. Thus he argues in Über die Rettung von Österreich that the emperor’s personal glory 26 and dynastic considerations are minor matters (SWB, 3:499). War is not a private dispute between monarchs but a question for the nation as a whole. Indeed, Kleist warns the monarchs of Germany that they must act in the interests of the nation or risk being overthrown. Thus in his Katechismus der Deutschen, he suggests that the Saxon population will be justified in withdrawing their allegiance to their king following his alliance with Napoleon

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(SWB, 3:487–88). In Über die Rettung von Österreich, he suggests only halfjokingly that if Austria loses another battle, the population of Bohemia will not complain if he himself unilaterally severs its ties with Vienna and declares a republic (SWB, 3:499).27 Nor does the Prussian king escape criticism for his attitude towards Napoleonic France. Herrmann’s rather cryptic words about his plan to retreat before the advancing enemy to the border and to die there (ll. 350–59) may actually be read as a satirical allusion to the flight of the Prussian court from the advancing Napoleonic army in 1806, first to Königsberg and then even further to Memel.28 Nonetheless, Kleist defers to the leadership of the German princes. In the introduction to his planned journal Germania, he observed that he was only justified in writing propaganda because the Austrian emperor had revealed his intention of making war on France (SWB, 3:492). Poetry can only play a secondary role, supporting the decisions of the German princes.29 In Die Herrmannsschlacht, the German people may initiate the battle against Rome, but it is reported that they could not have defeated Varus unaided (ll. 2443–58). Even so, Kleist represents the Volk as essentially honorable. Thus Herrmann’s army refuses to fight when they believe that they are to be used to subjugate their fellow Germans (ll. 2137–40). Indeed, in Über die Abreise des Königs von Sachsen aus Dreßden (On the Departure of the Saxon King from Dresden, first published 1984), Kleist even suggests that the people could have galvanized the Saxon king into opposition to the French and notes that there are some circumstances in which princes need to be saved by their subjects (SWB, 3:461). Thus Kleist may not challenge the right of the monarch to rule, but he certainly disapproves of arbitrary rule; and the Volk may not be allocated a direct participatory role in the political process, but in Kleist’s view they clearly have moral rights. Moreover, Kleist imposes the same moral requirements on both the German princes and the people to act unselfishly in the good of the nation. Both parties must accept the curtailment of their free self-determination in the cause of liberation. The model ruler in this respect is Herrmann, who is ready to jeopardize his marriage and his children’s safety in order to deceive the Romans and gain the trust of his compatriots. Kleist is consistently critical, however, of the administrators and counselors who try to influence princes’ military policies. In Die Herrmannsschlacht, Marbod’s adviser Attarin seeks to promote the diplomatic and military advantages of an alliance with Rome and discourages Marbod from recognizing his sense of kinship with Herrmann (ll. 1397–1415). In Katechismus der Deutschen, Kleist alleges that corrupt advisers persuaded the Saxon king to ally with Napoleon (SWB, 3:488). Kleist’s most vivid representation of this type of corruption comes in the satirical Schreiben eines Burgemeisters in einer Festung an einen Unterbeamten (Letter of a Mayor to a Subordinate Official from a Fortress, first published 1862). Kleist’s fictional

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letter writer is the mayor of a town that is about to be attacked by enemy forces. The governor has demanded that a section of the town be razed to the ground to aid the defense of the fortress. It emerges that the mayor’s house is at risk, and it is suggested that the action may prevent a business deal in which he may have a material interest.30 The letter demonstrates how the mayor undermines the governor’s policy by suggesting trivial legal obstacles to the requisitioning of the materials needed to execute the plan (SWB, 3:473–74). The letter also mocks the mayor’s use of pompous and evasive official language, which allows him to hint at his opposition to the plan while signaling his support at the superficial level. He indicates in the letter, as if incidentally, that his correspondent’s house will also be destroyed if the plan is carried out, and he clearly hopes that his subordinate will ensure that the necessary combustibles are not made available, which will save him from appearing unpatriotic. The letter demonstrates that officials may conspire against the national cause to protect their own interests. On the whole, Kleist represents military leaders in a positive light in 31 these writings. In particular, Herrmann acts as a model for leadership. He is able to steel the confidence of his subordinates when they undertake perilous missions. In one case, he makes Luitgar aware of the importance of his mission, but he also reassures him by suggesting that he is under the control of the gods (ll. 853–61). The anecdote Französisches Exercitium (French Tactics, 1810) describes how a French artillery captain is said to have defied heavy enemy fire to spur each of his artillerymen to remain in position (SWB, 3:362). He achieves his effect by a combination of intimidation and personal interaction, the latter of which the Prussian army, with its relatively formal structures of command, lacked. The need for personal warmth is raised in another anecdote, which describes how Napoleon is said to have held the wounded Marshal Lannes in his arms at the battle of Aspern and gained the 32 admiration of his troops for having done so (SWB, 3:364). It has also been suggested that Robert Guiskard may allude to the famous story of Napoleon’s involvement in the care of plague-stricken soldiers during his Egyptian campaign.33 In these examples, Kleist demonstrates the need for charismatic military leaders who are able to bring out the moral forces of their subordinates, even if it means endangering their own safety. Kleist’s ideal soldiers are not characterized by their discipline, but by creativity, cunning, and boldness. Von der Überlegung (On Reflection, 1810) argues that the Germans tend to reflect excessively upon combat situations rather than tackle them instinctively. The writer suggests that should his son decide on a military career he would advise him to analyze his actions only after an engagement — although it is a typically Kleistian irony that the speaker himself has a theory of fighting fully worked out for the eventuality that his son might become a soldier (SWB, 3:554–55). The Anekdote aus dem letzten preußischen Kriege (Anecdote from the Last Prussian War, 1810)

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portrays just such a resourceful individual who manages single-handedly to stop a French pursuit unit entering a village near the battlefield of Jena (SWB, 3:356–57). It was commonly known that the Prussian debacle at Jena was due to the French forces’ ferocious cavalry pursuit, which left the Prussian and Saxon armies depleted, disorganized, and humiliated, and thus the anecdote is an implicit attack on the timorous Prussian armies. It demonstrates perfectly the military reformers’ arguments that discipline was no longer enough to create an exemplary army. Kleist’s soldier is motivated not by fear, but by a spirit of adventure, a will to achieve, and an irrepressible energy. Both he and the hero of the comic Anekdote aus dem letzten Kriege (Anecdote from the Recent War, 1810) defy conventional discipline.34 The former drinks and smokes, and the latter employs rather colorful language; yet both continue the war on their own initiative. The latter soldier has a clear sense of the ideological justification of the cause for which he is fighting. When he is finally caught by French police after his rampage and condemned to death, he removes his trousers and makes one final request: “sie mögten ihn in den . . . schießen, damit das F . . . kein L . . . bekäme” (would they like to shoot him in the . . ., in order to avoid getting a h . . . in the s . . .; SWB, 3:361). Like Herrmann, the drummer argues that for the French he is not a human being but a potential animal skin, and this sense of righteous anger is also the source of his dynamism. Kleist’s provocative anecdote caused offense, and it seems that he received a complaint from the regimental leader Prince Eduard von Lichnowsky. The specific grounds for the complaint are unknown, but it seems likely that the prince was offended by the crudity and indiscipline of Kleist’s models. However, in his reply, Kleist defends this character as a model of heroic conduct in the context of the humiliating defeat at Jena (SWB, 4:454). He also points out that he printed the anecdote in the Berliner Abendblätter for the amusement of the Volk, and notes that his paper is intended for all sections of the nation, “weil es kein 35 Centrum der Nation giebt” (because there is no center to the nation). Kleist’s claim is borne out by the diversity of the models that he holds up in his various writings. Die Herrmannsschlacht may be principally concerned with influencing the ruling houses of Germany, but both this play and Kleist’s shorter prose pieces make it clear that patriotic defiance is not the preserve of a single class. Kleist’s writings of 1808–9 were arguably intended to bridge the divides that were present between different regions and estates, and between officers and soldiers. He was keenly aware that those who hold power might be tempted to use it in their own interests, thereby betraying the patriotic cause. Indeed, the Volk often appears to represent the spirit of national solidarity in Kleist’s writings. However, he is also aware that the Volk, just as much as its leaders, may be drawn into complacency by material wealth or deceived by enemy propaganda. This becomes especially apparent in the

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Brief eines politischen Pescherä über einen Nürnberger Zeitungsartikel (Letter of a Political Pescherais about an Article in a Nuremberg Newspaper, first published 1862), which takes to task those German newspapers that present the battles of 1809 from the French point of view. The narrative perspective of the outsider is used to demonstrate the linguistic confusion of the article. Kleist’s Pescherais suggests that if it were written in the clear language of his people, then the Bavarian crown prince would not be described as brave, but depraved. The Pescherais believes that a European would be able to make sense of the original article, but Kleist’s point is surely that language is constitutive of reality, that people believe what they read in the newspaper. Kleist recognizes the power of propaganda. He also realizes that it is a relatively recent element in European warfare and that his readers may not be fully aware of its insidious effects. Indeed, his satirical Lehrbuch der französischen Journalistik (A Primer in French Journalism, first published 1862) sets out some possible techniques for manipulating public opinion, although it too is clearly propagandistic. Kleist is aware of the possible abuses of propaganda, but he seems little concerned to promote higher ethical standards himself, given that his apparently exemplary liberator Herrmann tells 36 lies and even commits additional atrocities in the name of the enemy. Kleist’s writings from the period 1808–9 are anomalous in two respects. First, they propose that the self-determination of the individual may be curtailed to preserve national self-determination because the former depends on the latter.37 Hence his writings of this period often prescribe roles for sections of the population, though he retains an appreciation of individual spontaneity. Second, Kleist advocates and writes propaganda that undermines the opportunities of the individual to apply reason and judgment, and replaces argument with caricature and truth with fabrication. Here too, Kleist reflects explicitly on the betrayal of principle that is involved. His hero Herrmann acts as the “puppet master,”38 controlling the actions of all those around him, but the damage that this behavior can cause to human beings is graphically illustrated by the appearance of a taciturn and haunted Thusnelda at the end of the play. Kleist acknowledges that total war violates the integrity of the human subject, but he nonetheless maintains — at least in 1808– 9 — that the integrity of the nation is the higher priority.

Prinz Friedrich von Homburg Prinz Friedrich von Homburg has a different tenor from Kleist’s writings of 1808–9. Unlike Die Herrmannsschlacht, which focuses on the possibilities for popular resistance against French occupation, Homburg is concerned much more with the regular army and matters of its operational effectiveness, although here too Kleist demonstrates that military organization has implications for the concepts of sovereignty and law. Homburg also differs

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from Die Herrmannsschlacht by focusing on the complications of military organization, whereas Die Herrmannsschlacht had demonstrated relatively unproblematic military operations and straightforward remedies to perceived difficulties. In writing Homburg, Kleist is known to have drawn upon K. H. Krause’s historical account of the battle of Fehrbellin, but he makes the consequences of Homburg’s precipitate intervention much more severe, so that the Prince is actually condemned to death, whereas Krause’s version records that the Elector only reprimanded him before restating his respect for him.39 In Krause’s version, Homburg happens upon the Swedish army as he carries out his reconnaissance duties, whereas in the play his involvement comes at an advanced stage of the battle and in flagrant contravention of orders. Thus Kleist intensifies the conflict, and does so in a way that had some relevance for current military debates. Certainly, the problem of the authority of the sovereign over the army was topical in the light of the attacks undertaken without authority by Prince Louis Ferdinand and Major Schill. The former had lost his life in a disastrous attack against the French at Saalfeld in 1806, while the latter had tried to involve Prussia in the Franco-Austrian war of 1809 by initiating unauthorized attacks on the French in northern Ger40 many. Frederick William III responded to the challenges to his authority by giving orders to Count Götzen in March 1809 to maintain order in Silesia on pain of death, adding that obedience was also a characteristic of the true patriot.41 As the essays of 1808–9 show, Kleist was sympathetic to the aims of the belligerent party in 1809, but he did not advocate explicitly the circumvention of monarchical authority. In Über die Rettung von Österreich, Kleist is highly critical of Austrian Emperor Francis I and argues that he has been concerned mainly with saving his throne. Kleist specifically criticizes as tyrannical the emperor’s suppression of individual initiative, which he compares to a town that does not allow citizens to fight a fire that breaks out for fear of public disorder (SWB, 3:497). Kleist’s aim in this essay is to convince Francis I that an all-out war may give the state the appearance of democracy, but that it need not constitute a danger to his position as monarch. Given that the essay is aimed towards conservative political opinion within Austria, it is unsurprising that Kleist does not commend democratic change, but this need not mean, as Wolf Kittler claims, that Kleist is cynical about democ42 racy. Kittler also interprets Homburg similarly. He argues that Kleist sees the necessity of unilateral actions in warfare, but that he also believes that the state is entitled to punish the individual for them in retrospect.43 However, there are considerable difficulties with this view. The play contrasts an absolutist model of military organization with an oligarchic one; it is not concerned with issues of democracy. Moreover, Kittler’s claim that unilateral actions such as Homburg’s are both necessary and punishable seems to sug-

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gest an entirely incoherent system of command, whereas the Elector’s viewpoint is that Homburg’s intervention is unnecessary and criminal. The Elector claims that the law has an objective character and that he too must uphold its primacy, but it is questionable whether he actually applies it as neutrally as he claims. Indeed, the exploration of the characters’ mental processes informs and complicates the military discussion, and this must be properly taken into account in any interpretation of the play. Nonetheless, the play is certainly influenced by developments in styles of command in the Napoleonic era, and its representation of the battle and military issues shows considerable attention to detail. The historical sources that Kleist consulted may have shaped his representation of the battle, although there are also striking similarities to the battle of Aspern. Kleist visited the battlefield at Aspern shortly after the encounter took place (SWB, 4:434–35). There are certainly correspondences in Homburg in the distribution of the terrain relative to the armies, the Austrians’ destruction of bridges to the rear of the French army and the failure of the Austrian army to ad44 vance and drive the retreating French army into difficult terrain. Napoleon’s great victories at Ulm and Auerstedt had rested upon his ability to use speed and flexibility to crush the enemy forces. Strikingly, Kleist’s Elector plans to annihilate the enemy in a manœuvre sur les derrières, rather than to engage in a war of attrition (ll. 248–52). Technical discussion in the play turns upon the viability of this plan. Homburg intervenes before Hennings has had the chance to destroy the enemy bridges and cut off the escape. Moreover, the Elector plans to use Homburg’s cavalry to pursue the Swedes and to ensure that they are decisively beaten, rather than merely depleted — an approach that Napoleon had used to devastating effect against Prussia in October 1806. The Elector plans to make use of the uneven and marshy terrain to block the Swedes’ escape, which is again reminiscent of the open order combat of the Napoleonic army. But the Elector’s plan is not wholly successful: the enemy is only beaten back for another year (l. 507), whereas the Elector had wished for a comprehensive victory to avoid having to enter into diplomatic negotiations. The Elector’s unconditional approach to warfare and politics thus marks him as a Napoleon-like figure, although there are important differences too. Napoleon always allowed his generals considerable freedom, whereas the Elector lays down precise instructions. In the opening scene, we learn that Homburg has spent the past three days leading an energetic cavalry pursuit against the retreating Swedish army. He has been commanded by the Elector to remain only for three hours in Fehrbellin, and then only to give fodder to the horses. He shows signs of exhaustion, but the Elector is nonetheless astounded when Hohenzollern informs him that Homburg is sleeping. The Elector is especially astonished to hear that Homburg is currently:

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beschäftiget, Sich träumend, seiner eignen Nachwelt gleich, Den prächt’gen Kranz des Ruhmes einzuwinden. (SWB, 2:558; ll. 26–28) [occupied, dreaming, as if he were his own posterity, making his own magnificent wreath of glory.]

Homburg’s dream makes apparent his desire for glory, which would be otherwise entirely impermissible within an absolute state such as Brandenburg. The rigidity of the Elector’s rule leaves only this outlet for Homburg. The path to real power is blocked by the Elector, and all power is allocated by him. In the opening scene, the Elector initially guesses that Homburg is making his wreath out of willow, which might suggest grief at his previous misjudgments in battle. On learning that the plant is actually laurel, he asks, apparently without comic intention, “Wo fand er den in meinem märkschen Sand?” (Where did he find that in my sandy ground?; l. 50). The Elector’s remark demonstrates his awareness that such accolades are rarely found in the austere atmosphere of his state, and it is especially revealing that he even regards the sandy soil of Brandenburg as his possession. Hohenzollern ridicules Homburg’s ambitions as effeminate (ll. 61–63), an observation that obscures the reality that it is ambition which binds these officers to the 45 state. Clearly, it is Homburg’s revelation of his ambitions that is taboo and fascinates the Elector, who is then tempted to push the “experiment” to its logical conclusion. However, when it becomes clear that Homburg desires to be the Elector’s heir and Natalie’s beloved, the Elector breaks off the experiment and banishes Homburg into nothingness (l. 74). The relationship between the Elector’s character and Homburg’s mental world becomes apparent in Homburg’s later remark to Hohenzollern that the Elector appeared to him in his dream holding the wreath and chain to inflame his soul (ll. 157–63). Homburg’s remarks suggest that, at least subconsciously, he regards the Elector as a threatening, controlling, quasidivine presence, who possesses a degree of malignancy in proffering, but also withholding, the symbols of achievement that Homburg craves. Certainly, the impression of autocracy is borne out. The battle plan states that Homburg has been given the glorious position of leading the cavalry, but his real part is summed up by Hohenzollern, who notes that he has relatively little to do (l. 422). Indeed, the officers are not even consulted about the plan of attack. It is dictated to them, and the Elector twice issues an explicit order in matters of detail so that little is left to the officers’ discretion or ini46 tiative (ll. 294, 330). Homburg actually relates to the Elector in a competitive manner, in response to what he perceives to be the Elector’s antagonism. Nancy Nobile suggests that Homburg subconsciously visualizes the battle plan from the

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perspective of the enemy, as this would explain why he believes that Hennings is meant to be riding on the left wing, rather than the right, of the army.47 It is also noticeable that when Homburg believes that the Elector has been killed, he is quick to assume his position as military leader, and he presses Natalie to declare her feelings for him, even though she clearly regards this as inappropriate (ll. 588–611). Homburg restates his accusation of injustice against the Elector following his arrest, and alleges that he is now enforcing the law strictly only in order to play the part of Brutus and not because he considers the rule of law intrinsically important. But to what extent is this accusation justified? Clearly, the Elector is not victimizing the Prince, either consciously or subconsciously, since he passes sentence in the belief that Homburg did not lead the cavalry (l. 722). His gestures in the following scene betray his horror 48 when he realizes that he was mistaken. He tells Natalie that he is simply enacting the provisions of an objective order and that to show clemency arbitrarily to Homburg would be to behave tyrannically (ll. 1112–17). What, then, is the reason for the Elector’s intransigence over Homburg’s case? Against Kottwitz, he argues that it is the rule of law alone that can sustain his kingdom: Den Sieg nicht mag ich, der, ein Kind des Zufalls, Mir von der Bank fällt; das Gesetz will ich, Die Mutter meiner Krone, aufrecht halten, Die ein Geschlecht von Siegen mir erzeugt. (SWB, 2:632; ll. 1566–69) [I do not want a victory that is an illegitimate child of Chance; I want to uphold the law, the mother of my crown, which will bear me a dynasty of victories.]

What is striking about Kleist’s representation of warfare in Prinz Friedrich von Homburg is his emphasis on the unforeseen elements that complicate all military planning. There are accidents and casualties, misjudgments, mistimings, and misperceptions, all of which make it more difficult to make decisions in the field. The Elector’s response to this uncertainty is to insist upon compliance with pre-determined orders.49 It is therefore entirely typical that he orders that Homburg should not intervene, no matter what happens in the course of the battle (l. 296). The Elector does not care to consider contingency plans because he does not wish to believe that warfare is a matter of chance; rather, he bases his certainty upon a belief in divine support for his cause (ll. 246–47).50 The Elector’s attitude to the law is most extensively scrutinized in act 5, scene 5, in which Kottwitz and Hohenzollern plead for clemency for Homburg. Hohenzollern argues that the Elector’s apportionment of blame to Homburg is arbitrary and unfair since it was partly the Elector’s joke that

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stimulated his ambition, which in turn led to Homburg’s disobedience. Hohenzollern is suggesting, then, that the Elector’s focus on the plain fact of Homburg’s action, rather than the mental processes that produced it, is unfair. The Elector rejects this argument, however, because it would make it difficult to apportion blame at all, and he points out that he could use similar reasoning to justify punishing Hohenzollern (ll. 1714–20). However, Hohenzollern’s comment illuminates the Elector’s behavior in the opening scene, where he allows himself to become fascinated with the spectacle of Homburg’s irrational behavior and exploits the insights that he gains, but then tries to separate off the realms of the rational and irrational by ordering Hohenzollern not to tell Homburg that he was discovered in his reverie (ll. 81–84). Kottwitz puts forward much more pragmatic and ultimately weightier arguments in defense of Homburg’s autonomous conduct. He notes that autonomy is necessary in military engagements because the individual officer needs to be able to take advantage of unforeseen opportunities where they present themselves (ll. 1596–1602). Kottwitz is essentially asking the Elector to accept that his absolute control of military affairs is damaging to the effectiveness of the army. It is impossible to exclude chance events from warfare, 51 and thus it is necessary to authorize individual soldiers to deal with them. In the Elector’s view, it is only an unflinching allegiance to the law that can maintain the integrity of his kingdom against the challenges to it represented by his officers’ ambitions, the enemy army, and the chance elements inherent in warfare. But Kottwitz suggests an alternative principle around which the state can cohere: Herr, das Gesetz, das höchste, oberste, Das wirken soll, in Deiner Feldherrn Brust, Das ist der Buchstab Deines Willens nicht; Das ist das Vaterland, das ist die Krone Das bist Du selber, dessen Haupt sie trägt. (SWB, 2:632; ll. 1570–74) [Sir, the highest, supreme law that should move your generals’ hearts — it is not the letter of your will, it is the fatherland, it is the crown, it is you yourself, you whose head bears it.]

Kottwitz is suggesting that the Elector need not worry about enacting law according to strictly codified principles, since he as sovereign is the supreme embodiment of the law. Critics have suggested that Kleist’s play uses terms, such as fatherland, crown, and monarchy, taken from Adam Müller’s Elemente der Staatskunst and Ueber König Friedrich II., particularly in the speeches of Natalie and Kottwitz.52 However, the play does not necessarily endorse Müller’s concept of a mediation of polar opposites. Rather, it is

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doubtful that the reconciliation of Homburg and the Elector actually rests upon any substantial compromise because it is unclear that either man learns from his experiences. In this case, the Elector rejects Kottwitz’s arguments as hairsplitting (l. 1619). The Elector is highly sensitive to the charge that he is a tyrant, and he does not believe that he is. His initial defense is that he cannot be tyrannical if he sticks to the rule of law. However, he is blind to the fundamental inconsistencies in his application of the law. This is, in fact, Homburg’s third transgression, but the first to be punished, which suggests that the Elector’s intransigence is a reaction to what he perceives as indiscipline in the army. His inconsistency is further shown when he passes judgment, for he announces the death sentence before convening the military court (ll. 715–22). However, the Elector’s profound confidence in his fairness is shown in his response to the news that the prince is afraid of death. Stage directions (following ll. 1155 and 1174) reveal his astonishment and confusion, but he only briefly considers clemency, which he had earlier deemed tyrannical. His considered response is, rather, to challenge the Prince to declare his sentence unjust (ll. 1185–86). By doing so, he may admit to the theoretical possibility that he has interpreted the law unjustly, but he avoids being seen to have abrogated it. The reasons behind the Elector’s inconsistent application of the law become fully apparent later in the way he deals with the army rebellion. When he first hears of Kottwitz’s apparently unauthorized arrival in Fehrbellin, he is again keen to justify his actions to himself, and in his monologue he argues that a tyrant would react to this situation with violence (ll. 1412–16). However, his speech goes on to reveal the real reason for his inaction: he is confident that the elderly Kottwitz can be contained without difficulty (ll. 1417– 53 23). Indeed, rather than punishing the instigator of the rebellion, Natalie, he actually covers up her insubordination (ll. 1483–96). Without realizing it, the Elector applies the law in ways that vary according to the perceived threat that its transgressors represent to his absolute power.54 The connection between law and power becomes fully apparent when we consider at what point the Elector decides to pardon Homburg. This question is complicated by the Elector’s silence during his deliberations in act 5.55 But, as Peter Hohendahl points out, the Elector calls simultaneously for Homburg’s death warrant and the passport for the Swedish ambassador in act 5, scene 4, which makes it likely that they are connected.56 Hohendahl notes that the Elector has just received Homburg’s letter pledging his submission to the law and that he can therefore break off negotiations with the Swedes and continue the war. This suggests that his pardon to Homburg is related to his belief that he now has regained absolute control of the army, and it implies that the original death sentence upon the perpetrator was related to his need to reestablish control.57

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The officers’ petitions and speeches in act 5, scene 5 do not therefore play a role in persuading the Elector to pardon Homburg, and the Elector clearly does not seriously engage with them . Rather, he calls in the apparently reformed Homburg to teach them discipline and obedience (l. 1617). However, it is questionable whether Homburg has been transformed. The Elector remains wedded to a rigid conception of law, as we have seen, and it is arguable that Homburg never truly endorses it.58 Homburg’s address to the goddess Fortuna (ll. 355–65) makes it clear that she represents his only hope of distinguishing himself and achieving the recognition of which he dreams. But it was precisely the principle of contingency that the Elector resisted so emphatically. Homburg is thus forced to act according to an irrational hope that Fortuna may favor him, which leads him to intervene in the battle at the wrong moment, as he believes that he is missing his only opportunity of distinguishing himself. Homburg is sincerely astonished when his intervention is construed as insubordination because he believes that it is the outcome, rather than the means, which is important. He displays a similar pragmatism when he is faced with the Elector’s letter, which allows him to determine whether he has been unjustly treated. However, the Elector’s letter does not cause Homburg to reflect calmly on his sentence, but rather his 59 pride takes over. Homburg tells Natalie: Ich will ihm, der so würdig vor mir steht, Nicht, ein Unwürd’ger, gegenüber stehn! (SWB, 2:623; ll. 1380–81) [I do not want to stand facing him as an unworthy man, he who stands so worthy before me!]

Homburg ostensibly goes on to confess his guilt, but to do so has now become a mark of his nobility. Paradoxically enough, he can now glorify his death as a victory over pride, “den verderblichsten | Der Feind’ in uns” (the most damaging of enemies within us; ll. 1756–57). This, he tells his fellow officers, is a greater victory than anything he could achieve against Wrangel (ll. 1754–55). The Elector’s letter has enabled Homburg to transform his execution from an abject punishment to a remarkable victory. Indeed, the great irony is that Homburg has clearly not conquered his pride at all, since it is so plainly in evidence at the close of the play. Homburg and the Elector 60 have simply managed to come to a mutually convenient arrangement. It is thus highly doubtful that either man has learned from their experiences, and it seems that the opportunity for reform has been lost. The play subtly discloses the Elector’s unexamined assumptions about the nature of his power, a matter of some importance for the future of absolutist rule. It demonstrates that Napoleonic innovations in military technique will force changes in the governance of Germany too, because if the king insists on absolute control of the army, he will undermine its effectiveness in an area

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where dynamism is key. But the play also questions radically the coherence of the concept of enlightened absolutism because it shows that the Elector’s power interests lead him to make arbitrary decisions in legal matters even though he thinks he is committed to the rule of law. The Elector mistakenly believes that his good intentions translate into good governance, whereas, in fact, they undermine the functioning of the law, and threaten to reduce the effectiveness of the military.

Conclusion We might say in conclusion that Kleist’s basic position on the military organization of the nation is essentially pessimistic and deeply skeptical. In both Penthesilea and Homburg, he recognizes that human self-regard militates against the effective operation of the war machine, although in both cases he demonstrates that the desire for glory plays an instrumental role in creating motivation. In Homburg, the rigidly disciplinarian and austere ethos of the army is subject to Kleist’s censure. As Penthesilea demonstrates, there must be a deeper ideological assent to the cause on the part of the fighter for the military machine to function. For this reason, Homburg must be seen as Kleist’s most cynical work on military issues, especially since the play closes with a superficial act of reconciliation that fails to resolve the structural difficulties and internal tensions that the play has uncovered. In the curtain line, these tensions are displaced onto a common enemy whose identity remains unspecific (l. 1858), and necessarily so. By contrast, Kleist’s writings of 1808–9 contain more positive role models. These works proffer specific figures of hatred for their recipients to react against, whether they are unpatriotic or cowardly Germans or depraved Frenchmen. As Richard Samuel suggests, these variations in tenor seem to be closely connected to the course of political events and especially to 61 Kleist’s perception of the chances of launching a successful liberation effort. Until the battle of Wagram, Kleist was hopeful that northern and southern Germany would unite in a liberation effort (SWB, 4:434). In contrast, the years 1806–8 and the years following the Austrian defeat of 1809 gave less cause for hope. Kleist’s deep skepticism about the future is expressed ironically in Homburg through Natalie’s vision of future prosperity and expansion for Brandenburg (ll. 1135–38). In the short term, Prussia did, of course, flourish under Frederick the Great, but Natalie’s words could not seem anything other than ironic in Kleist’s day, after the Treaty of Tilsit had returned Prussia to the rank of a second-rate power. In all of these works, Kleist searches more or less successfully for an ordering principle that will bring cohesion to the defense of the nation. He recognizes that the individual’s creative self-expression both supports and threatens the performance of the army. Accordingly, he vacillates in his atti-

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tude to authority and commends the authoritarian but effective leadership of Herrmann, while questioning the Elector’s intransigence. The interrelated problems of the use and abuse of authority and the exercise of individuality remain unresolved in Penthesilea and Homburg, and are only successfully settled in the writings of 1808–9, which appear to advocate the temporary suppression of individual freedom for the good of the nation.

Notes 1

See E. J. Hobsbawm, The Age of Revolution: Europe 1789–1848 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1962), 53–76. 2

See Scharnhorst’s “Entwicklung der allgemeinen Ursachen des Glücks der Franzosen in dem Revolutionskriege und insbesondere in dem Feldzuge von 1794,” in Scharnhorst, Ausgewählte militärische Schriften, ed. Hansjürgen Usczeck and Christa Gudzent (Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1986), 105. 3 See Martin van Creveld, Command in War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1985), 58–102. 4

See David Gates, The Napoleonic Wars 1803–1815 (London: Arnold, 1997), 15–37; and Steven T. Ross, From Flintlock to Rifle: Infantry Tactics, 1740–1866 (London: Cass, 1996), 93–96. 5 See Creveld, Command, 90; and Ross, From Flintlock to Rifle, 30. 6

See further Creveld, Command, 95–96; and Gates, The Napoleonic Wars, 65–67. See Peter Paret, Yorck and the Era of Prussian Reform, 1807–1815 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1966), 115–16. 8 See further Ross, Flintlock, 24–26. 7

9

See August Wilhelm Anton Neidhardt von Gneisenau, Ausgewählte militärische Schriften, ed. Gerhard Förster and Christa Gudzent (Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1984), 65. 10

See Azar Gat, The Origins of Military Thought from the Enlightenment to Clausewitz (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 79–94, 139–49. 11

See Carl von Clausewitz, Meine Vorlesungen über den Kleiner [sic] Krieg, gehalten auf der Kriegs-Schule 1810 und 1811, in Clausewitz, Schriften — Aufsätze — Studien — Briefe: Dokumente aus dem Clausewitz-, Scharnhorst- und GneisenauNachlaß sowie aus öffentlichen und privaten Sammlungen, ed. Werner Hahlweg, Deutsche Geschichtsquellen des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, 45 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 1:429–35. 12 13

See Clausewitz, Schriften, 1:444. See Clausewitz, Schriften, 1:239.

14

For example, see Gat, Origins, 63–64, on the ideas of Leopold Schönberg von Brenckenhoff. 15

For more on the composition of the play, see SWB, 2:676–85.

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16

Surprisingly, Wolf Kittler’s full-length study of Kleist’s exposition of “total war” argues explicitly that Kleist in Penthesilea turns away from current political questions and towards “eternal values,” by which Kittler understands Kleist’s alleged condemnation of the unnatural gender behavior of the Amazons. See further Kittler, Die Geburt des Partisanen aus dem Geist der Poesie: Heinrich von Kleist und die Strategie der Befreiungskriege (Freiburg: Rombach, 1987), 181. 17 Pace Hans M. Wolff, Heinrich von Kleist als politischer Dichter, University of California Publications in Modern Philology, 27, no. 6 (Berkeley: U of California P, 1947), 444. 18 For further examples of how sexual feelings undermine rational reflection, see James McGlathery’s Desire’s Sway: The Plays and Stories of Heinrich von Kleist (Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1983), 89–101. McGlathery’s contention that “Kleist means to give ironic testimony to nature’s — that is, desire’s — all-conquering sway” (92) is, however, overstated. 19

Robert Labhardt sees parallels here to Kleist’s remark to Rühle, in his letter of December 1805, that the Prussians, including their king, lack a heroic temperament. See further Labhardt, Metapher und Geschichte: Kleists dramatische Metaphorik bis zur “Penthesilea” als Widerspiegelung seiner geschichtlichen Position, Monographien Literaturwissenschaft, 32 (Kronberg/Ts.: Scriptor Verlag, 1976), 296–301. 20

See Hermann Weiss, Funde und Studien zu Heinrich von Kleist (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984), 202–3. 21 See, for instance, chapter 8 of Katechismus der Deutschen, and the fifth section of Über die Rettung von Österreich. 22 See Richard Samuel, “Kleists Hermannsschlacht und der Freiherr vom Stein,” JbDSg 5 (1961): 64–101. 23 See further Kittler, Geburt, 219–25, 236–38. However, Kittler’s claim that Kleist advocates nighttime battles has no foundation in the play, for in Die Herrmannsschlacht the battle takes place at dawn (l. 2443). One might also question whether Thusnelda’s role is truly pivotal, as Kittler claims. Certainly, Astolf’s comment on her killing of Ventidius (l. 2432) seems rather dismissive. 24

See Kittler, Geburt, 243; and Christiane Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!”: Heinrich von Kleist und die preußischen Reformen, Germanistische Arbeiten zu Sprache und Kulturgeschichte, 18 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1991), 195–97. 25

See Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!” 201. Hermann Weiss dates the essay to September 1809, when fighting was expected to resume following the ceasefire of Znaim. See further Weiss, Funde und Studien, 335–40. 27 Richard Samuel argues that Kleist’s revisions to the poem “Germania an ihre Kinder” (Germania to her Children) show his growing disillusionment with Francis I’s leadership, since the later versions no longer name Francis as the savior of the German people. See Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme an den politischen Bewegungen der Jahre 1805–1809, trans. Wolfgang Barthel (Frankfurt an der Oder: Kleist-Gedenk- und Forschungsstätte, 1995), 199–200. 26

28

Lawrence Ryan has rightly argued that the equation of Frederick William III with Kleist’s Herrmann is hardly appropriate because of their different temperaments. In-

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deed, Herrmann’s dynamism, intelligence, and authoritarianism make him comparable to Napoleon, as Peter Michelsen argues. See further Ryan, “Die ‘vaterländische Umkehr’ in der Hermannsschlacht,” in Kleists Dramen: Neue Interpretationen, ed. Walter Hinderer (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1981), 188–212, here 193; and Michelsen, “‘Wehe, mein Vaterland, dir!’: Heinrich von Kleist’s Die Herrmannsschlacht,” KJb (1987): 115–36, here 119–20. Günter de Bruyn also reads Kleist’s poem “An Friedrich Wilhelm den Dritten, König in Preußen” (To Frederick William III, King of Prussia) as a satirical utterance. See de Bruyn, “Fragwürdige Huldigung,” in 1000 deutsche Gedichte und ihre Interpretationen, ed. Marcel Reich-Ranicki, vol. 3, Von Friedrich von Schiller bis Joseph von Eichendorff (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1994), 157–59. 29

But compare Jeffrey Sammons’s reading of Die Herrmannsschlacht as an assertion of the (political) authority of the poet, symbolized in Herrmann. But while Herrmann is clearly an intellectual, he is also a political leader, which leads me to question Sammons’s equation of Herrmann with the creative intellectual of Kleist’s day. See Jeffery L. Sammons, “Rethinking Kleist’s Hermannsschlacht,” in Heinrich von Kleist-Studien, ed. Alexej Ugrinsky, Hofstra University Cultural and Intercultural Studies, 3 (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1980), 33–40; and, similarly, Peter Horn, “Die Nation und ihr Gründungsmythos: Figurationen des Anderen und des Selbst in Kleists Die Herrmannsschlacht, in Politik — Öffentlichkeit — Moral: Kleist und die Folgen, ed. Peter Ensberg and Hans-Jochen Marquardt, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 408 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002), 119–34. 30

See Klaus Müller-Salget’s editorial remarks in SWB, 3:1062. For a further example of Kleist’s criticisms of unpatriotic businessmen, see his anecdote of 1810, FranzosenBilligkeit (French Justice; SWB, 3:354). 31

But compare the Brief eines rheinbündischen Offiziers an seinen Freund (Letter of an Officer of the Confederation of the Rhine to his Friend, first published 1862), which shows how ambition can lead officers into treachery (SWB, 3:468–69). Hermann Weiss suggests that Kleist’s target is the Saxon officer Johann Adolph von Thielmann, whereas Richard Samuel points to Rühle von Lilienstern. See Weiss, Funde und Studien, 315–18; and Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme, 238–39. 32

This piece was simply entitled Anekdote, and appeared in the Berliner Abendblätter on 14 November 1810. 33

See further Dirk Grathoff, “Heinrich von Kleist und Napoleon Bonaparte: der Furor Teutonicus und die ferne Revolution,” in Schreckensmythen-Hoffnungsbilder: die Französische Revolution in der deutschen Literatur, ed. Harro Zimmermann (Frankfurt am Main, 1990), 81–105, here 89–90. 34

For more on Kleist’s adaptation of his source, see Michael Moering, Witz und Ironie in der Prosa Heinrich von Kleists (Munich: Fink, 1972), 122–23. 35

For more on this point, see Dirk Grathoff, “Die Zensurkonflikte der Berliner Abendblätter: zur Beziehung von Journalismus und Öffentlichkeit bei Heinrich v. Kleist,” in Ideologiekritische Studien zur Literatur: Essays I, ed. Klaus Peter and others (Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1972), 35–168, here 95–96. 36 See further Michelsen, “Wehe, mein Vaterland, dir!” 119–20.

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37

In contrast, Bettina Schulte argues that in Die Herrmannsschlacht Herrmann’s freedom as an individual comes before that of the nation. See further Schulte, Unmittelbarkeit und Vermittlung im Werk Heinrich von Kleists (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 16–17. 38 See Sammons, “Rethinking Kleist’s Hermannsschlacht,” 35. 39

See Richard Samuel, ed., “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg”: Ein Schauspiel by Heinrich von Kleist, rev. ed. (London: Harrap, 1962), 28–29. For Krause’s account, see Mein Vaterland unter den hohenzollerischen Regenten: Ein Lesebuch für Freunde der Geschichte auf’s neue bearbeitet von K. H. Krause, Feldprediger des königlichpreußischen Infanterieregiments von Strachwitz (Halle: Hemmerde und Strachwitz, 1803), 181–84. The relevant excerpts can be found in SWB, 2:1167–68, and in Klaus Kanzog, ed., Heinrich von Kleist: “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg”: Text, Kontexte, Kommentar, Reihe Hanser, 236 (Munich: Hanser, 1977), 115–16. Samuel’s edition of the play also contains a survey of other versions of the Homburg legend, together with an exploration of other possible sources for motifs in Kleist’s play. 40

Kleist followed Schill’s actions with interest. See his letter to Friedrich Schlegel in SWB, 4:436. 41

The king’s memorandum is cited in Kanzog, ed., Heinrich von Kleist: “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” 149–50, and in Samuel, ed., “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” 194–95.

42

See Kittler, Geburt, 254. See Wolf Kittler, “Die Revolution der Revolution oder was gilt es in dem Kriege, den Kleists Prinz von Homburg kämpft,” in Heinrich von Kleist: Kriegsfall — Rechtsfall — Sündenfall, ed. Gerhard Neumann, Rombach Wissenschaft: Reihe Litterae, 20 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 1994), 61–83, here 74. 43

44

Kleist offers a polemical explanation for the Austrian victory in the epigram “Rettung der Deutschen” (The Germans’ Salvation; SWB, 3:440), where he suggests that it was the Danube that allowed them to defeat the French. See further Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme, 269–70; and for a concise account of the battle of Aspern, see David Gates, The Napoleonic Wars 1803–1815 (London: Arnold, 1997), 127–33. 45

Hans-Jörg Knobloch takes on Hohenzollern’s judgment uncritically and suggests that Homburg’s feminine, “poetic,” unheroic behavior should be understood as a protest against the harsh military world and as advocacy of a utopian-cosmopolitan vision. See further Knobloch, “Ein Traum in Preußischblau?: Zu Kleists Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” Aurora 56 (1996): 47–56. 46 Krause’s account records that a war council occurred prior to the battle, although the Elector did not follow its advice. See Kanzog, ed., Heinrich von Kleist: “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” 115. 47 See Nobile, The School of Days: Heinrich von Kleist and the Traumas of Education (Detroit, MI: Wayne State UP, 1999), 200. 48 This seems to me the strongest evidence against John Ellis’s argument that the Elector is jealous of the Prince. See his excellent study Kleist’s “Prinz Friedrich von

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Homburg”: A Critical Study, University of California Publications in Modern Philology, 97 (Berkeley: U of California P, 1970), here 30–41. 49

Benjamin Bennett argues powerfully that the Elector actually believes in “the insufficiency of the law and the need for energy and free initiative,” but that he is forced to maintain this stance for public show. But this position hardly explains the Elector’s vehemence in defense of the law. Bennett’s suggestion that the Elector risks losing the battle in order to educate Homburg seems similarly strained. See Bennett, Modern Drama and German Classicism: Renaissance from Lessing to Brecht (Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1979), 22–56, here 32. 50

For Walter Müller-Seidel, the Elector should be seen as an “überlegene Figur” (superior figure) who educates Homburg. However, it is arguably his refusal to acknowledge the effects of contingency that prevents the Elector from making sound decisions. Indeed, as Silz has noted, the Elector actually takes substantial risks during the battle, but he is unwilling to accept similar behavior by others. See further Müller-Seidel, Versehen und Erkennen: eine Studie über Heinrich von Kleist (Cologne: Böhlau, 1961), 183–86, here 184; and Walter Silz, Heinrich von Kleist: Studies in his Works and Literary Character (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1961), 225–46, here 236. 51 For further comparison with the ideas of the reformers around Scharnhorst, see also Manfred Schunicht, Heinrich von Kleist, “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg”: Marionette, Patriot, Utopist? (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1996), 37–38. Elisabeth Madlener also sees parallels to the Prussian military reformers, although she regards Kottwitz’s solution as confused and contradictory. See Madlener, Die Kunst des Erwürgens nach Regeln: von Staats- und Kriegskünsten, preußischer Geschichte und Heinrich von Kleist, Schnittpunkt Zivilisationsprozeß, 8 (Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus-Verlag, 1994), 216. 52

See Jochen Marquardt, “‘Ein Traum, was sonst?’: die Vision vom Nationalstaat in Adam Müllers Vorlesungen über Friedrich II. und Kleists vaterländisches Schauspiel,” BzKF 6 (1992): 25–48; and Benedikt Koehler, Ästhetik der Politik: Adam Müller und die politische Romantik (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1980), 148–62. 53

Other critics offer more positive views of the Elector. For Jochen Schmidt, he is a model of stoic composure. Wolf Kittler views him as a defender of the law against the “tyranny” of the rebel Homburg. Similarly, Ulrich Gall suggests that from the perspective of Kantian legal philosophy, Kleist represents the Elector as a model of impartiality. See further Schmidt, “Stoisches Ethos in Brandenburg-Preußen und Kleists Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” KJb (1993): 89–102, here 93; Kittler, “Revolution,” 72–73; and Gall, Philosophie bei Heinrich von Kleist: Untersuchungen zu Herkunft und Bestimmung des philosophischen Gehalts seiner Schriften, Abhandlungen zur Philosophie, Psychologie und Pädagogik, 123 (Bonn: Bouvier, 1977), 230–59. 54

For John Ellis, by contrast, the Elector’s particular intransigence over Homburg’s case derives from his jealousy of the Prince. See Ellis, Kleist’s “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” 37–39. 55

See Erika Swales, “Configurations of Irony: Kleist’s Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” DVjs 56 (1982): 407–30. 56 See Peter U. Hohendahl, “Der Pass des Grafen Horn: ein Aspekt des Politischen in Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” German Quarterly 41 (1968): 167–76, here 172. By

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contrast, John Ellis argues that the Elector only makes a final decision in act 5, scene 9. See Ellis, Kleist’s “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” 83–96. 57

Harro Müller-Michaels suggests that Natalie has persuaded the Elector to act humanely, but this argument seems implausible in view of the mock execution that is subsequently performed on Homburg. See Müller-Michaels, “Insubordination als Autonomie: Heinrich von Kleists Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” in Deutsche Dramen: Interpretation zu Werken von der Aufklärung bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Harro Müller-Michaels, 2d ed., vol. 1, Von Lessing bis Grillparzer (Königstein/Ts.: Athenäum, 1985), 128–44, here 136–37; and similarly, Klaus Peter, “Für ein anderes Preußen: Romantik und Politik in Kleists Prinz Friedrich von Homburg,” KJb (1992): 95–125. 58

See further Eva Irlbeck, Tragödien der Freiheit: das Problem der Freiheit im dramatischen Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe I: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur, 956 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1986), 155–74, here 173–74. 59

See Klaus Lüderssen, “Recht als Verständigung unter Gleichen in Kleists Prinz von Homburg: ein aristokratisches oder ein demokratisches Prinzip?” in Lüderssen, Produktive Spiegelungen: Recht und Kriminalität in der Literatur, SuhrkampTaschenbuch: Materialien, 2080 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1991), 163–96, here 179.

60

See Peter Horn, “‘ . . . sich träumend, seiner eignen Nachwelt gleich . . .’: verhinderte Tragik im Traum des Prinzen Friedrich von Homburg von seinem postumen Ruhm,” KJb (1992): 126–39. 61

See Richard Samuel, Heinrich von Kleists Teilnahme.

6: Administration and Justice

T

HE RISE OF THE ABSOLUTIST STATE in the course of the seventeenth and

eighteenth centuries transformed the political organization of Germany. The establishment of absolutism entailed the expansion of the bureaucracy to enable the state to assume responsibilities formerly borne by aristocrats. Legal reform was fundamental to the struggle for absolute central control of territories, as enlightened monarchs sought to standardize legal procedures and eradicate local anomalies and privileges. The Allgemeines Landrecht (ALR) of 1794 was a legacy of Frederick the Great’s reign, but it only succeeded in part in its aims. As we saw in chapter 1, the ALR can hardly be understood as the product of apolitical jurisprudence, for, as Theodor Schieder remarks, it “faithfully mirrored Frederician Prussia, with all its contradictions: between absolutism and human rights, between the principle of 1 equality and corporate privilege.” The Stein-Hardenberg era saw more widespread recognition of the failings of absolutist governance. In particular, Stein objected to Frederick William III’s use of cabinet government, under which unaccountable officials would often wield greater power than ministers simply by virtue of their favor with the king. By 1808, Frederick William III had been persuaded to dissolve the cabinet and replace it with a Council of State composed of responsible ministers. Hardenberg also worked to remove the remaining powers of landowners, who often retained certain administrative, legal, and educational functions. However, landowners successfully resisted the challenge to their powers, and the legal power of landlords remained unbroken, even if in principle their former serfs now enjoyed equality before the law. The legal and administrative reforms were based on a set of assumptions about the nature of bureaucratic governance. Hardenberg, in particular, took for granted the transformative power of bureaucratic rule. However, the historian Hans Rosenberg describes the reform process differently, as “the replacement of capricious royal rule by a more impersonal system of bureaucratic absolutism, culminating in enlightened ministerial despotism tem2 pered by the will of the privileged classes.” The reformers did not question royal authority, but the distribution and use of power was a matter of some importance to them. They justified the abolition of cabinet government by arguing the case for ministerial responsibility because they were convinced that the state, staffed by professional administrators, would bring efficiency and impartial governance to Prussia.

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Kleist’s representations of legal and bureaucratic systems examine critically the concepts deployed by the Prussian reformers. As the examination of military themes showed, Kleist evinces deep suspicion of administrators and suggests that they may abuse their power for personal profit. But he also examines the systemic flaws of bureaucratic rule, while also problematizing the notion of personal responsibility in a way that makes it difficult to assign guilt unequivocally.

Die Familie Schroffenstein In Die Familie Schroffenstein, Kleist examines the structural defects of bureaucratic rule. On one level, human aggression is unleashed by a legal device — the inheritance contract — which stipulates that the property of one branch of the family shall fall to the other branch if the line of descent is broken. In fact, the original rationale behind the contract resembles that underlying the absolutist state because it seeks to prevent the diffusion of power into the hands of many individuals and to concentrate it within a single dynasty. However, the contract fails to achieve its purpose, since the direct descendants of both Rupert and Sylvester are killed and thus the succession is placed in question. The play demonstrates that neither ruler can be held fully responsible for his actions because both act upon misperceptions engendered by the climate of suspicion. But the play also shows how the tensions be3 tween the two houses are exacerbated by their political structures. Both are governed by absolute rulers who display scant regard for the public mood. Sylvester suggests that the masses are unreliable; they amplify rumors and fail to differentiate between hearsay and truth (l. 531). They need to be controlled, and Sylvester therefore reproaches his wife for fuelling speculation that Rupert murdered their son. His view of the masses seems to be borne out when they actually advance the tragic action of the play by killing Rupert’s messenger Aldöbern, since, as Sylvester notes, they believe they are carrying out his will (ll. 950–53). In Die Familie Schroffenstein, Kleist depicts a political climate in which the will of the ruler is virtually uncontested. Sylvester is just as jealous as Rupert in guarding his power, and he dismisses those who disagree with him as either spiritually sick (ll. 515–17) or foolish (l. 490). The system of absolute rule that both have constructed around themselves makes them unable to heed the cautionary advice offered by their wives. It also enables them to attack the other branch of the family without becoming involved personally. As Rupert notes:

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Das eben ist der Fluch der Macht, daß sich Dem Willen, dem leicht widerruflichen, Ein Arm gleich beut, der fest unwiderruflich Die Tat ankettet. Nicht ein Zehnteil würd’ Ein Herr des Bösen tun, müßt’ er es selbst Mit eignen Händen tun. (SWB, 1:196; ll. 1824–29) [That’s precisely the curse of power, that the will, so easily retractable, quickly finds an arm, which firmly and finally proceeds with the deed. A man would not do a tenth of the ill that he does if he had to do it with his own hands.]

Rupert’s reflections are prompted by the killing of Jeronimus, which we later learn has occurred on Rupert’s orders. Rupert appears to express regret for what has happened, and some commentators see this as evidence of his capacity for improvement.4 In fact, though, his words clearly seem intended to deflect responsibility away from himself and towards those who serve him. In any case, the episode demonstrates Kleist’s reflection upon the influence of the bureaucracy on political life. More generally, the play suggests that the confluence of bureaucracy and absolutism promotes irresponsibility in both ruler and ruled. Rupert’s servant Santing has been conditioned to obey blindly and tells Rupert that even if he ordered him not to obey, he would still obey him (ll. 1832–37). As a functionary, Santing can hardly be held responsible for his actions because he seems to have no concept of moral autonomy. He believes in the existence of an unchangeable order governing human life, and he thus cannot question whether he is promoting the general good. Ottokar later notes that his father’s subjects show him blind obedience (ll. 2318–19), even to the extent of carrying out orders that are directly disadvantageous to them. Thus when he attempts to convince the prison guard Fintenring to release him, he fails, even though he promises to bring peace to the territory, which is precisely what Fintenring desires. In Die Familie Schroffenstein, Kleist portrays a system of rule that creates a craven populace that is unable to exercise the moral autonomy he considered so important for himself and rulers whose ability to assess the wider political situation is severely — and tragically — lacking. Kleist thus demonstrates his abhorrence of the modern state, in which subjects are taught to do what is useful, rather than what is morally right (ll. 1837–40), a position that he had already put forward in his letters from Paris (SWB, 4:260). Within this system, justice is also pragmatically determined. Santing is imprisoned in order to preserve Rupert’s appearance of innocence in Eustache’s eyes, but he is also promised a fiefdom if he survives. The only successful challenge to Rupert’s will comes from Eustache’s chambermaid, whose husband has been condemned to death for the killing of Jeronimus

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(on Rupert’s orders). Even then, her pleas are only successful because Rupert’s fair-minded wife is present, and because she can offer personal testimony and call on two other witnesses to swear that Rupert himself ordered the killing. In fact, Rupert promises only that the execution will be delayed (l. 1901), further demonstrating the absence of accountability that obtains in Rossitz. In this early work, Kleist therefore demonstrates how the structures of the absolutist state may fail to prevent irresponsible and selfish rule, since the successful governance of the state is dependent upon the character of the individual. It is not counterbalanced by a set of responsible ministers who can influence policy or by a mature and informed public opinion that generates a sense of the common good. Subsequent works lack some of the ferocity of this critique; the tragedy becomes less stark and the attribution of responsibility becomes even less clear-cut. In the later works, Kleist’s administrators are not so much the servile instruments of the ruler’s will, still less the conduits of central authority. The overall effect is to create a much more nuanced picture of the workings of government, in which the mental processes of individuals become increasingly central. However, the greater emphasis on the psychological failings of individuals also creates a sense that the structures of governance and justice cannot easily be reformed.

Der zerbrochne Krug Der zerbrochne Krug takes up the question about the possibility of using the bureaucracy to create an efficient, centralized state. Der zerbrochne Krug considers how central authority is represented in the provinces, and by extension, therefore, whether the bureaucracy helps or hinders state-building. The impetus for the play was a literary contest between Kleist and his friends Heinrich Zschokke and Ludwig Wieland on the theme of an engraving by Jean-Jacques Le Veau. It was probably completed by August 1806, and performed, with disastrous results, at the Court Theater in Weimar in March 1808. By the time of its publication in 1811, Kleist had cut the lengthy twelfth scene drastically, although its original version appeared in the book as a Variant.5 It is interesting that the final year of the play’s composition coincided with Kleist’s period in government service, as the play raises questions central to the legal reforms undertaken in Prussia under the Hardenberg administration, and in earlier periods. The play centers on a judicial inspection, which has been seen as a reference to Prussian Chancellor Samuel von Cocceji’s visits to the Pomeranian civil courts in 1747, also a prelude to reform.6 It has also been argued that the points of law raised in the play refer closely to the legal codes introduced in Kleist’s times.7 The play raises general issues of bureaucratic centralization and legal codification, which had assumed considerable importance in Kleist’s lifetime.

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Traditionally, justice had been poorly administered in rural Prussia. Village courts were controlled by local landowners and corruption was widespread. Although landowners were not allowed to act as judges, they often had considerable power over those who did, particularly because judges often lived in precarious financial circumstances.8 In December 1781, higher courts gained powers to supervise judicial appointments, but the system of patronage remained in place despite Hardenberg’s efforts to abolish it in 1812. The state lacked the resources to replace the system wholesale, and it therefore relied upon the cooperation of landowners to achieve reform. But landowners jealously guarded their residual privileges, thwarting the goal of a direct legal relationship between the state and the citizen. In Der zerbrochne Krug, Kleist shows an awareness of the prominent role of the judicial system as the institutional mediator of state authority, and it is clearly important that this function is properly served. Adam is not only charged with dispensing justice; he and his clerk Licht also collect taxes and oversee conscription. The patriotic citizens of Huisum view conscription as a perfectly reasonable institution where it exists to defend the state (Variant, 9 ll. 1981–94). But their support rests upon the honesty and reasonableness of the state in setting out its objectives. Eve has little compunction about deceiving the state when Adam convinces her that her fiancé will actually be sent to fight in a dangerous colonial war that will profit Dutch merchants (Variant, l. 2057–92).10 The state is thus built on the principle of informed consent, but its stability is threatened by judicial corruption. Like the Prussian authorities of Kleist’s day, the Dutch authorities are investigating the provincial courts with the aim of eradicating abuses, a process that also involves the implementation of standardized legal procedures throughout the territory. Similarly, the ALR resulted from a compromise between standardization and tradition. In Der zerbrochne Krug, the meeting of the differing conceptions of law represented by the judge Adam and the inspector Walter is the source of much comedy. Walter arrives in Huisum aware that judicial practice in rural areas may be in need of reform (ll. 291– 304), but he is hardly prepared for what he finds here. It soon emerges that Adam’s knowledge of legal codes is schematic, to say the least. He is aware of debates on natural law, but does not follow them, and defends his own judicial practice by claiming that it is based on historical forms of law dating 11 back to Emperor Charles V. (ll. 306–15). In fact, Adam’s understanding of the concepts underlying legal reform is limited; he even seems to regard traditionally evolved law and the codified procedures that the state favors as equally valid systems that can be employed according to personal taste (ll. 612–35). Much of the comedy in this scene turns on Walter’s assumption that what is usual in Huisum will coincide with the formal procedures he seeks to implement, whereas formal procedure is most unusual in Adam’s court (ll. 566–70).

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Adam’s abuses stem from his ignorance and dishonesty, but that need not mean that Kleist commends Walter’s model of justice. In Die Herrmannsschlacht, Septimius articulates the universalist assumption that natural justice demands that he should not be punished for his deeds. Kleist’s hero Herrmann takes great pleasure in putting the Roman to an especially ignominious death (ll. 2216–20). Der zerbrochne Krug does not obviously offer such a nationalist perspective on law, but it too criticizes Walter’s approach. Much of the comedy in Der zerbrochne Krug derives from the encounter between different cultures and legal models in the courtroom. The comedy operates on many different levels, from farce to highly sophisticated linguistic humor. The comic effect depends mostly on the audience’s superior knowledge, which is established in essence in the first scene where Licht cross-examines Adam about his wounds. This device allows the spectators to concentrate on observing the means by which Adam’s guilt is finally revealed and to analyze the workings of justice. Kleist allows them to enjoy Adam’s discomfort and to laugh at his ridiculous attempts to conceal his guilt. But none of the characters, apart perhaps from Eve, escapes Kleist’s satire, as the action of the play mercilessly exposes their flawed and narrow-minded assumptions about each other. At the same time, Kleist’s linguistic wit draws attention to complex philosophical problems, relating in particular to the moral foundation of the law. Kleist’s choice of hero immediately raises difficult problems for conventional notions of justice because Adam is deeply implicated in the crime that he is called upon to judge. Kleist’s preface draws attention to the parallels to Sophocles’ Oedipus (SWB, 1:259), who found himself sitting in judgment on his own deed. Adam dreams that he too found himself in this position and was forced to flee (ll. 269–76). But the parallel is, in fact, misleading because Adam is hardly a tragic figure; he is fully aware of his own guilt, and 12 the dream is at most an indication of a troubled conscience. The first scene also suggests a parallel between Adam and his biblical namesake (ll. 9–12), but judging Adam’s “fall” is a more down-to-earth and literal affair, in which he is led astray, not by the desire for knowledge, but purely by his lust for Eve. Much of the play’s comedy comes from Adam and particularly the ludicrous stories he tells to try to conceal his guilt. In one instance, he claims that his wig is not usable because his cat gave birth in it (ll. 241–44), and in another that it caught fire (ll. 1489–98). In part, Adam’s skill is that of the confidence trickster; he goes into unnecessary details, such as when he tells Licht of his plan to drown the black kittens (l. 247), and offers proof that he cannot possibly furnish, such as when he offers Licht a kitten (l. 248). Even if both Licht and Walter evince skepticism at an early stage, he manages to keep them from voicing their doubts openly until the last possible moment. For much of the play, the audience is invited to sympathize with Adam, to

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enjoy his ridiculous obfuscations, and to wonder whether he can deceive all those around him — and then in scene 11 we are treated to the comic spectacle of his total humiliation when his lies and misdemeanors are all revealed in rapid succession. However, it becomes apparent that Adam is not simply an object of ridicule and that he has used threats to put pressure on Eve. Indeed, much of the play is devoted to demonstrating the ways in which a corrupt judge such as Adam can use questionable legal methods to protect himself. Thus at one point he argues that Eve cannot testify because of her relationship to the plaintiff (ll. 1055–59) and later suggests a settlement between the parties (l. 1073), which in fact means an arbitrary decision to name either Lebrecht or Ruprecht guilty of breaking the jug. Finally, having had his lies comprehensively exposed, he threatens court action against anyone who calls him a liar (ll. 1853–58). It becomes increasingly clear, then, that while Adam may be a buffoon, he is far from harmless, particularly in his reprehensible treatment of Eve. Even then, Kleist’s characterization of Adam is characteristically mixed, and we gain some hints of his more tender feelings towards her, 13 which may point to a need for affection (Variant; ll. 2213–17). The audience is certainly gratified when Adam is unmasked, but to some degree there is even greater Schadenfreude in witnessing the process by which the self-satisfied Walter is brought down to Adam’s level. Walter is immediately placed in a superior position relative to the other characters, as he is sent to Huisum as the servant of the centralizing state and expects to find shortcomings in the legal processes adopted. Indeed, the centralization process is gathering pace, for we hear that spot checks have become normal and that laws punishing judicial corruption have been introduced (ll. 92–96, 342–44). But Walter has little appreciation for the cultural gulf that separates Utrecht and rural Huisum. This is signaled symbolically when his carriage overturns on the poorly maintained country roads, which prevents him from keeping to his demanding itinerary. One of the play’s most subtle jokes is the hint that that Walter’s schedule of visits — Holla, Huisum, Hussahe (ll. 165–69) — is ordered alphabetically. His pedantic concern with efficiency seems increasing ridiculous in this environment. He is quickly exasperated by Frau Marthe’s prolixity, but his request that she should give only relevant details is frustrated by her genuine ignorance of what is and is not pertinent (ll. 712–19). Moreover, Walter’s demand that Adam should conduct the trial according to formal procedures soon comes to seem absurd in the parochial surroundings of Huisum, as Adam even ends up asking his neighbor to identify herself (ll. 575–90). It emerges in the course of the play that Walter’s conception of his position is, in fact, much less coherent than it initially appears. He agrees with Adam’s point about the importance of giving instructions to rural judges, but he seems genuinely uncertain whether this means writing new regula-

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tions or simplifying the existing ones (ll. 323–24). Walter also seems uncertain of his brief. He claims that he is only coming to observe proceedings (ll. 301–2), but it transpires that he placed the last judge under house arrest. Moreover, as the play goes on, Walter increasingly adopts Adam’s methods. In scene 10, he questions Adam, Frau Marthe, and Ruprecht privately, contradicting his demand that Adam should only conduct proceedings in open court (ll. 537–38). Tellingly, though, he makes the most progress when he abandons conventional procedure.14 Indeed, by the end of the following scene, Walter has lost all claim to moral superiority, as he now insists on a premature end to proceedings in contradiction of his earlier insistence on due process (l. 611). Wolfgang Wittkowski regards Walter as a thoroughly cynical character, but this view is overstated.15 Rather, Walter ultimately comes across as a narrow-minded, but moderately conscientious bureaucrat. His chief concern is not the achievement of justice so much as the restoration of the authority and honor of the court. It is amusing to witness Walter’s sheer horror that Adam plans to open the court session without his wig (l. 377). By contrast, however, he is prepared to overlook Adam’s abuses, provided there are no financial irregularities (l. 1965). Walter acts energetically to contain public disorder in the courtroom (ll. 1209–11, 1897, 1905), and he condemns Eve’s resistance to the state, even though she believed that it was corrupt (Variant, l. 2093). Then again, he urges Adam to finish off the session precisely so as to protect Adam’s dignity, which is supported only by the honor of the court (ll. 1839–42).16 Walter clearly manifests some authoritarian tendencies, but it seems questionable whether this alone explains his behavior, which fluctuates between severity in Holla and laxity in Huisum.17 A change in attitude is perceptible in Walter in the course of scene 10, when he discovers the extent of Adam’s abuses. Rather than growing increasingly severe, he is “verwirrt” (bewildered), then relaxes, and, in a comic reversal, calls for more alcohol (ll. 1595–96). Walter now offers Adam means of escaping, and even when Adam persists in dissembling, he still shows leniency. Under normal circumstances, Walter is a faithful servant of the state, but when he is in the provinces, his reforming zeal is sapped by the magnitude of the problems he encounters. Indeed, as a bureaucrat, he has no incentive to persist with reform when it makes his job harder. However, the judicial process is not only discredited because those who serve it are open to corruption, but also because the court itself does not or cannot act as a place where truth is revealed. Initially, Walter stressed that all questioning should take place in open court to preserve transparency (ll. 540–44). In fact, though, not only does much of the comedy of the play focus precisely on the ways in which language inadvertently provokes confusion (especially as figurative language is interpreted literally and vice versa), it

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also draws attention to the ways in which language mediates power relations. Thus Adam can subtly place pressure on Eve in open court by instructing her to tell the truth or face punishment, whereas the subtext of his words suggests that she must not implicate him, or her fiancé will be sent to his death in Asia (ll. 796–800). It is therefore hardly surprising that Eve suggests that an open court is not the place to reveal the truth, precisely because she cannot tell the truth in Adam’s presence (ll. 1268–73). Although the judicial process helps suppress the truth, Adam’s own speech is, ironically enough, laden with double meanings and other indications of his culpability. In some instances, he is merely careless and suggests his guilt through his admission that he was familiar with Frau Marthe’s jug (l. 597) or shows inappropriate interest in the implement that was used to attack him (ll. 981–82). In numerous other instances, Adam’s guilt is revealed if we read his words literally: “Doch wenn ihr’s heraus bekommt, bin ich ein Schuft” (I’ll be cursed if you can get it out of them; l. 1092). The surface meaning here is the figurative one — that Adam doubts that Walter can uncover the truth — but the literal meaning is much more meaningful, that is, that Adam will become known as a scoundrel if the truth is 18 revealed. However, the failings of justice in the play are not only caused by the villagers’ social position.19 Rather, their capacity to recognize truth is also limited by their prejudices.20 Frau Marthe is convinced that Ruprecht is the culprit, just as Ruprecht already believes that Lebrecht is guilty. The audience already knows the identity of the real criminal, so Ruprecht’s assurances that he observed events carefully (ll. 904–16) are placed in an ironic light.21 In part, then, the weaknesses of the judicial system are independent of Adam’s corruption; or rather, the other characters’ failures of perception are the precondition for Adam’s obfuscations. Of course, the real culprit is finally unmasked, and to this limited degree the judicial process is successful. At a deeper level, however, the play is concerned with probing the limits of the legal process. Frau Marthe notes that even though the case will be “entschieden” (decided) by the court, her jug cannot be “entschieden” (un-smashed) by any legal judgment (ll. 417–22). On this basic level, she explores the extent to which she can ever be compensated for the loss of an object that was important to her, not because of its functional use, but because of the national history that it represented to her (ll. 646–74). At the same time, the jug also functions for her as the guarantee of Eve’s good name (ll. 490–92), which cannot be restored either once it is lost. The play questions, then, whether a legal victory can really compensate the victim fully, as some losses are irreparable. Kleist also explores the question of whether legal right always corresponds absolutely to moral right. This interest in the wider questions of moral right is signaled by the play’s allusions to the tragedy of King Oedipus

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and the Fall of Adam, but the case of Kleist’s Adam is far removed from those of his mythical predecessors. Indeed, as a type, the lustful old man Adam belongs to the repertoire of comedy.22 However, Kleist’s exploration of the moral bind in which Eve finds herself means that this remains a serious comedy. In scene 9, Eve reproaches Ruprecht for failing to defend her honor even though she seems guilty and wonders why she should continue to protect him at the cost of her reputation (ll. 1187–90). She suggests that, although Ruprecht has not deserved mistreatment from his own government, his treatment of her makes him guilty in a different sense. However, even if she did decide to punish him, justice would still not be served: she would regain her reputation only at the price of lying, and she too would be punished by her loss of him. Thus we reach a point of extreme paradox in a court where withholding the truth is the most moral course of action. Given the practical and philosophical limits of the judicial process, progress seems unlikely. The appointment of the clerk Licht as judge would not help because he bears characteristics of both Adam and Walter. He has plundered the court coffers with Adam’s knowledge (ll. 148–50), and he shares Walter’s obsession with the dignity of court (ll. 1774–75). Finally, it seems to make little difference whether it is Adam or Licht who sits as judge in the future, and in this sense Walter’s cynicism is understandable. But while Licht, for all his learning, has not achieved moral progress, there are some indications that corruption in the administration is not inevitable. To be sure, the authority of the state’s representatives is never seriously in question. Frau Marthe retains her belief in the judicial system to the end (ll. 1971–72), although she always placed more importance on gaining legal victory than on making sure the judge was honest. Even Eve, whose experience of Adam’s corruption makes her suspicious of Walter (Variant, ll. 2063–66), is finally brought back to belief in the honesty of the state by the 23 monarch’s image on the coins that Walter shows her. Eve places greater trust in images than words, which are the medium of the bureaucratic state, particularly because her inability to read the conscription document left her vulnerable to Adam’s deception.24 The transfer of trust from the concrete symbolic authority offered in monarchism to the centralized, bureaucratic republic that the Netherlands is seeking to become thus demands a change in the population. Unless Eve is taught to read, she will remain mistrustful of the written culture of the bureaucratic state, and this culture will continue to give literate administrators such as Adam power over illiterates.25 Thus the newly centralized bureaucratic state will remain flawed until the people are able to hold its administrators accountable. The play also expresses the skepticism that Kleist evinces elsewhere regarding the apparent objectivity of authority. The functioning of the law rests on the premise that authority is impartial and honest, whereas the very premise of Der zerbrochne Krug questions this assumption. It is not that the state is institutionally cor-

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rupt, but that the bureaucracy is systemically predisposed not to eradicate abuse. The functioning of the modern state depends on improvements in general education. Even then, questions remain about the alignment of law, truth, and morality. Ultimately, Kleist’s view, as expressed in Der zerbrochne Krug, amounts to a combination of high ideals and practical skepticism that reaches no final synthesis.

Michael Kohlhaas Michael Kohlhaas reverses the premises on which Der zerbrochne Krug is based. In the play, a centralized state imposes reform from above upon a population that may not be properly equipped to deal with the new system. By contrast, in Kohlhaas, an enlightened and active citizen challenges the bureaucratic elites. This tension between tradition and the need for reform connects the world of the story to Kleist’s Prussia. Theodore Ziolkowski has argued that Kleist’s representation of legal issues shows his familiarity with the ALR, and Christiane Schreiber has sought to uncover connections between Kohlhaas and the liberalization of the Prussian economy, which Kleist 26 learned about as a trainee in Königsberg. The vocabulary recalls the reformers’ appeal to the citizen with its description of Kohlhaas as “das Muster eines guten Staatsbürgers” (the model of a good citizen; SWB, 3:13).27 Moreover, through the figure of Wenzel von Tronka, we are reminded of other important issues, such as the use of protectionist local tolls and patrimonial justice (SWB, 3:91). Certain critics argue that Kohlhaas’s difficulties, and his violent response to them, are indications of Kleist’s advocacy of reform.28 Jochen Schmidt has noted the importance of predictable justice for Kohlhaas’s business.29 Christiane Schreiber relates the text not only to the liberalization of the labor market, but also to the abolition of internal customs tariffs and even argues that the central question is not justice, but economic freedom.30 However, it is not clear that Kohlhaas would have been aided by the Prussian economic reforms because he is the victim of unlicensed impositions. Schmidt too leaves unanswered the question of whether the text suggests support for the specific legal reforms that are in progress in Prussia, especially given that Kohlhaas’s eventual attainment of legal satisfaction, just like the initial wrong done to him, is partially due to arbitrary factors. Other critics have related the story to issues of legal codification. Thus Ziolkowski argues that Kleist’s representation of the maladministration of justice also implies his affirmation of legal codification, as represented by the Prussian ALR.31 However, it need not mean that Kleist approves of the ALR simply because it covers all the elements of Kohlhaas’s case, particularly because it seems that the Saxon legal system would be entirely adequate if it were administered impartially. It might be possible to argue, however, that

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the story advocates codification as a means of producing a clear and consistent legal framework, especially because the Tronkas justify their conduct by exploiting an apparently obsolete law banning the importation of horses to prevent the spread of disease (SWB, 3:104). The story is therefore only peripherally concerned with the reform of trading laws, or with the efficacy of the law per se. Its central question relates to the functioning of the judicial system. But Michael Kohlhaas is a multilayered work, which presents the reader with numerous apparently unrelated elements that complicate the judicial question. Thus we need to pay attention to Kohlhaas’s intricate mental processes, rather than assume that he is campaigning purely in pursuit of justice. Other seemingly extraneous elements take the form of the political conflicts within and between Brandenburg and Saxony, and the status of the mysterious gypsy who appears towards the end. In fact, these complexities are integral to the thematic structure of the text because they open up new perspectives on matters of justice by compelling the reader to consider more generally whether justice can ever function predictably and objectively. Kohlhaas may eventually achieve complete satisfaction, but the reader is denied any comparable sense of closure. The successful operation of the judicial system seems to be a matter of 32 chance, rather than a reflection of its inherent effectiveness. In particular, the workings of justice are inseparable from political questions, especially foreign policy. Saxony has recently been to war with Poland, and its recent history has been plagued by social unrest stimulated by bread shortages. This discontent actually boosts Kohlhaas’s cause, as the masses respond enthusiastically to his second mandate (SWB, 3:68). The authorities’ prime concern is to maintain order, which means preventing further conflict. For this reason, they are forced to comply with Brandenburg’s claim for Kohlhaas’s release from custody, which is backed up by the threat from the Polish forces massed at the border (SWB, 3:113–14). In this case, international politics saves Kohlhaas from wrongful execution, though, ironically, the Saxon government actually has relatively strong, if not wholly reliable evidence against him. But we also learn later that other factors may have played a role in forming Saxon policy, in particular the gypsy’s prediction of decline for the dynasty of the Saxon Elector and a flourishing future for Brandenburg (SWB, 3:128–30). For this reason, the Saxon Elector is predisposed to avoid conflict, while the Elector of Brandenburg is encouraged to act assertively. The judicial system is also shown to be geared towards the maintenance of public order. Religious teachings, particularly those of Martin Luther, play an important role in this effort. Luther seems more like a political than a religious leader, as he originally intervenes to try to persuade Kohlhaas to return to peaceful methods. Certainly, he draws on scriptural evidence in arguing against Kohlhaas, but his aims are more political than spiritual. His

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open letter to Kohlhaas admits that there is corruption in the administration, but he is disingenuous in claiming that the Elector is unaware of Kohlhaas’s predicament. During their meeting, Luther pushes his quietist doctrine forcefully, and his argument that no one can place themselves outside the state actually recalls arguments from Adam Müller’s Elemente der Staatskunst. Kohlhaas counters with the Hobbesian argument that the failure of the judicial system has forced him to use violence.33 In response, Luther withdraws from the argument, peeved and apparently beaten. But he is prepared to deploy religious arguments against Kohlhaas, such as his demand that he should forgive Wenzel von Tronka, which he equates with ending the legal dispute. He again retreats from argument when Kohlhaas disputes that Christ forgave all his enemies, and cuts short the discussion by turning his back on Kohlhaas (SWB, 3:81). By contrast, the historical account records that the men debated openly and at length.34 Kleist’s Luther seems more confident in political argument than theological debate, although Kohlhaas silences him in both areas.35 He is more concerned about public order than Kohlhaas’s salvation or the triumph of justice. Indeed, when we learn that “die trotzige Stellung, die dieser seltsame Mensch im Staat einnahm, verdroß ihn” (the defiant stance that this strange man had assumed within the state frustrated him; SWB, 3:79), it appears that Luther is primarily interested in fashioning an ordered world around himself, and that he uses religious doctrine as a means to achieve that end. During their meeting, Kohlhaas persuades the theologian to secure free passage for him to Dresden. Luther’s letter to the Saxon Elector essentially reproduces Kohlhaas’s Hobbesian argument that he has been cast out of the state. Yet Luther’s primary argument is pragmatic: that Kohlhaas’s case may provoke public disorder (SWB, 3:82). Indeed, Luther advocates not only free passage, but amnesty for Kohlhaas. Again, it is striking that Luther seems more concerned with achieving order than with what is politically or theologically right. More generally, the episode demonstrates how legal and moral arguments may have underlying political elements. Luther’s letter provokes fierce debate within the Saxon Council of State about the correct way to proceed, and the discussion again demonstrates the impossibility of conceiving of justice in isolation from politics. Indeed, the fact that Kohlhaas’s case is discussed at this level demonstrates the political importance that it has assumed. At first reading, the debate seems to be an objective cabinet discussion of a difficult problem. Count Wrede and Kunz support legal redress for Kohlhaas, but only Wrede favors giving Kohlhaas amnesty, whereas Kunz believes that it would show him too much respect. Kunz then seems to find an ally in Prince Christiern von Meißen, who argues that a legal solution may prejudice the right to redress of the towns that Kohlhaas attacked. The Prince pushes a military solution, but he also wants to see Kunz punished for denying Kohlhaas justice in the first place. Kall-

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heim further complicates matters by arguing that Prince Christiern’s solution would require them also to punish the Prince’s nephew for overstepping his orders in battle against Kohlhaas — which is presumably a threat intended to silence the Prince. Finally Hinz proposes a compromise: Kohlhaas should only be offered free passage to Dresden, which would allow him to pursue his claim and allow them to prosecute him. But, strikingly, both Prince Christiern and Count Wrede respond to Hinz’s recommendation “mit einem bloßen Blick” (with a mere look; SWB, 3:85–86). Hinz’s solution actually seems to be a good one, but the indifference with which it meets suggests that this debate was not actually concerned with finding a solution. The reader later learns that the Council of State is bitterly divided by personal rivalries and dynastic scheming, although this information is imparted in such a casual way that one might assume that it is irrelevant. However, it explains the positions that these politicians assume towards Kohlhaas and the Tronkas, even to the extent that Wrede, an enemy of the Tronkas (SWB, 3:98), seeks amnesty for Kohlhaas, in order to frustrate those who would wish to see Kohlhaas punished. Only Prince Christiern seems to remain neutral, as he wishes to punish both Kohlhaas and Kunz. Thus beneath the apparent impartiality and officious language of these officials, the text discloses political animosity as the motive force of their conduct. Immediately after this scene, we witness yet another aspect of the decision-making process, as the Elector indicates his support for Wrede’s solution in a private discussion; but he does so, not because Wrede is right, but because his is the most practical solution (SWB, 3:86). We also learn that Prince Christiern’s solution seemed less than appealing to the Elector because it would have meant prosecuting his friend Kunz (SWB, 3:86). Thus the plan of attacking Kohlhaas directly is canceled to preserve personal friendships. Giving Kohlhaas free passage will win popular support for the 36 Elector and allow him to keep Kunz in place. Hence the Saxon Elector’s decision is partly informed by public opinion. But public opinion goes against Kohlhaas following the affray on Dresden’s marketplace because it deems it inappropriate that Kohlhaas’s quest for justice should dishonor one of the country’s leading families. Here, the text pays particular attention to the formation of public opinion as it proceeds from the higher echelons to private houses and public spaces (SWB, 3:98). Indeed, the question of public opinion, its main carriers, and the material circumstances of its production is a distinctive theme of Michael Kohlhaas. Its emphasis on the relationship between the public mind and government policy recalls the political realities of Kleist’s own times, when the SteinHardenberg administration was particularly eager to muster public support for its initiatives and to cultivate a political base for themselves among the 37 urban middle class. In Kohlhaas, however, the public sphere proves to be a highly volatile environment that does not reflect the settled views of a sub-

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stantial section of the population. The text suggests that the abuses on the Tronka estate are widely known, but, as Peter Horn observes, the active parties in the story tend to be individuals rather than coherent social or political groups.38 However, it is not wholly clear what the story is suggesting about public participation in politics. On the one hand, wider involvement might make Kohlhaas’s crusade unnecessary, but on the other, the figure of Kohlhaas could also be intended as a warning about the implications of the Prussian reformers’ plans to foster a whole class of similarly active and informed citizens.39 To what extent does the text advocate administrative reform with a view to improving the delivery of justice? Christiane Schreiber sees Kohlhaas as the victim of the arbitrary decisions by aristocratic groups and regards him as a campaigner for the rights of the citizen.40 Clearly, Wenzel von Tronka does benefit from his extensive family connections, but there are middle-class equivalents to the phenomenon of aristocratic nepotism. Kohlhaas is not a powerless, isolated individual.41 It becomes apparent that through his business dealings he has established an extensive network of friends in both Brandenburg and Saxony who are prepared to intervene vigorously on his behalf (SWB, 3:39). He also uses his wife’s acquaintance with the castellan in Berlin in the hope of gaining privileged access to the Elector. Indeed, Kohlhaas is so fixated upon his campaign that he is rather blinkered in his assessment of its ethical implications. He is prepared to use his private connections even before he exhausts all his legal options.42 Thus he differs from Tronka only by degrees. Unfortunately for Kohlhaas, Tronka’s network seems to be more powerful.43 It is also questionable whether the administration in Brandenburg is substantially less corrupt than its Saxon counterpart, simply because Kohlhaas receives judicial redress through the intervention of the Elector of Brandenburg.44 Heinrich von Geusau seems to rise to power thanks to Kohlhaas’s case, which suggests that his initial, apparently disinterested offer to present the trader’s petition to the Elector of Brandenburg may be a calculated move.45 However, the deadpan narrative records merely that Geusau was compelled to mention Kallheim’s improper conduct when he approached the Elector (SWB, 3:113). For this reason, this thesis remains speculative, but it seems to be strengthened when later in the same paragraph we learn that Geusau is given Kallheim’s job as a direct result of the conversation. With few exceptions, then, Kleist seems skeptical of the impartiality of officials in general, and he suggests that justice can be instrumentalized for private purposes in any state. At first, it may appear that the institutions of the Holy Roman Empire are largely exempted from criticism in Kohlhaas. The law is implemented rigorously by imperial institutions, and Kohlhaas is executed for his crimes. Indeed, even when the Elector of Saxony begs the Emperor for permission

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to retract his complaint, the request is rejected. However, the Emperor’s reply gives an indication that it is not the notorious legalism of imperial institutions that motivates his refusal so much as an overblown sense of his own dignity. He tells the Saxon Elector that his change of heart “ihn aufs Äußerste befremde” (perturbed him most severely), and reinforces his pronouncement by reminding him that he has now made the case “zu einer Angelegenheit gesamten heiligen römischen Reichs” (a matter for the entire Holy Roman Empire; SWB, 3:126). This intimation of the Kaiser’s selfimportance is confirmed by the particular zeal that the imperial advocate demonstrates in his pursuit of Kohlhaas at the High Court in Berlin, which prevents the Elector of Brandenburg from treating Kohlhaas leniently (SWB, 3:127). Thus it seems that, while the Emperor is not corrupt, his exercise of his judicial power is closely bound up with his self-image. The implacable justice of the Holy Roman Empire leaves the Elector of Saxony powerless to stop Kohlhaas’s execution. There is, of course, profound irony in this because it was the Saxon government’s petition to the Emperor that actually initiated the proceedings, before the Elector knew of Kohlhaas’s possession of the capsule containing the gypsy’s prophecy. Even so, it would seem unjustified to regard the close of the text as a judgment on the Elector of Saxony, or more generally, on irresponsible aristocratic rule. Indeed the end of the story evokes a world where history rewards morality and punishes vice, but the overly neat ending should alert us to Kleistian irony. In the case of the Elector of Saxony, Kleist may be demonstrating the corrupting influence of power, which is also demonstrated by Kohlhaas’s 46 later behavior. Kohlhaas has few scruples about holding out the prospect of booty in order to recruit supporters, even as he insists that his is a moral crusade. Starting with Lisbeth’s opulent funeral, the text represents his adoption of an aristocratic lifestyle in increasingly satirical mode. Kohlhaas represents himself as the earthly representative of the Archangel Michael (SWB, 3:73), but his vainglorious self-stylization reaches its ludicrous zenith when he appears in public with a “cherub’s sword” carried in front of him on a fine cushion of red and gold, and followed by a dozen torch-bearers (SWB, 3:76). Kohlhaas is not only made to seem ridiculous here, but he is also shown to be blind, for even as he assumes this celestial pose, he repeatedly fails to notice Luther’s declaration, much to the frustration of his retinue (SWB, 3:76).47 Indeed, the further Kohlhaas goes in representing himself as the instrument of divine justice, the more he unwittingly replicates the arbitrariness of Wenzel von Tronka. He does not punish his servants for plundering, but for doing so against his will (SWB, 3:76). Thus, as Kohlhaas asserts himself against his enemies, he is also increasingly tyrannical in his treatment of his supporters.48 Kohlhaas’s sudden change to humility as he reads Luther’s message is indicative of the tensions in his character, which are apparent throughout

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the text. As the opening sentence puts it, Kohlhaas is “einer der rechtschaffensten zugleich und entsetzlichsten Menschen seiner Zeit” (all at once one of the most honest and most terrible people of his time); it is his “Rechtgefühl” (sense of justice) that drives him to robbery and murder (SWB, 3:13). Kohlhaas combines many features that initially seem difficult to reconcile: brutality, piety, tenderness, litigiousness, and lachrymosity, to name but a few. But the motive force behind his campaign is arguably not so much his sense of right as his need for order.49 Certainly, Kohlhaas shows his legalistic side when he decides to return home to cross-question Herse before going ahead with his complaint (SWB, 3:27), but other impulses emerge during their conversation. Thus he has to hide his bewilderment (“Verwirrung”) when it seems that Herse has lied to Tronka’s officials. But then, when Kohlhaas realizes that Herse behaved quite properly, we hear that “[ihm] das Herz emporquoll” (his heart swelled; SWB, 3:31). Having been aware of the role of contingency in human life, Kohlhaas is gratified by the absolute clarity of his case, even though he has suffered injustice. His desire for clarity becomes all the more apparent when his petition to the courts in Dresden is also rejected: mitten durch den Schmerz, die Welt in einer so ungeheuren Unordnung zu erblicken, zuckte die innerliche Zufriedenheit empor, seine eigne Brust nunmehr in Ordnung zu sehen. (SWB, 3:47) [amidst his pain at seeing the world in such monstrous disorder, a sense of satisfaction stirred within him that his own heart was now in order.]

Kohlhaas’s satisfaction at being in the right is connected to his awareness of the disorderly nature of the world, and thus he is overjoyed to have found certainty in his belief that he has been wronged. But paradoxically, it is the knowledge of his rightness that licenses his rampage. His campaign clearly gives him pleasure, just as later his decision not to destroy the convent at Erlabrunn casts him back “in die Hölle unbefriedigter Rache” (into the hell of unsatisfied vengeance; SWB, 3:67). This pleasurable abandonment is also communicated by the excessive brutality and absence of method in his attacks on the Tronkenburg. Kohlhaas initially desires order, but progressively this is admixed with vengeance, and even destruction. All of these impulses come together for Kohlhaas in his affirmation of his death sentence, which brings punishment for both his own and Tronka’s misdeeds. At the same time, the text does not bear out Kohlhaas’s demonization of Tronka as “der allgemeine Feind aller Christen” (the common enemy of all Christians; SWB, 3:68). In fact, Kohlhaas’s adversaries are subject to Kleist’s satire, rather than outright criticism. The Elector of Saxony denies Kohlhaas justice out of a mixture of weakness, friendship, and vanity. Similarly, Wenzel von Tronka is represented from the outset as a weakling and a fool,

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as he displays a childish haste to rush out and look at Kohlhaas’s horses. It is mainly weakness that prompts him to back his officials’ demand that Kohlhaas produce a pass, which clearly makes him feel uneasy. Indeed, he is even on the point of letting Kohlhaas go, but finally rejects Kohlhaas’s pleas since he is getting cold and wants to get back inside (SWB, 3:19–21). Unlike Kohlhaas, the attentive reader is left to deal with considerable ambiguity in apportioning responsibility for these events. Indeed, Kohlhaas and Count Wrede also deserve blame for their pedantic insistence that the horses have to be restored to their original condition and their refusal to accept compensation. Certainly, Kohlhaas implies criticism of such legalistic inflexibility.50 At the same time, John Ellis is only partly justified in arguing that Kohlhaas faces “not an extensive and sinister network but a few silly, weak people whose motives are trivial.”51 We hear that Tronka’s abuses have affected many other travelers, and some may lack Kohlhaas’s network of contacts. Is it therefore tenable to suggest that Kleist condemns landowners’ patrimonial power? I would argue that the text suggests a positive answer but stops short of outright criticism. It demonstrates that bourgeois administrations, such as Kohlhaas’s own, may replicate the arbitrariness of the Saxon Elector and the folly of the nobleman Tronka. Kleist even provides a counter-image to Wenzel von Tronka in Kohlhaas’s description of his predecessor as a kindly man who was well-disposed towards traders (SWB, 3:15). This image of the complementarity of the two estates recalls Adam Müller’s conservative vision of the ideal state. However, it does not negate the general implication that the operation of the legal system is fundamentally distorted by the power interests and the self-regard of those who dispense justice. However, even the legalistic machinery of the Holy Roman Empire fails to achieve entirely the redress that Kohlhaas seeks, since it is not responsible for the punishment of the Elector of Saxony. This occurs only by the intervention of the gypsy, whose clairvoyant ability gives Kohlhaas power over the Elector. It seems difficult to deny that this episode constitutes a break, at least on the narrative level, given that an apparently supernatural incident is embedded within a realistic narrative. Critics have more recently sought ways to reintegrate the incident, though not always successfully. Peter Horn argues that the encounter with the gypsy is portrayed realistically, thus not a stylistic anomaly; but it seems fanciful to imagine, as Horn does, that the supernatural elements of the incident are a product of the Saxon Elector’s fe52 verish imagination. Timothy Mehigan suggests that the improbability of the final part of the story is intended to draw the reader into a relationship of trust with the narrator, after the written word, in the form of legal contracts, has proved unreliable. However, while as readers we are forced in some sense to believe that the supernatural events have some substance in order to continue reading, we need not do so completely and uncritically and thus “rehabilitate the written word,” as Mehigan proposes.53 In contrast, Margarethe

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Landwehr argues that the gypsy’s appearance undermines the narrator’s reliability, although it is difficult to follow her logic, given that she earlier asserts that the gypsy “suggests a concealed cosmic order.”54 A more convincing approach is offered by Bernd Fischer, who argues that the appearance of the gypsy is essential to the story’s thematic structure because her intervention demonstrates the shortcomings of the legal framework of the state in failing to punish the Saxon Elector’s misdeeds.55 Most interpreters are anxious to defend Kohlhaas from the criticism of disunity, but it would seem imprudent to gloss over the oddness of the episode entirely. Arguably, the switch from the realistic to the apparently fantastic is an element within Kleist’s narrative strategy, rather than merely an escape route from the legal complexities that the text has raised. It also undermines the attempt to interpret the story by formulating a grand theory. Unlike Kohlhaas, who seems entirely satisfied in the end, the reader is left perplexed by the gypsy’s intervention just as much as by the legal problems that the text sets, and then fails, or perhaps refuses, to resolve. Indeed, the proposition that the future can be predicted and is thus in a sense fixed actually pulls against the sense that the legal process can impose order retrospectively upon a chaotic universe, for if we accept the implied determinism, we also place limits on the freedom of the justice system to create a moral order. Certainly, as readers we are not compelled to accept that the gypsy is a supernatural phenomenon, but we are still left with the unsatisfying awareness that the evidence of the text is inconclusive and that all judgments — the reader’s included — must remain provisional.

Der Zweikampf Like Michael Kohlhaas, Der Zweikampf also ends on a rather unresolved note. In this case, the uncertainty rests upon the status of the duel as a divine judgment, which events have called into question, but which seems — at least on a superficial level — to have been rehabilitated by the end of the story. Kleist returns here to themes familiar from other works, such as the effect of public opinion and power relations on the dispensation of justice. He also touches upon the role of the bureaucracy in dispensing justice, although the question of administrative corruption is set aside. However, the particular interest of Der Zweikampf is in its consideration of the connection between culture and justice. It is a theme that plays an important role in Penthesilea, where the Law of Tanaïs is closely connected to the history and social structures of Amazon society. In Der Zweikampf Kleist reflects further upon the mutual reinforcement of religion and the judicial system, and the connection of religious and legal institutions to social and political interests. Der Zweikampf opens by sketching the long-standing political tensions between the Duke Wilhelm von Breysach and his half-brother, Count Jacob

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der Rotbart, which date back to the former’s marriage. We learn that recently the Duke has taken steps to disinherit his brother and to name his illegitimate son as his successor. At the same time, Count Jacob makes arrangements to have his brother killed in order to inherit his title, but his plan remains unfulfilled because Duke Wilhelm survives long enough to name his successor, although it is his wife who takes charge as regent until their son comes of age. She also takes over the enmity that previously existed between the brothers, which also affects how the murder case is handled. When it comes to light that the murder weapon once belonged to Count Jacob, the chancellor of Breysach initially suppresses the evidence in the belief that the Duchess will not give Jacob a fair trial. Thus he seems to believe that the bureaucratic elements of the state should seek to counterbalance the power of the sovereign, although his judgment is based in part on his personal assessment of Count Jacob’s character (SWB, 3:316–17). In fact, he later revises his opinion upon hearing that Count Jacob was absent from his castle on the night in question, and he reveals the evidence to the Duchess. She treats the matter politically and rebukes him for making the information known in the Council of State. She believes that it is dangerous to accuse the Count because of the “außerordentliche, fast schwärmerische Volksverehrung” (extraordinary, near-fanatical popular respect; SWB, 3:317) that he has enjoyed since he was disinherited. Her response is also conditioned by the perceived threat from Count Jacob: fearful that the rumors will reach him, the Duchess apprises him of the information that she has received, but she insists that he need not explain himself. Hence it is clear that justice does not run its course freely but that it is profoundly connected to the material interests of the protagonists. Similarly, the reaction of Littegarde’s brothers to the accusation made against her seems to be conditioned by their interest in her financial affairs, and Littegarde herself believes that she will be unable to get justice without Friedrich’s help, on account of Count Jacob’s power (SWB, 3:325). At first, the reader may gain the impression that Der Zweikampf is essentially a detective story because we are told how the arrow is recovered and detailed investigations are undertaken to discover its owner. However, it quickly becomes apparent that the judicial process cannot simply uncover truth directly, for its workings are more problematic than this opening would seem to suggest. The imperial court makes apparently simple demands of the accused, Count Jacob: that he should account for his whereabouts on the night of the murder and explain how the murderer obtained the arrow originally manufactured for him. However, it becomes clear that Count Jacob’s credibility as a witness has little to do with his actual responses to questions because he proves to be a masterful political manipula56 tor. He deflects suspicion by volunteering to face trial, and then he makes a show of reluctance in naming Littegarde as his lover. It seems likely that

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the Count chooses his target for maximum effect, for Littegarde’s reputation is unblemished. Indeed, the scandal that the accusation creates successfully deflects the court’s attention from Count Jacob’s failure to satisfy its second demand: that he explain how the murderer came by the arrow. Furthermore, the court does not challenge his dubious assertion that his visit to Littegarde made his participation in the murder impossible, “es sei nun persönlich oder mittelbar” (whether in person or indirectly [emphasis added]; SWB, 3:320). It is also noticeable that he chooses his words carefully in agreeing to the duel with Friedrich; he accepts that the duel should decide the truth of his words “Frau Littegarden betreffend” (concerning Lady Littegarde; SWB, 3:329). Count Jacob’s bold and articulate performance adds conviction to his case, regardless of the actual content of his speech. Presentation seems more important than the facts. The facts also seem unimportant to Friedrich, who tells Littegarde that his inner conviction of her innocence is stronger than any legal arguments or evidence that she can adduce (SWB, 3:326). In fact, Littegarde approaches Friedrich to ask him to recommend a lawyer, not to defend her honor. It is highly ironic that Friedrich, whom we first encounter at his desk studying legal papers, brushes aside the usual procedures and challenges her accuser to a duel. In fact, Friedrich’s decision to challenge the Count is hardly the product of rational consideration, and it seems that Friedrich turns to force when intellectual argument fails. However, the connection between truth and the outcome of the duel is highly problematic. Littegarde observes that it is crucially important that Friedrich should believe in her innocence as he enters the duel, which recalls Kleist’s suggestion in Von der Überlegung that confidence is an absolute necessity for any successful fighter. However, as John Ellis has noted, it is clear that Count Jacob is naturally a more talented fighter than Herr Friedrich, who is conspicuously 57 inactive while the Count darts around him. In a rare moment of clarity, Friedrich seems to recognize that the duel cannot be seen objectively as the revelation of God’s justice, as he tells his mother of his wish “mir mit dem Schwert einen ganz andern Spruch Gottes zu erkämpfen” (to win with my sword a quite different divine judgment; SWB, 3:336).58 Thus the factors that determine what passes for justice have shifted from self-confidence to fighting prowess. Nor do the institutions of the Holy Roman Empire help counter this instability. It is reported that Count Jacob’s supportive attitude towards Littegarde wins over the support of the public, which had been alienated by his revelation of their affair, and that this change of mood also causes the Emperor to free the Count (SWB, 3:328). However, very shortly afterwards, the Emperor is swayed again by Friedrich’s bold defense of Littegarde’s honor, and he therefore agrees to the duel. Following the duel, the Emperor is once again persuaded by the

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public mood to proceed with the executions, even though he still has doubts about the correctness of the judgment (SWB, 3:346). However, it would clearly be taboo to voice these doubts publicly. It is noticeable that Kleist is concerned here to portray a culturally homogeneous community based upon Catholicism, which embraces the deceitful Count Jacob just as much as the pious Littegarde. In fact, the Count displays considerable concern for his salvation, and holds to the letter of the Ten Commandments while breaking their spirit. Perhaps for this reason, he makes oaths that are technically correct, and does not participate in the killing.59 This common faith is also demonstrated by the universal expectation that Friedrich will die soon (SWB, 3:334). Littegarde is driven to the point of madness by the outcome of the duel because she is virtually forced to choose between her innocence and her faith (SWB, 3:338). The Catholic norms of the community are sufficiently robust that even Friedrich’s mother cannot believe that Count Jacob is capable of lying on the host (SWB, 3:339). It is Friedrich who first calls the validity of this worldview into question, as he tells his mother that he wishes to continue the duel. When she counters, saying that this is not possible, he terms the legal provisions governing the duel “diese willkürlichen Gesetze der Menschen” (these arbitrary human laws; SWB, 3:335). However, Friedrich’s reflections fail to explain why the duel has proved so durable as a legal process; this explanation is only provided by his mother, who suggests that “sie üben, verständig oder nicht, die Kraft göttlicher Satzungen aus” (reasonably or otherwise, they have the force of divine commands; SWB, 3:336). Hence legal processes provide a focus for the community, a religious bedrock of certainty on which political life is founded. This thesis is confirmed by the Emperor’s behavior in the text. He initially vacillates in his assessment of Count Jacob’s guilt, and later we learn that he remains suspicious even after the duel (SWB, 3:342). However, he does not express his doubts publicly, but he intends, rather, to make the Count watch the execution of Littegarde and Friedrich in the hope that his conscience will compel him to tell the truth. However, it is clear that the truth revealed by the Count is not entirely welcomed by the emperor: he is described as “leichenblaß” (pale as a corpse), “betroffen” (dismayed), and finally “erstarrt wie zu Stein” (as if he had been turned to stone; SWB, 3:347). This revelation of the apparent unreliability of the judicial process, in the context of a high-profile trial and in the presence of more than a thousand knights and the massed Volk, amounts to nothing less than a political crisis. The Emperor saves himself by glossing over the depth of the problem. Count Jacob believes that he has escaped judicial punishment when he makes his admission, but the furious Emperor tries to restore the authority of the law by declaring that the arm of the law will visit punishment upon Jacob’s body (SWB, 3:348). He also uses his powers to restore Littegarde

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and Friedrich’s financial and moral status. However, he is left with the problem of how to rehabilitate the law itself: sobald er . . . wieder in Worms angekommen war, ließ er in die Statuten des geheiligten göttlichen Zweikampfs, überall wo vorausgesetzt wird, daß die Schuld dadurch unmittelbar ans Tagelicht komme, die Worte einrücken: “wenn es Gottes Wille ist” (SWB, 3:349). [As soon as he had returned to Worms, he had inserted into the statutes governing the venerated, sacred duel, wherever they assumed that guilt was revealed directly, the words: “if it is God’s will.”]

At a stroke, the Emperor has made the law both unassailable and unusable, since there seems to be no procedure for discerning in which cases — or at what point in time — God’s will has definitively been revealed.60 The Emperor does, however, rescue the religious foundation of the judicial system, and in a sense he even adds to the majesty of the law by associating it with the inscrutability of God. Certain critics seek to fix Kleist’s position in relation to this ambiguous ending. For Peter Horn, the ending suggests that God is fundamentally unreliable, just as capable of revealing truth and untruth. Eugen Wohlhaupter, by contrast, posits a more reverent Kleist, who contrasts divine justice with human imperfection. Christian Grawe sees the text as an attack on the arrogance of human beings, who expect divine justice to be readily available through the institution of the duel, whereas, in fact, God’s ways are mysterious.61 The text refuses such certainties, and it remains unclear that the duel acts as any kind of divine communication, reliable or otherwise. It seems to me that the view of divine justice in Der Zweikampf is rather different from that offered in Amphitryon. In the play, there is a manifest irony about Sosias’s appeal to the justice of the gods for protection against the malign Merkur (ll. 389–90). Moreover, the end of the play parodies the device of the deus ex machina, as the guilty god Jupiter now reveals the truth and makes recompense to Amphitryon but ignores Alkmene’s desperate appeal for divine protection (l. 2312), which for her would mean concealing the truth (ll. 2305–6). Paradoxically, in Amphitryon, where Kleist chooses to represent divine intervention on earth, his stance on divine justice seems radically skeptical, whereas in Der Zweikampf, where it remains unclear whether there is any foundation for a theologically-centered judicial system, the position remains more open. In fact, it is the lack of divine presence that helps to preserve a degree of ambiguity, which the Emperor exploits in order to strengthen the law. By extension, this ambiguity also allows the reader to choose to believe 62 in the duel as a revelation of divine judgment. Nonetheless, the story also allows the reader to question the status of the duel, which is not the only form of judicial process that comes to seem

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questionable. In fact, the forensic investigation of the arrow and the seemingly precise questioning of the imperial court belie a legal system that is far from objective and rational in its functioning, but, rather, distorted by political posturing, dazzled by performance, and drowned out by the clash of weapons. However, thoroughgoing reform is impossible, since it would also threaten political and social order and undermine shared cultural values that underpin the Holy Roman Empire. Nor does the Emperor act as an impartial mediator between the parties.63 As in Kohlhaas, he is depicted as a ruler whose interests — political and social stability, and his personal authority — are served by a judicial system founded on common faith. These interests are really only strengthened by the “reform” that the Emperor undertakes.64 In Der Zweikampf, Kleist therefore offers a skeptical appraisal of imperial justice, in which the Emperor is prepared to tolerate a manifestly ineffective system of justice rather than question the social and spiritual foundation of the polity.

Die heilige Cäcilie oder die Gewalt der Musik The question of divine judgment also figures in Die heilige Cäcilie oder die Gewalt der Musik (Saint Cecilia or the Power of Music).65 Given the striking thematic parallels with Der Zweikampf, this story warrants brief consideration, especially because it too has sometimes been interpreted as showing Kleist’s belief that divine judgments against wrongdoers can be channeled through earthly means. Die heilige Cäcilie also elaborates on the role played by religious institutions in political life. The story relates the apparently mysterious tale of how a convent near Aachen came to be spared from destruction during a Corpus Christi service by a band of iconoclasts under the leadership of four brothers, all militant Protestants. The brothers are profoundly changed by the service they attend, and, having been deemed mad by the city authorities, they are placed in an asylum. In the revised version of the story, their mother visits Aachen six years later to investigate what happened to them. Their former associate, Veit Gotthelf, now a respectable businessman, describes to her how the brothers became reflective during the service, and how at midnight they rose mechanically and in unison and intoned the gloria in excelsis in a voice that he compares to that of sinners screaming for divine mercy in Hell (SWB, 3:303). Gotthelf’s account does not quite assert that they have been condemned to Hell, although he implies as much. He reports that the brothers’ landlord told the authorities they were possessed by an evil spirit, though we also learn that he wanted to remove them from his premises because his tenants’ newfound frugality had cut his profit margin. At the same time, the brothers believe that they have been granted a divine revelation (SWB, 3:295), and the warders at the asylum note that they are physically healthy

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and even display a solemn cheerfulness (SWB, 3:297). In fact, it is far from clear that the four brothers have really been condemned to a living hell, as the narrator suggests (SWB, 3:293), for the text offers multiple perspectives on their behavior.66 The convent itself launches a quasi-judicial investigation into events, which concludes that supernatural forces intervened to save the convent, on the grounds that the conductress of the orchestra, Sister Antonia, was lying unconscious throughout the service and died shortly afterwards, at least according to evidence given — in the presence of several male (!) witnesses — by the nun who was looking after her. When these events are reported to the Archbishop of Trier, he gives what is described as the only sufficient explanation: that St. Cecilia herself conducted the oratorio (SWB, 3:313). The investigation leads to official papal recognition of the miracle. For some critics, this confirmation by the higher church authorities lends objectivity to the events,67 whereas for others, the unhesitating and precise manner in which the events are interpreted is a reason to suspect that Kleist intends to expose ironically the creation of a legend by the Church.68 In part, the legend is made plausible by the narrator’s presentation of events, which is discredited by some of the details that subsequently become known. Most significantly, the initial report of events suggests that the convent was protected by a single elderly official, whereas in Gotthelf’s account it emerges that the authorities provided guards and that the enemies of the convent dispersed partly because arrests were being made (SWB, 3:299).69 Bernd Fischer has suggested that the story’s political background — for Fischer an allusion to the intervention of the imperial authorities in 1598 to re-establish Catholic control in Aachen — shows that the construction of the St. Cecilia legend has an ideological and political function for the Church authorities.70 Moreover, as Thomas Heine points out, by creating a narrative that instantiates the intervention of saints in human life, the Catholic authorities also attack their Protestant enemies on a doctrinal level by adducing evidence for what is “an important element distinguishing Catholic from Protestant power.”71 This thesis, which emphasizes the political dimension of the story, has much to recommend it. Kleist’s skepticism about the grand narrative is apparent in much of his work. Indeed, when later we learn that the convent is being extended and adorned by hundreds of builders (SWB, 3:307), it is hard not to regard this as an intimation that the apparent miracle had more than theological significance for the nuns. But while these details will undoubtedly incline the attentive reader to scrutinize the text critically, in my view it carefully stops short of suggesting that the miracle was an out-andout fabrication, even if the details remain far more sketchy than the Catholic version concedes. After all, something mysterious did happen to the brothers, and there is testimony from a nun to suggest that Sister Antonia was un-

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conscious throughout the mass. There are, no doubt, more reasonable explanations for the condition of the brothers, such as the aesthetic effects of the music,72 but other hypotheses about the identity of the conductor of the oratorio must remain as speculative as the official explanation. Certainly, the story indicates that the putative miracle has changed the social and political climate of Aachen. There are hints at a close relationship between the church and secular authorities, for the abbess learns of the mother’s arrival from the mayor. Indeed, even six years after the event, and even though no damage was done to the convent, Veit Gotthelf worries that unless the mother is circumspect his involvement in the episode may be investigated (SWB, 3:297). His own perspective has changed, too, and he now regards the Aachen of his youth as doctrinally aberrant (SWB, 3:299). Clearly, the miracle has had a profound effect on religious belief in the town, and the position of the church has been consolidated. Like Der Zweikampf, Die heilige Cäcilie also suggests that the behavior of the church authorities may be adapted in accordance with what is politically pragmatic, but it stops short of suggesting that the Church fabricated evidence. But by choosing to keep the details of the events in the text ambiguous, Kleist draws attention to the human tendency to seek neat explanations for complex and often mysterious events. He shows that this is all the more tempting where political conflict exists, though he is decidedly skeptical about the claim commonly made by political factions that they have divine backing for their cause. This point is made when the text records that even though a miracle had apparently occurred in the convent it was nonetheless (“gleichwohl”; SWB, 3:293) secularized under the terms of the Peace of Westphalia — and so it appears that St. Cecilia did not intervene in this instance on its behalf. Some critics have taken this remark as an allusion by Kleist to the massive reorganization of imperial territories in 1803 under the Reichsdeputationshauptschluss or to Hardenberg’s edict of 1810 on the secu73 larization of church property. But there are two reasons to doubt whether the story is really an explicit intervention by Kleist into political events. First, it does not altogether exclude the possibility that a miracle may have occurred, even if it hardly endorses the Church’s view of events. Second, the allusion to the secularization of the convent is brief and not accompanied by discussion of the motives behind it, which would really be necessary in order to justify the hypothesis that Kleist is commenting on the politics of his own age. Kleist’s intention is, rather, to draw attention to the inadequacy of all judgments that are made in the text. Ultimately, it is not a partisan polemic, but a demonstration of the difficulties of establishing truth in a confessionally, culturally, and politically charged social space.

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Conclusion We saw previously that in several works Kleist investigates the possibility of establishing a framework for the life of the nation. Where he considers military or educational institutions, the quest largely fails due to the value that he attaches to the integrity of the individual human personality and his awareness of the painful and sometimes damaging adjustments that are required if the individual is to operate effectively in conjunction with others. On the whole, the texts analyzed in the present chapter also acknowledge the existence of a community founded on a common culture, history, and/or religion, and it is again striking that all these texts explore the possibility of a shared institutional framework to give political form to the community. Given Kleist’s emphasis on individual freedom, we might expect him to favor a more open legal or bureaucratic framework.74 Certainly, the necessity of such a state is acknowledged, especially in the early works. Die Familie Schroffenstein, for instance, demonstrates that bureaucrats need to operate with a degree of moral autonomy if they are to restrain the selfishness and amoral pragmatism that Kleist sees embodied in the absolutist state. Both Schroffenstein and Der zerbrochne Krug demonstrate the need for a mature public sphere that can act as a bulwark against the abuse of the common good by figures of authority. But Kleist’s authority figures are seldom ruthless or calculating, which might suggest that the reform of political institutions would encourage them to seek the common good, rather than pursue their personal interests. However, the attempt to bring a measure of objectivity to political life through bureaucratic control is shown to fail in almost all respects. As we see in Der zerbrochne Krug, even honest administrators like Walter may abandon their commitment to fairness and impartiality when they meet sufficient resistance; they have no incentive to devote themselves completely to the common good. For Kleist, the administration can never attain the transparency to which in theory it aspires, for it is served by fallible human beings who may be tempted to abuse the power entrusted to them. Most of Kleist’s bureaucrats are far from impartial servants of the state. Nor is the public that they serve characterized by rationalism and consistency. For Kleist, public opinion is a volatile force that 75 may exacerbate governmental abuses rather than correcting them. Legal codes do not make good the failings of the administration. Kleist clearly acknowledges in texts such as Penthesilea, Die Herrmannsschlacht, and Der Zweikampf that the law may reflect the shared historical and cultural values of a given community, and that it is thus also an important focus for integration and common endeavor. But, on the other hand, as in Der Zweikampf, Kleist also betrays an uneasy awareness that a cultural community may place continuity and cohesion before fairness. Moreover, it is often the case that traditional legal forms work to the advantage of the elite, as in Der

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zerbrochne Krug. In other cases, the law is effective in regulating relations between individuals, but only if it is applied impartially. On the whole, power imbalances prevail. Even when characters make sincere efforts to analyze legal issues, their investigations often founder on the sheer complexity of the case, as with the deliberations of the Saxon Council of State in Kohlhaas, or on the obfuscations of the parties concerned, as with Count Jacob in Der Zweikampf. It is therefore fitting that the reader should be faced with corresponding difficulties in interpreting these texts, for in Kleist’s world there are few epistemological and moral certainties, only a longing for an unattainable truth. His texts constantly point towards neat theoretical distinctions and solutions, but the social world of his writings repeatedly exposes the deficiency of abstractions as a guide to practical living, for this world, and its inhabitants, do not exhibit the regularity, predictability, or rationality on which such systems are based.

Notes 1 See Theodor Schieder, Frederick the Great, ed. and trans. Sabina Berkeley and H. M. Scott (London: Longman, 2000), 186. 2

See further Hans Rosenberg, Bureaucracy, Aristocracy and Autocracy: The Prussian Experience 1660–1815 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1958), 208. 3

For this reason, the view of the play purely as a fate-tragedy seems inadequate. See, for example, Gerhard Fricke, Gefühl und Schicksal bei Heinrich von Kleist: Studien über den inneren Vorgang im Leben und Schaffen des Dichters, Arbeiten zur Geistesgeschichte der germanischen und romanischen Völker, 3 (Berlin: Junker und Dünnhaupt, 1929), 45–59. 4 See Seán Allan, The Plays of Heinrich von Kleist: Ideals and Illusions (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996), 56–60; and, in a different context, Ditmar Skrotzki, Die Gebärde des Errötens im Werk Heinrich von Kleists, Marburger Beiträge zur Germanistik, 37 (Marburg: Elwert, 1971), 45–46. 5

Most critics argue, plausibly in my view, that the longer version of the play does not lose its authority. It has been argued, though, that the revised version deliberately puts the jug at the center, rather than Adam. The present discussion will draw on both versions of the play. See Peter Goldammer, “Variante oder Urfassung? Ein patriotisches Motiv in Kleists Zerbrochnem Krug,” Neue Deutsche Literatur 4 (1956): 7–17; Helmut Arntzen, Die ernste Komödie: Das deutsche Lustspiel von Lessing bis Kleist (Munich: Nymphenburger Verlagshandel, 1968), 185; and Lilian Hoverland, “Adam und Frau Marthe: polare Verfahrensweise in Kleists Der zerbrochne Krug,” in Heinrich von Kleist-Studien — Heinrich von Kleist Studies, ed. Alexej Ugrinsky, Hofstra University Cultural and Intercultural Studies, 3 (Berlin: Schmidt, 1981), 59–67. 6 See Hans-Peter Schneider, “Justizkritik im Zerbrochnen Krug,” KJb (1988–89): 309–26, here 312–13.

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7

See Schneider, “Justizkritik,” 313–25, here 313; and Theodore Ziolkowski, The Mirror of Justice: Literary Reflections of Legal Crises (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1997), 207–9. In my view, these comparisons shed little light on the play, since they merely demonstrate that legal issues it raises are covered by the ALR, which seems hardly surprising.

8

Compare the evidence of the judicial inspector Leman, cited in Robert Stein, Die Umwandlung der Agrarverfassung Ostpreußens durch die Reform des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, vol. 1, Die ländliche Verfassung Ostpreußens am Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Jena: Fischer, 1918), 192. See also Robert M. Berdahl, The Politics of the Prussian Nobility: The Development of a Conservative Ideology, 1770–1848 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1988), 55–65. 9

See Goldammer, “Variante oder Urfassung?” 116–21. Some critics accept Adam’s claim, although the truth remains unclear. See Allan, Plays, 89–90; and Dirk Grathoff, “Der Fall des Krugs: zum geschichtlichen Gehalt von Kleists Lustspiel,” KJb (1981–82): 290–313, here, 302. 10

11

For further discussion of the play in the context of debates surrounding natural law and the Historical School around Savigny, see Ernst Ribbat, “Babylon in Huisum oder der Schein des Scheins: Sprach- und Rechtsprobleme in Heinrich von Kleists Lustspiel Der zerbrochne Krug,” in Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu Werk und Wirkung, ed. Dirk Grathoff (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1988), 133–48; and Hermann Klenner, “‘ . . . da das Gesetz im Stich mich läßt . . .’: Gedanken zum Verhältnis von Recht und Literatur,” in Recht und Gerechtigkeit bei Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Peter Ensberg and Hans-Jochen Marquardt, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 404 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002), 23–34. 12

For an illuminating discussion of the comedy of the play in the context of the work of Sophocles and Aristophanes, see Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Die Dramen und Erzählungen in ihrer Epoche (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2003), 63–84. 13 See Robert Labhardt, Metapher und Geschichte: Kleists dramatische Metaphorik bis zur “Penthesilea” als Widerspiegelung seiner geschichtlichen Position, Monographien Literaturwissenschaft, 32 (Kronberg/Ts.: Scriptor Verlag, 1976), 194–95. 14 See Helmut Arntzen, Die ernste Komödie, 192. 15

Wittkowski asserts, without adducing textual evidence, that the “court” in Utrecht that Walter commends to Frau Marthe is the pottery market. In contrast, but again unconvincingly, Edith Borchardt describes Walter as a quasi-divine figure representing Christian forgiveness. See Wittkowski, “Der zerbrochne Krug: Juggling of Authorities,” in Heinrich von Kleist-Studien — Heinrich von Kleist Studies, ed. Alexej Ugrinsky, Hofstra University Cultural and Intercultural Studies, 3 (Berlin: Schmidt, 1981), 69–79, here 73; and Borchardt, Mythische Strukturen im Werk Heinrich von Kleists, American University Studies, Series I: Germanic Languages and Literature, 40 (New York: Lang, 1987), 107–25, here 118. 16

Eugen Wohlhaupter even seems to approve of Walter’s obsession with the dignity of the law. See Wohlhaupter, Dichterjuristen (Tübingen: Mohr, 1953), 1:551–52. 17 Walter’s apologists have offered some elaborate and highly questionable excuses for his inaction. Thus Ulrich Vohland argues that Adam will be disciplined later by the

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bureaucratic service, while Johann Karl-Heinz Müller argues that Walter sees a distinction between law and justice and that he feels obliged to protect only the former. See further Vohland, Bürgerliche Emanzipation in Heinrich von Kleists Dramen und theoretischen Schriften, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Series 1: Deutsche Literatur und Germanistik, 142 (Bern: Lang, 1976), 286–322; and Müller, Die Rechts- und Staatsauffassung Heinrich von Kleists, Schriften zur Rechtslehre und Politik, 37 (Bonn: Bouvier, 1962), 62–64. 18

On language as a theme, see Manfred Schunicht, “Heinrich von Kleist: Der zerbrochne Krug,” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 84 (1965): 550–62. 19

Pace Peter Horn, “Das erschrockene Gelächter über die Entlarvung einer korrupten Obrigkeit: Kleists zwiespältige Komödie Der zerbrochne Krug,” in Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu Werk und Wirkung, ed. Dirk Grathoff (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1988), 149–62, here 154. 20 21

See Arntzen, Die ernste Komödie, 189–91. See further Arntzen, Die ernste Komödie, 194.

22

John Milfull reads the play as a rewriting of the Greek tragedy in Christian (comic) mode. However, such a view rests on what seems to me a highly speculative reconstruction of Kleist’s “theology.” See further Milfull, “Oedipus and Adam: Greek Tragedy and Christian Comedy in Kleist’s Der zerbrochene Krug,” GLL, n.s., 27 (1973–74): 7–17. 23

It is puzzling that it should be the face of the Spanish monarch that appears on the coins that elicits such trust. Anthony Stephens sees it as a deliberate Kleistian anachronism, by which the text “subverts its own credibility.” Dirk Grathoff delves deeper in suggesting that Kleist may be alluding to a passage in Schiller’s Don Carlos, which associates the coins bearing the Spanish king’s face with the conditional truths allowed in political life. See Stephens, Heinrich von Kleist: The Dramas and Stories (Oxford: Berg, 1994), 64; and Grathoff, “Der Fall des Krugs,” 304–5. 24

For an interesting reading of this scene as a negotiation between Eve and Walter, see Allan, Plays, 90. 25

See Ribbat, “Babylon,” 143. See Ziolkowski, Mirror, 204–7; and Christiane Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!”: Heinrich von Kleist und die preußischen Reformen, Germanistische Arbeiten zu Sprache und Kulturgeschichte, 18 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1991), 109–29. 27 As Hartmut Reinhardt notes, this terminology, also used by Luther, is anachronistic, but he does not investigate the potential relevance of the political events of Kleist’s own era. See further Hartmut Reinhardt, “Das Unrecht des Rechtskämpfers: Zum Problem des Widerstandes in Kleists Erzählung Michael Kohlhaas,” JbDSg 31 (1987): 199–226, here 218. 26

28

See Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Die Dramen und Erzählungen in ihrer Epoche, especially 229–31. 29

See Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Die Dramen und Erzählungen in ihrer Epoche, 218. 30

See Christiane Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!” 110–16.

31

See Ziolkowski, Mirror, 213.

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32

Pace Richard Kuhns, “The Strangeness of Justice: Reading Michael Kohlhaas,” New Literary History 15 (1983): 73–91, here 90; Müller, Die Rechts- und Staatsauffassung, 75; and Reinhardt, “Unrecht,” 221. 33

For further discussion of the political theories of Hobbes, Rousseau, and Adam Müller in Michael Kohlhaas, see Paul Michael Lützeler, “Heinrich von Kleist: Michael Kohlhaas,” in Romane und Erzählungen der Romantik: Neue Interpretationen, ed. M. Lützeler (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1981), 213–39, here 229–39; Klaus-Michael Bogdal, Heinrich von Kleist: “Michael Kohlhaas,” UTB Uni-Taschenbücher, 1027 (Munich: Fink, 1981), 35–43; Regina Ogorek, “Adam Müllers Gegensatzphilosophie und die Rechtsausschweifungen des Michael Kohlhaas,” KJb (1988–89): 96–125; Monika Frommel, “Die Paradoxie vertraglicher Sicherung bürgerlicher Rechte: Kampf ums Recht und sinnlose Aktion,” KJb (1988–89): 357–74; and the highly entertaining article by Robert Wexelblatt, “Thomas Hobbes and Michael Kohlhaas,” in Southern Humanities Review 18 (1984): 109–28. For Bogdal, Michael Kohlhaas is an anti-statist, anti-Müller work, whereas Lützeler’s nuanced approach pays due regard to Kleist’s criticisms of Kohlhaas. Ogorek argues that Kleist rejects the rigid legal order in favor of Müller’s concept of mediation between estates. Frommel sees Luther as the agent of this mediation. Wexelblatt argues more plausibly that Kleist sympathizes with Rousseau’s critique of Hobbes’s conservative social contract theory, but that he also remains skeptical of Rousseau’s state of nature (and Kohlhaas’s “stateless” rampage) on account of the French Revolutionary Terror. 34

Kleist almost certainly used Peter Hafftitz’s account, which is reproduced, along with other possible sources, in Bernd Hamacher, ed., Erläuterungen und Dokumente: Heinrich von Kleist, “Michael Kohlhaas” (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2003), 58–67. 35

Seán Allan argues that Kohlhaas accepts Luther’s contention that he must forgive all his enemies and interprets Kohlhaas’s subsequent acceptance of communion from Luther’s envoy as a sign that he has indeed forgiven all his enemies, whereas it seems more plausible to see this a demonstration of Luther’s moral flexibility. See Allan, “‘Der Herr aber, dessen Leib du begehrst, vergab seinem Feind’: The Problem of Revenge in Kleist’s Michael Kohlhaas,” Modern Language Review 92 (1997): 630– 42, here 636. 36

There is some uncertainty whether Kohlhaas is granted free passage, rather than amnesty, which in my view is not altogether clear from the text. The Elector’s conversation with Count Wrede shows that he thinks he agrees with both Wrede and Luther (SWB, 3:86). In contrast, Raymond Lucas maintains that the Elector believes consistently and correctly that he has granted Kohlhaas only free passage. See Lucas, “Die Aporie der Macht: Zum Problem der Amnestie in Kleists Michael Kohlhaas,” KJb (1992): 140–51. 37

See further Andrea Hofmeister-Hunger, Pressepolitik und Staatsreform: Die Institutionalisierung staatlicher Öffentlichkeitsarbeit bei Karl August von Hardenberg (1792–1822), Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, 107 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994). 38

See Horn, Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen: eine Einführung, Scriptor Taschenbuch, S141: Literatur + Sprache + Didaktik (Königstein/Ts.: Scriptor, 1978), 59.

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39

By contrast, Hans Joachim Kreutzer argues that the text represents a form of statehood typical of the seventeenth century, and that its hero is conceived as an illustration of the figure of the citizen, rather than as a character study. It seems questionable, however, whether Kohlhaas’s conduct can be fully explained in these terms. See further Kreutzer, “Über Gesellschaft und Geschichte im Werk Heinrichs von Kleist,” KJb (1980): 34–72, here 51–56.

40 41

See Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!” 112. Pace Monika Frommel, “Paradoxie,” 368.

42

Eugen Wohlhaupter suggests that Kohlhaas should have turned to the supreme court of the Holy Roman Empire (Reichskammergericht) before resorting to force. See Wohlhaupter, Dichterjuristen, 1:528–45, here 544. 43

Hence it is questionable that Kohlhaas really does represent the principle of legal equality, as Johann Karl-Heinz Müller argues. See further Müller, Die Rechts- und Staatsauffassung, 71. 44 Wolfgang Wittkowski actually questions the distinction between the two electors, and argues that the Elector of Brandenburg should not have carried out the death sentence on Kohlhaas. Wittkowski believes that Kleist intends an ironic portrayal of authority in general, and that the distinctions between the electors and the Emperor matter little. In my view Wittkowski is wrong to imply that the Elector of Brandenburg is bound by the amnesty that Wittkowski believes is granted to Kohlhaas in Saxony, and that the Elector of Brandenburg has thus acted illegally. See further Wolfgang Wittkowski, “Fiat Potestas, et Pereat Iustitia: Michael Kohlhaas, Luther und die preußische Rechtsreform,” in Recht und Gerechtigkeit bei Heinrich von Kleist, ed. Peter Ensberg and Hans-Jochen Marquardt, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 404 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002), 87–114, especially 89–92. In contrast, Jochen Schmidt sees qualitative differences between the legal systems of Saxony and Brandenburg, which he interprets as a comment by Kleist on the deep-seated corruption of the Saxon administration in his own day. See Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Die Dramen und Erzählungen in ihrer Epoche, 227–28. 45 See Lützeler, “Heinrich von Kleist: Michael Kohlhaas,” 224. 46

Nonetheless, there remains a strong tendency in Kleist criticism to idealize Kohlhaas. Compare Klaus-Michael Bogdal, “Erinnerungen an einen Empörer: Heinrich von Kleist, Michael Kohlhaas (1810),” in Deutsche Novellen: von der Klassik bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Winfried Freund, UTB für Wissenschaft. Uni-Taschenbücher 1753 (Munich: Fink, 1993), 27–36; and, most vehemently, Wolfgang Wittkowski, “Fiat Potestas,” 92–111. For more on Kohlhaas’s lack of consistency, see Falk Horst, “Kleists Michael Kohlhaas,” Wirkendes Wort: Deutsche Sprache in Forschung und Lehre 33 (1983): 275–85. 47

Pace Timothy Mehigan, who argues that Kohlhaas “never loses his grasp on reality”; see Mehigan, Text as Contract: The Nature and Function of Narrative Discourse in the Erzählungen of Heinrich von Kleist (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1988), 288–89. 48 Dirk Grathoff has pointed to a series of ways in which Kohlhaas (and his animals) lose their hold on their identities and come to be defined by others. See Grathoff, “Michael Kohlhaas,” in Kleists Erzählungen, ed. Walter Hinderer (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1998), 43–66.

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49

Pace Ulrich Gall, Philosophie bei Heinrich von Kleist: Untersuchungen zu Herkunft und Bestimmung des philosophischen Gehalts seiner Schriften, Abhandlungen zur Philosophie, Psychologie und Pädagogik, 123 (Bonn: Bouvier, 1977), 172–259, here 230. 50 See Rückert, “‘ . . . Der Welt in der Pflicht verfallen’: Kleists Kohlhaas als moralund rechtsphilosophische Stellungnahme,” KJb (1988–89): 375–403. 51 See John M. Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist: Studies in the Character and Meaning of his Writings, University of North Carolina Studies in the Germanic Languages and Literatures, 94 (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1979), 78. 52 See Horn, Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen, 66–75, here 71. 53

See Mehigan, Text, 301. See Landwehr, “The Mysterious Gypsy in Kleist’s Michael Kohlhaas: The Disintegration of Legal Boundaries,” Monatshefte 84 (1992): 431–46, here 437, 442. 55 See Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik: die Erzählungen Heinrich von Kleists (Munich: Fink, 1988), 79. 54

56

See further Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik, 127. See Ellis, Heinrich von Kleist, 56–58. By contrast, Christian Grawe argues that Friedrich’s rigid posture in the duel reflects his inward belief in Littegarde’s innocence, and that Friedrich is defeated when he loses his self-belief. See further Grawe, “Zur Deutung von Kleists Novelle Der Zweikampf,” Germanisch-romanische Monatsschrift, n.s., 27 (1977): 416–25. 58 This point about the decisive influence of physical force, rather than truthfulness, in dueling is made more explicitly by Count Wetter vom Strahl in Das Käthchen von Heilbronn (ll. 2376–87). 59 See Peter Horn, Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen, 209–10. 57

60

See further Carol Jacobs, Uncontainable Romanticism: Shelley, Brontë, Kleist (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1989), 160–62. 61

See Peter Horn, Heinrich von Kleists Erzählungen, 203–4; Eugen Wohlhaupter, Dichterjuristen, 1:521; and Christian Grawe, “Zur Deutung,” 425. 62

See Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik, 134, on the “fairy tale” structures of the story. Das Käthchen von Heilbronn presents a similarly skeptical view of the Emperor, who is actually engaged in promoting his own interests through the judicial system. The Emperor accuses Count vom Strahl of spreading “Gerüchte, lächerlich und gottlos” (ridiculous and godless rumors; l. 2356), but it becomes apparent that his position is determined by the need to discredit the Count’s claim that Käthchen is the Emperor’s own illegitimate child. Kleist’s representation of the Emperor in Käthchen is more negative than in Der Zweikampf, since he seems to hint at outright corruption rather than a mere unwillingness to undertake thoroughgoing reform. 63

64

On this point, see also Bettina Schulte, Unmittelbarkeit und Vermittlung im Werk Heinrich von Kleists (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 224. 65 The story first appeared in the Berliner Abendblätter in November 1810, although Kleist published a revised and extended version in 1811 in the second volume of his Erzählungen.

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66

See Klaus Müller-Salget, Heinrich von Kleist (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2002), 290. See Edmund Edel, “Heinrich von Kleist Die heilige Cäcilie oder die Gewalt der Musik. Eine Legende,” Wirkendes Wort 19 (1969): 105–15, especially 108 n. 2.

67

68

See Wolfgang Wittkowski, “Die heilige Cäcilie und Der Zweikampf: Kleists Legenden und die romantische Ironie,” Colloquia Germanica 6 (1972): 17–58, here 19–20. 69

See further Thomas Heine, “Kleist’s St. Cecilia and the Power of Politics,” Seminar 16 (1980): 71–82, here 72. 70 See Bernd Fischer, Ironische Metaphysik, 95. 71

See Heine, “Kleist’s St. Cecilia,” 78. See, for instance, Seán Allan, The Stories of Heinrich von Kleist: Fictions of Security (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2001), 197–216; and Denys Dyer, The Stories of Kleist: A Critical Study (London: Duckworth, 1977), 92–106. 72

73

For Reinhold Steig, Kleist is not expressing his belief in miracles, but his opposition to government policy. Heinrich Meyer-Benfey agrees, though he suggests that Kleist is motivated by a concern for the rule of law. By contrast, Christiane Schreiber proposes that Kleist is arguing in favor of secularization to undermine the allegedly detrimental power of the Catholic church. See further Steig, Heinrich von Kleist’s Berliner Kämpfe (Berlin: Spemann, 1901), 530–36, here 532; Meyer-Benfey, Kleists Leben und Werke (Göttingen: Hapke, 1911), 369–71; and Schreiber, “Was sind dies für Zeiten!” 282–88. See also the judicious assessment of Erich Schmidt in his commentary on Die heilige Cäcilie in Heinrich von Kleists Werke (Leipzig and Vienna: Bibliographisches Institut, [1904–5]), 3:440. 74

Diether Huhn and Jürgen Behrens offer quite a different view of Kleist’s concept of the law. Following from their view of Homburg as a demonstration of an ideal of compromise regarding the state, they seem to deny that the state should have any institutional framework. It seems to me that Kleist’s political schemes are all fundamentally anchored in institutions — the military, the education system, the judicial or legal systems — and that Kleist is concerned with fundamentally political frameworks for common life. The mere fact that all are found wanting does not mean that he turns away from politics. See Diether Huhn and Jürgen Behrens, “Über die Idee des Rechts im Werk Heinrich von Kleists,” Jahrbuch des Wiener Goethe-Vereins, n.s., 69 (1965): 179–205, especially 203. 75 But compare Hans-Jochen Marquardt, “Macht und Ohnmacht der Öffentlichkeit bei Heinrich von Kleist,” in Politik — Öffentlichkeit — Moral: Kleist und die Folgen, ed. Peter Ensberg and Hans-Jochen Marquardt, Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 408 (Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002), 27–42. Marquardt considers Die Marquise von O. . . . an example of the successful operation of the public sphere.

Conclusion

T

HE CONDUCT OF INDIVIDUALS in extraordinary situations is often the point of departure for Kleist’s works, but he nonetheless retains a persistent interest in the dynamics of social interaction. His writings do not usually depict his own society directly, but they undoubtedly refer to matters of some importance for the political and intellectual life of early nineteenthcentury Germany. His literary milieux are too richly conceived to be dismissed as a mere backcloth against which individual characters are shown. Of course, Kleist does not represent particular societies in their precise historical detail; rather, he investigates more generally the material — historical, political, psychological — processes that influence cultural development. His characters are deeply shaped by their native cultures, however much they try to defy the community by seeking emancipation or self-realization. They are neither discrete monads nor altogether socially determined, for it is in the space between self-assertion and conformism, instinct and culture that personality formation occurs. Moreover, the thesis of Kleist as “poet without a society” ignores his criticism of those who turn away from the world: the idyll outside society may be attractive, but it is illusory, temporary, and fragile. Kleist consistently disapproves of complete self-absorption, and he draws attention to the blindness of Kohlhaas, or of Agnes and Ottokar, or the intransigence of Piachi or of the Elector in Homburg. His characters develop through their complex interaction with prevailing norms, which remains poised between rebellion and assimilation, and most clearly so in Penthesilea. Even apparent outsiders such as Jeronimo and Josephe, or Kohlhaas, actually share the basic religious or legal values of their societies and are not altogether conscious of their variance with their communities. Kleist questions the possibility of the individual achieving radical autonomy from the community, but he also shows that the community profits from the individual’s creativity and dynamism. This phenomenon is especially apparent in Penthesilea and Homburg, which seem to suggest that the inspired individual should be not be forced into conformity. It is also demonstrated ex negativo in the figures of Elvire and Nicolo, whose loveless and constrained existence in Piachi’s house leads them into madness and aggression. Indeed, the attempt to prevent Josephe’s affair with her tutor fails utterly, and leads to more drastic consequences than her father ever intended. At the same time, Kleist is attentive to the need to enforce military cohesion, which may be threatened if the individual fails to obey orders. The dilemma

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leads Kleist to vacillate in his attitude to authority, for he seems to condemn the Elector in Homburg for insisting on total obedience while glorifying Herrmann despite his instrumentalization of human beings. Significantly, perhaps, Herrmann leads with a personal example of total commitment, whereas the Elector is fixated on the need to defend his territory from attack. In the former case, the subjugation of the individual is the exception, appropriate only when national autonomy is at stake, whereas in the latter it is the rigorously enforced rule. Herrmann is fully aware of the need to secure the inner assent of the population, and he does so with a program of — admittedly dubious — education, rather than by force. Even then, Die Herrmannsschlacht remains wishful thinking, for elsewhere Kleist questions whether politicians can reliably foresee the effects of their policies. In his essays for the Berliner Abendblätter on Prussian government policy, Kleist uses anecdotes that subtly question the government’s neat prognoses by demonstrating the unpredictability of human conduct. Kleist’s objections to law as a structuring principle for the state are mainly based on practical reservations. Justice is often poorly served due to the personal flaws of officials and administrators, the demands of political expediency, or the interests of dominant social or religious groups, which often find expression in cultural norms. At a superficial level, justice is done in Kleist’s texts: Kohlhaas gets both retribution and punishment, Judge Adam’s guilt is uncovered, Count Jacob is punished. But the operation of justice is contingent upon arbitrary factors such as the presence of an inspector in Der zerbrochne Krug, the effects of foreign policy and public opinion in Kohlhaas, and the vagaries of the healing process in Der Zweikampf. Indeed, with its exploration of how the quest for an orderly and just world can engender extreme violence, Michael Kohlhaas questions the optimism of the Enlightenment about the likelihood of humanity achieving progress by striving for the good. Kleist therefore offers a radical critique of all political structures in his writings. But does this mean, as László Földényi has argued, that Kleist re1 gards the state as inherently flawed? Certainly, Kleist notes some structural weaknesses. He is consistently critical of absolutism for its lack of checks on the potential failings of the ruler. These failings are almost invariably exacerbated by the bureaucratic apparatus, since the servants of the state have little incentive to question orders or to remedy faults. Indeed, corruption often flourishes among Kleist’s bureaucrats. Kleist thus rejects a central assumption of the reformist politicians of his day: that bureaucratic rule is superior to monarchical rule. Kleist ultimately seems to mistrust bureaucrats more than princes, but he nonetheless makes monarchs’ legitimacy contingent upon their performance. If they fail to defend the autonomy of their peoples, as in Die Herrmannsschlacht, they can be deposed. But nor does Kleist advocate democracy. This is not because the monarchical principle is inherently pref-

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erable; indeed, the Volk is often represented as more patriotic than its leaders because it is not tempted to abuse its power for personal gain. But as in Kohlhaas, public opinion fails to generate a rational consensus on political issues, and thus there is no foundation for democratic rule. Nonetheless, Földényi’s thesis that Kleist regards the state as intrinsically bad is questionable. It may suffer from structural faults, but it is not itself responsible for all political ills. Admittedly, in 1801 Kleist tells Wilhelmine that the state’s pragmatism undermines the scholar’s quest for truth (SWB, 4:260). However, Kleist’s attitude to the state changes: in Die Herrmannsschlacht, Kleist argues for pragmatism over truth. Many of the failings that Kleist identifies in the state are rooted in human nature. He therefore takes issue with the mentality embodied in the inspector Walter in Der zerbrochne Krug which holds that the state can be made to function perfectly. The limits of political reform are laid up in human character, as Walter’s failure quite clearly shows. Why, then, does Kleist remain concerned with political problems throughout his literary work? It is, arguably, because he recognizes that there is no way back into paradise; the idyll and the cultural nation are forms of political escapism that will lead to disaster. In his writing for Germania, Kleist called for the reconstitution of the Holy Roman Empire, but primarily because he recognized the need for German solidarity in the face of the Napoleonic threat. At the same time, he was aware of the imperfections 2 in all historical paradigms of government. Having gained intense personal experience of the deleterious effects of a state rigidly governed by bureaucratic absolutism, it was quite natural that Kleist should thematize the problems of statehood in his works. Indeed, some of his works might lead us to conclude that some elements of political reform might be helpful, such as the establishment of clearer lines of accountability within the bureaucracy or a more liberal educational regime. But the potential for reform is usually eclipsed by Kleist’s powerful commitment to human freedom, for his works celebrate the human subject and its resistance to control by the state and its politicians. At the same time, this celebration of the individual is checked by the mature Kleist’s awareness of the price of self-assertion as well as its value. His works do not glorify the individual at the cost of the social world. Michael Kohlhaas, Penthesilea, and Homburg may initially seem to do so, but they actually exemplify the problem of individualism and place it in a social context. In different ways, the heroes of all three works find their self-expression constrained or redirected. But Kleist’s works also suggest that communitarianism and individualism cannot be rigorously separated. Indeed, since the French Revolution it had been recognized that the power of the state rested on the motivation of individual citizens. Here too, in foregrounding the im-

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portance of the individual, Kleist was not negating the state or the community but reflecting upon the lessons of recent history. Kleist remains committed to the real world, then, even if his acute insights on the problems of achieving political change prevent him from arriving at clear proposals for the future of the state. This commitment to reality has often been overlooked by commentators who regard Kleist as an embittered and depressed idealist. Even his political writings of 1808–9 have been interpreted as existential, and thus apolitical, utterances.3 The biographically founded assumption of Kleistian introspection feeds on itself. Thus texts such as Penthesilea and Die Verlobung in St. Domingo are sometimes seen as studies in madness, but this view is only tenable if one ignores their cultural dimension. The killings by Gustav and Penthesilea may be surprising, but they are not unmotivated if one pays proper attention to these characters’ cultural conditioning. In other cases, an obsession with existential issues blinds critics to the political dimensions of some texts. The view of Die Familie Schroffenstein as a fate-tragedy obscures the ways in which political mechanisms failed to prevent the tragedy.4 Similarly, if we see only the inscrutable hand of God in Der Zweikampf, or of Fate in Das Erdbeben in Chili, we fail to recognize the political imperfections and human failings that these texts disclose. On the surface, Der Findling may represent Nicolo as a demon, but its actual concern is miseducation rather than radical evil. There is a profound paradox that underlies Kleist’s politics. Human life needs to be organized politically to ensure the defense of property and national autonomy. The individual needs the political community to achieve fulfillment, but that individual is sometimes oppressed by the failings of the state. At the same time, the Kleistian subject resists conformity and often disrupts the functioning of the political process. Kleist’s vision of a tolerable world is one where there is room for the individual personality to express itself. But this world is real, and it is one where the presence of a social framework plays a significant role in the individual’s development. Kleist’s desire for a creative human society ultimately proves incompatible with a systematic political theory. At most, there may be abuses that can be corrected in a piecemeal fashion, but for Kleist the perfect state necessarily cannot exist, for it would involve an unacceptable compromise of individual self-expression. The fascination of Kleist’s writing lies precisely in the acuteness with which he presents the dilemma surrounding human freedom. And it is for this reason that Kleist’s political views — his anti-political politics — demand our attention.

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Notes 1 See László Földényi, Heinrich von Kleist: im Netz der Wörter, trans. Akos Doma (Munich: Matthes & Seitz, 1999), 94. 2

Pace Hans Joachim Kreutzer, “Über Gesellschaft und Geschichte im Werk Heinrichs von Kleist,” KJb (1980): 34–72. 3

See Robert E. Helbling, The Major Works of Heinrich von Kleist (New York: New Directions, 1975), 14; and Golo Mann, The History of Germany since 1789, trans. Marian Jackson (London: Penguin, 1990), 73. 4

See further Jochen Schmidt, Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu seiner poetischen Verfahrensweise (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1979), 27.

Works Cited

T

HE FOLLOWING IS a list of the works that are cited in the notes, rather than a complete list of works consulted. The most recent bibliography of secondary literature on Kleist is Katinka Lutze’s Tendenzen der Kleistforschung: Eine systematische Bibliographie der Sekundärliteratur zu Heinrich von Kleist, Gata-Bibliographien, 2 (Eitorf: Gata, 1999). This bibliography is a useful starting point for exploring the vast amount of secondary literature on Kleist, especially as the printed work is accompanied by a searchable electronic version. However, the bibliography focuses heavily on the last fifty years, and the compiler assigns certain works to rather curious categories; there are also numerous inaccuracies and omissions in the publication information given. However, this remains the most extensive work available to date.

Allan, Seán D. “‘Der Herr aber, dessen Leib du begehrst, vergab seinem Feind’: The Problem of Revenge in Kleist’s Michael Kohlhaas.” Modern Language Review 92 (1997): 630–42. ———. “Ideals and Allusions: The Subversion of Discourse in the Plays of Heinrich von Kleist.” Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 1993. ———. “Liederlichkeit, Spiel, Trunk, Faulheit und Völlerei, behalte ich mir bevor: Heinrich von Kleist’s Last Word on Modern Educational Theory.” GLL, n.s., 48 (1995): 353–61. ———. The Plays of Heinrich von Kleist: Ideals and Illusions. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. ———. The Stories of Heinrich von Kleist: Fictions of Security. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2001. Angress, Ruth K. “Kleists Abkehr von der Aufklärung.” KJb (1987): 98–114. ———. “Kleist’s Nation of Amazons.” In Beyond the Eternal Feminine: Critical Essays on Women and German Literature, edited by Susan L. Cocalis and Kay Goodman. Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 98, 99–134. Stuttgart: Heinz, 1982. ———. “Kleist’s Treatment of Imperialism: Die Hermannsschlacht and Die Verlobung in St. Domingo.” Monatshefte 69 (1977): 17–33. Aretz, Heinrich. Heinrich von Kleist als Journalist: Untersuchungen zum “Phöbus,” zur “Germania” und den “Berliner Abendblättern.” Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 133. Stuttgart: Heinz, 1983.

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Arndt, Ernst Moritz. Geist der Zeit. 4 vols. N.p., 1806–18. ———. Katechismus für den teutschen Kriegs- und Wehrmann. N.p., 1813. Arnold, Heinz Ludwig, ed. Text + Kritik: Sonderband Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock. Munich: Text + Kritik, 1981. ———, ed. Text + Kritik: Sonderband Heinrich von Kleist. München: Edition Text + Kritik, 1993. Arntzen, Helmut. Die ernste Komödie: Das deutsche Lustspiel von Lessing bis Kleist. Munich: Nymphenburger Verlagshandel, 1968. Bennett, Benjamin. Modern Drama and German Classicism: Renaissance from Lessing to Brecht. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1979. Berdahl, Robert M. The Politics of the Prussian Nobility: The Development of a Conservative Ideology, 1770–1848. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1988. Blanning, T. C. W. “Frederick the Great and Enlightened Absolutism.” In Enlightened Absolutism: Reform and Reformers in Later Eighteenth-Century Europe, edited by H. M. Scott, 265–88. London: Macmillan, 1990. Blöcker, Günter. Heinrich von Kleist oder das absolute Ich. Berlin: Argon, 1960. Bogdal, Klaus-Michael. “Erinnerungen an einen Empörer: Heinrich von Kleist, Michael Kohlhaas (1810).” In Deutsche Novellen: von der Klassik bis zur Gegenwart, edited by Winfried Freund, UTB für Wissenschaft. UniTaschenbücher, 1753, 27–36. Munich: Fink, 1993. ———. Heinrich von Kleist: “Michael Kohlhaas.” UTB Uni-Taschenbücher, 1027. Munich: Fink, 1981. Borchardt, Edith. Mythische Strukturen im Werk Heinrich von Kleists. American University Studies, Series I: Germanic Languages and Literature, 40. New York: Lang, 1987. Borsche, Tilman. Wilhelm von Humboldt. Beck’sche Reihe: Große Denker, 519. Munich: Beck, 1990. Böschenstein, Bernhard. “Kleist und Rousseau.” KJb (1981–82): 145–56. Botzenhart, Manfred. “Kleist und die preußischen Reformer.” KJb (1988–89): 132–46. Boyle, Nicholas. Goethe: The Poet and the Age. Vol. 1, The Poetry of Desire (1749– 1790). Oxford: Oxford UP, 1991. Breuilly, John, ed. The State of Germany: The National Idea in the Making, Unmaking and Remaking of a Modern Nation-State. London: Longman, 1992. Brose, Eric Dorn. German History, 1789–1871: From the Holy Roman Empire to the Bismarckian Reich. Providence: Berghahn, 1997. Brown, Hilda. Heinrich von Kleist: The Ambiguity of Art and the Necessity of Form. Oxford: Clarendon, 1998.

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———. Kleist and the Tragic Ideal: A Study of Penthesilea and its Relationship to Kleist’s Personal and Literary Development, 1806–1808. European University Papers, 1st ser., vol 203. Bern: Peter Lang, 1977. ———. “Penthesilea: Nightingale and Amazon.” OGS 7 (1973): 24–33. Brown, Robert H. “Fear of Social Change in Kleist’s Das Erdbeben in Chili.” Monatshefte 84 (1992): 447–58. Bruyn, Günter de. “Fragwürdige Huldigung.” In 1000 deutsche Gedichte und ihre Interpretationen, edited by Marcel Reich-Ranicki. Vol. 3, Von Friedrich von Schiller bis Joseph von Eichendorff, 157–59. Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1994. Burwick, Roswitha. “Issues of Language and Communication in Kleist’s Die Verlobung in St. Domingo.” German Quarterly 65 (1992): 318–27. Clausewitz, Carl von. Meine Vorlesungen über den Kleiner [sic] Krieg, gehalten auf der Kriegs-Schule 1810 und 1811. In Clausewitz, Schriften — Aufsätze — Studien — Briefe: Dokumente aus dem Clausewitz-, Scharnhorst- und Gneisenau-Nachlaß sowie aus öffentlichen und privaten Sammlungen. Edited by Werner Hahlweg. Deutsche Geschichtsquellen des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, 45. Vol. 1, 228–455. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966. Craig, Gordon A. The Politics of the Prussian Army, 1640–1945. London: Oxford UP, 1955. Creveld, Martin van. Command in War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1985. Demel, Walter. Vom aufgeklärten Reformstaat zum bürokratischen Staatsabsolutismus. Enzyklopädie deutscher Geschichte, 23. Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993. Demel, Walter, and Uwe Puschner, eds. Deutsche Geschichte in Quellen und Darstellung. Vol. 6, Von der Französischen Revolution bis zum Wiener Kongreß, 1789–1815. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1995. Düding, Dieter. Organisierter gesellschaftlicher Nationalismus in Deutschland (1808–1847): Bedeutung und Funktion der Turner- und Sängervereine für die deutsche Nationalbewegung. Studien zur Geschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, 13. Munich: Oldenbourg, 1983. Durzak, Manfred. “Das Gesetz der Athene und das Gesetz der Tanais: zur Funktion des Mythischen in Kleists Penthesilea.” Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts 6 (1973): 354–70. Dyer, Denys. The Stories of Kleist: A Critical Study. London: Duckworth, 1977. Eade, J. C., ed. Romantic Nationalism in Europe. Humanities Research Centre Monograph no. 2. Canberra: Humanities Research Centre, Australia National University, 1983.

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Ebisch-Burton, Katherine. “‘Wie über alles Gedachte und zu Erdenkende lieb ich Dich’: Kleist’s and Henriette Vogel’s Todeslitanei as Poetic Figuration of the Beloved — A Reassessment of Kleist’s Feminine Credentials.” GLL 55 (2002): 235–47. Edel, Edmund. “Heinrich von Kleist Die heilige Cäcilie oder die Gewalt der Musik. Eine Legende.” Wirkendes Wort 19 (1969): 105–15. Ellis, John M. Heinrich von Kleist: Studies in the Character and Meaning of his Writings. University of North Carolina Studies in the Germanic Languages and Literatures, 94. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1979. ———. Kleist’s “Prinz Friedrich von Homburg”: A Critical Study. University of California Publications in Modern Philology, 97. Berkeley: U of California P, 1970. Ensberg, Peter, and Hans-Jochen Marquardt, eds. Politik — Öffentlichkeit — Moral: Kleist und die Folgen. Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 408. Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002. ———, eds. Recht und Gerechtigkeit bei Heinrich von Kleist. Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 404. Stuttgart: Heinz, 2002. Ergang, Robert Reinhold. Herder and the Foundations of German Nationalism. 1931. Reprint, New York: Octagon Books, 1966. Fichte, Johann Gottlieb. Reden an die deutsche Nation. 5th ed. Philosophische Bibliothek, 204. Hamburg: Meiner, 1978. Fink, Gonthier-Louis. “Das Motiv der Rebellion in Kleists Werk im Spannungsfeld der Französischen Revolution.” KJb (1988–89): 64–88. ———, ed. Les Romantiques allemands et la Révolution française. Collection Recherches Germaniques, 3. Strasbourg: Université des Sciences Humaines, 1989. Fischer, Bernd. Das Eigene und das Eigentliche: Klopstock, Herder, Fichte, Kleist. Episoden aus der Konstruktionsgeschichte nationaler Intentionalitäten. Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1995. ———. Ironische Metaphysik: die Erzählungen Heinrich von Kleists. Munich: Fink, 1988. ———, ed. A Companion to the Works of Heinrich von Kleist. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2003. Fleming, Ray. “Race and the Difference It Makes in Kleist’s Die Verlobung in St. Domingo.” German Quarterly 65 (1992): 306–17. Földényi, László F. Heinrich von Kleist: im Netz der Wörter. Translated by Akos Doma. Munich: Matthes & Seitz, 1999. Ford, Guy Stanton. Stein and the Era of Reform in Prussia, 1807–1815. 1922. Reprint, Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1965.

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Fricke, Gerhard. Gefühl und Schicksal bei Heinrich von Kleist: Studien über den inneren Vorgang im Leben und Schaffen des Dichters. Arbeiten zur Geistesgeschichte der germanischen und romanischen Völker, 3. Berlin: Junker und Dünnhaupt, 1929. Frommel, Monika. “Die Paradoxie vertraglicher Sicherung bürgerlicher Rechte: Kampf ums Recht und sinnlose Aktion.” KJb (1988–89): 357–74. Gagliardo, John G. Reich and Nation: The Holy Roman Empire as Idea and Reality, 1763–1806. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1980. Gall, Ulrich. Philosophie bei Heinrich von Kleist: Untersuchungen zu Herkunft und Bestimmung des philosophischen Gehalts seiner Schriften. Abhandlungen zur Philosophie, Psychologie und Pädagogik, 123. Bonn: Bouvier, 1977. Gat, Azar. The Origins of Military Thought from the Enlightenment to Clausewitz. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989. Gates, David. The Napoleonic Wars 1803–1815. London: Arnold, 1997. Gelus, Marjorie. “Displacement of Meaning: Kleist’s Der Findling.” German Quarterly 55 (1982): 541–53. Gneisenau, August Wilhelm Anton Neidhardt von. Ausgewählte militärische Schriften. Edited by Gerhard Förster and Christa Gudzent. Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1984. Goldammer, Peter. “Variante oder Urfassung? Ein patriotisches Motiv in Kleists Zerbrochnem Krug.” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 4 (1956): 7–17. Graham, Ilse. Heinrich von Kleist: Word into Flesh: A Poet’s Quest for the Symbol. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977. Grappin, Pierre. “Goethe und Napoleon.” Goethe-Jahrbuch 107 (1990): 71–80. Grathoff, Dirk. “Der Fall des Krugs: zum geschichtlichen Gehalt von Kleists Lustspiel.” KJb (1981–82): 290–313. ———. Kleist: Geschichte, Politik, Sprache. Aufsätze zu Leben und Werk Heinrich von Kleists, 2d ed. Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2000. ———. “Liebe und Gewalt: Überlegungen zu Kleists Penthesilea anläßlich der Berliner Rosenfest-Feier der Freunde Carla Tatò und Carlo Quartucci.” In Rosenfest: Berlin 1984, edited by René Block, Anne Marie Freybourg and Kurt Thöricht, 99–105. Berlin: Künstlerprogramm des DAAD, 1984. ———. “Die Zensurkonflikte der Berliner Abendblätter: zur Beziehung von Journalismus und Öffentlichkeit bei Heinrich v. Kleist.” In Ideologiekritische Studien zur Literatur. Essays I. Edited by Klaus Peter and others, 35–168. Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1972. ———, ed. Heinrich von Kleist: Studien zu Werk und Wirkung. Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1988.

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Vierhaus, Rudolf. Germany in the Age of Absolutism. Translated by Jonathan B. Knudsen. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1988. ———. “Heinrich von Kleist und die Krise des preußischen Staates um 1800.” KJb (1980): 9–33. Vohland, Ulrich. Bürgerliche Emanzipation in Heinrich von Kleists Dramen und theoretischen Schriften. Europäische Hochschulschriften, Series 1: Deutsche Literatur und Germanistik, 142. Bern: Lang, 1976. Wehler, Hans-Ulrich. Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte. Vol. 1, Vom Feudalismus des alten Reiches bis zur defensiven Modernisierung der Reformära: 1700–1815. 2d ed. Munich: Beck, 1987. Weigel, Sigrid. “Der Körper am Kreuzpunkt von Liebesgeschichte und Rassendiskurs in Heinrich von Kleists Erzählung Die Verlobung in St. Domingo.” KJb (1990): 202–17. Weiss, Hermann. Funde und Studien zu Heinrich von Kleist. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984. Wellbery, David E., ed. Positionen der Literaturwissenschaft: Acht Modellanalysen am Beispiel von Kleists “Erdbeben in Chili.” Munich: Beck, 1985. Wexelblatt, Robert. “Thomas Hobbes and Michael Kohlhaas.” Southern Humanities Review 18 (1984): 109–28. Wichmann, Thomas. Heinrich von Kleist. Sammlung Metzler, 240. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1988. Wittkowski, Wolfgang. “Die heilige Cäcilie und Der Zweikampf: Kleists Legenden und die romantische Ironie.” Colloquia Germanica 6 (1972): 17– 58. ———. “Schrieb Kleist regierungsfreundliche Artikel?: Über den Umgang mit politischen Texten.” Literaturwissenschaftliches Jahrbuch im Auftrag der Görres-Gesellschaft 23 (1982): 95–116. ———. “Terror der Politik oder Politik des Terrors?: Kleists Hermannsschlacht und Die Verlobung in St. Domingo.” BzKF 8 (1994): 93–108. Wohlhaupter, Eugen. Dichterjuristen. 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr, 1953. Wolf, Christa. “Kleist’s Penthesilea.” In Christa Wolf and Gerhard Wolf, Ins Ungebundene gehet eine Sehnsucht: Gesprächsraum Romantik, 195–210. Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1985. Wolff, Hans M. Heinrich von Kleist als politischer Dichter. University of California Publications in Modern Philology, 27, no. 6. Berkeley: U of California P, 1947. Zantop, Susanne. Colonial Fantasies: Conquest, Family, and Nation in Precolonial Germany, 1770–1870. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1997.

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Zimmermann, Harro, ed. Schreckensmythen-Hoffnungsbilder: Die Französische Revolution in der deutschen Literatur. Frankfurt am Main, 1990. Ziolkowski, Theodore. The Mirror of Justice: Literary Reflections of Legal Crises. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1997.

Index absolutism, 3–8, 63, 75, 112–18, 124–27, 159, 159–60 academia, 30, 93 adoption, 80, 85, 89 Alexander I, Tsar of Russia, 10 Allan, Seán, 51, 68 nn. 8, 12, 69 n. 34, 71 nn. 36, 38, 91, 98 n. 37, 151 n. 4, 152 n. 10, 153 n. 24, 154 n. 35, 157 n. 72 Allgemeines Landrecht für die preußischen Staaten (ALR), 6, 12, 124, 128, 134, 152 n. 7 Altenstein, Karl von Stein zum, 15, 26 n. 91, 33–34, 36, 40, 43 Angress, Ruth K., 39, 46 n. 34, 62, 68 n. 11, 69 nn. 24, 25, 71 nn. 41, 46, 89, 97 n. 33, 98 n. 34 Aretz, Heinrich, 97 n. 18 aristocracy, 5, 13, 18–19, 33, 75, 138–41 army: French, 57, 99–101; Prussian, 10, 14–15, 75, 99– 101 Arndt, Ernst Moritz, works by: Geist der Zeit, 10–11, 103 Arnim, Achim von, 36, 45 n. 23 Arntzen, Helmut, 151 n. 5, 152 n. 14, 153 nn. 20, 21 Aspern, battle of, 23 n. 50, 36, 107, 111, 121 n. 44 Auerstedt, battle of, 18, 74, 99, 111 Austerlitz, battle of, 9, 11, 33 Austria, 3, 9–10, 35–36, 60, 103– 4, 106, 110 autonomy, 29, 42, 48, 54–58, 75, 85–89, 91–95, 104, 106, 109,

114, 118, 126, 150, 158, 159, 160, 161 Basedow, Johann Bernhard, 91 Basel, Treaty of, 9, 28 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 10 Behrens, Jürgen, 157 Bennett, Benjamin, 122 n. 49 Berdahl, Robert M., 25 n. 72, 26 n. 102, 152 n. 8 biblical motifs, 50, 71 n. 44, 72 n. 49, 129, 133 Blanning, T. C. W., 21 n. 15, 22 nn. 16, 22, 25, 29, 30 Blöcker, Günter, 68 n. 6 Bogdal, Klaus-Michael, 154 n. 33, 155 n. 46 Borchardt, Edith, 152 n. 15 Borsche, Tilman, 26 n. 83 Böschenstein, Bernhard, 69 n. 16 Botzenhart, Manfred, 46 n. 30 Boyle, Nicholas, 22 n. 14 Brentano, Clemens, 36 Brose, Eric Dorn, 23 nn. 38, 42 Brown, Hilda, 44 n. 10, 47 n. 45, 69 nn. 14, 19, 20, 22, 24, 25, 72 n. 51, 84, 97 nn. 21, 28 Brown, Robert, 77, 96 n. 11 Bruyn, Günter de, 120 n. 28 Buol-Mühlingen, Joseph von, 35, 36 bureaucracy, 5, 11–12, 29–30, 106–7, 124–28, 130–31, 133– 38, 142–32, 150, 159 Burwick, Roswitha, 72 n. 52 cameralism, 5–6, 8, 15, 29, 74, 80

182 ♦

INDEX

Campe, Joachim Heinrich, 91 Catel, Samuel Heinrich, 28 Catholicism, 77, 78, 85, 145, 147–49 citizenship, 13–14, 20, 110, 128, 134, 138, 155 n. 39, 160 Clarke, Henri-Jacques-Guillaume, 70 n. 33 Clausewitz, Carl von, 100–101 Cocceji, Samuel von, 127 Collin, Heinrich Joseph von, 36, 105 Confederation of the Rhine, 9, 10, 60, 120 n. 31 Conrady, Karl Otto, 46 n. 26 conscription, 5, 9, 15, 19, 99 Constantine, David, xi corporative state, 12–13, 14, 18– 20, 29, 40, 74–77, 79–81, 99, 124, 138 cosmopolitanism, 3–5, 9, 16, 17, 31, 61, 70 n. 34, 71 n. 36, 104 Craig, Gordon, 25 nn. 78, 79 Creveld, Martin van, 118 nn. 3, 5, 6 culture, 4, 6–8, 16, 31–32, 44 n. 7, 48, 50–65, 67–68, 70 n. 35, 78, 80–81, 145, 150, 158–61 Davout, Louis-Nicolas, 99 Demel, Walter, 22 n. 20 Dohna-Schlobitten, Alexander von, 15 Düding, Dieter, 24 n. 52 Durzak, Manfred, 68 n. 13 Dyer, Denys, 157 n. 72 Ebisch-Burton, Katherine, 45 n. 25 Edel, Edmund, 157 n. 67 education, 6–7, 13, 17, 20, 28– 29, 74–75, 78, 83–95, 98 nn. 39, 40, 42, 134, 150, 159, 160, 161. See also Prussian reforms: educational

Ellis, John M., 47 n. 41, 84, 95 n. 6, 97 nn. 23, 24, 32, 121 n. 48, 122 n. 54, 123 n. 56, 141, 144, 156 nn. 51, 57 Enlightenment, 8, 41, 100, 159 Ergang, Robert Reinhold, 22 n. 33, 23 n. 35 Fehrbellin, battle of, 110 Fellenberg, Philipp Emanuel von, 90–91 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 4, 16, 18, 19, 55, 59, 103 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, works by: Reden an die deutsche Nation, 16–17, 26 nn. 91, 94 Finance Edict, 13, 81 Fink, Gonthier-Louis, 46 n. 30, 71 n. 37, 72 n. 53, 73 n. 61, 97 n. 19, 98 n. 43 Fischer, Bernd, 41, 46 n. 40, 70 n. 30, 72 n. 54, 142, 148, 156 nn. 55, 56, 62, 169 n. 70 Fleming, Ray, 72 nn. 48, 55 Földényi, László F., 159–60, 162 n. 1 Ford, Guy Stanton, 24 n. 62 France, 8–9, 11, 19–20, 31, 33, 35, 60, 99–100, 103, 105 Francis I, Emperor of Austria. See Francis II, Holy Roman Emperor Francis II, Holy Roman Emperor (from 1804 Francis I, Emperor of Austria), 9, 105–6, 110, 119 n. 27 Francke, August Hermann, 74 Frederick II (“the Great”), King of Prussia, 5–6, 12, 18–19, 99– 101, 117, 124 Frederick William III, King of Prussia, 11–12, 14, 33, 34, 106, 110, 119 nn. 19, 28, 124 French Revolution, 3, 8–9, 12, 17–19, 20, 31, 42–43, 48, 57–

INDEX

58, 64, 74, 77, 81, 93–94, 96 nn. 10, 15, 99–100, 101, 154 n. 33, 160 Fricke, Gerhard, 151 n. 3 Frommel, Monika, 154 n. 33, 155 n. 41 Gagliardo, John G., 21 nn. 5, 13, 23 n. 39 Gall, Ulrich, 122 n. 53, 156 n. 49 Gat, Azar, 118 nn. 10, 14 Gates, David, 118 nn. 4, 6, 121 n. 44 Gelus, Marjorie, 97 n. 19 gender, 53–56, 69 n. 20, 70 n. 26, 119 n. 16 Germany, 3–21, 55, 57, 58, 59– 60, 63, 103–4, 105–6, 110, 116, 117, 110, 116, 117 Gleissenberg, Carl Heinrich von, 30 Gneisenau, Neidhardt von, 14, 38, 39, 96 n. 15, 100–101 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 4, 10, 35, 71 n. 35, 90 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, works by: Götz von Berlichingen, 5; “Das deutsche Reich,” 61 Goldammer, Peter, 151 n. 5, 152 n. 9 Götzen, Friedrich Wilhelm von, 110 Graham, Ilse, 72 n. 45 Grappin, Pierre, 23 n. 44 Grathoff, Dirk, 57, 70 n. 27, 96 n. 16, 120 nn. 33, 35, 152 n. 10, 153 n. 23, 155 n. 48 Grawe, Christian, 146, 156 nn. 57, 61 Gray, Marion W., 24 nn. 68, 69 Gribnitz, Barbara, 72 n. 56 Gruner, Justus, 37 Günderode, Karoline von, 10, 23 n. 45

♦ 183

Gundolf, Friedrich, 70 n. 32 Hafftitz, Peter, 154 n. 34 Häker, Horst, 44 n. 2 Hanenberg, Peter, 71 n. 40 Hardenberg, Karl August von, 11–14, 15, 16, 37, 39, 81, 124, 128, 137, 149 Hartmann, Christian Ferdinand, 35 Haugwitz, Christian von, 11 Heafford, Michael, 95 n. 4 Heine, Thomas, 148, 157 nn. 69, 71 Helbling, Robert E., 68 nn. 1, 3, 162 n. 3 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 7–8, 16, 53–55 Herder, Johann Gottfried, works by: Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit, 7–8 Herrmann, Hans Peter, 69 n. 23, 71 n. 44 Hettche, Walter, 98 n. 36 Hibberd, John, 45 n. 22, 46 n. 38 Hiebel, Hans H., 72 n. 53 Hobbes, Thomas, 136, 154 n. 33 Hobsbawm, E. J., 118 n. 1 Hofmeister-Hunger, Andrea, 154 n. 37 Hohendahl, Peter U., 115, 122 n. 56 Hölderlin, Friedrich, 10, 23 n. 44 Hölderlin, Friedrich, works by: Hyperion, 21 n. 13 Holy Roman Empire, 3–5, 9, 34, 104, 138–39, 141, 144–47, 155 n. 42, 160 Horn, Peter, 69 n. 24, 73 n. 59, 120 n. 29, 123 n. 60, 138, 141, 146, 153 n. 19, 154 n. 38, 156 nn. 52, 59, 61 Horst, Falk, 69 n. 21, 156 n. 46 Hoverland, Lilian, 72 n. 49, 97 n. 21, 151 n. 5

184 ♦

INDEX

Hughes, Michael, 21 nn. 4, 6 Huhn, Diether, 157 n. 74 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 15–16, 20, 30, 75, 93 Ibbeken, Rudolf, 26 n. 91 Iggers, Georg, 22 n. 34 Ipsen, Knut, 22 n. 28 Irlbeck, Eva, 68 n. 4, 123 n. 58 Ith, Johann Samuel, 74 Jacobs, Carol, 68 n. 11, 156 n. 60 Jahn, Friedrich Ludwig, 11 Jean Paul, Levana, 98 n. 39 Jena, battle of, 11, 12, 18, 74, 99, 108 Jin, Il-Sang, 96 n. 12 Johnston, Otto, 45 n. 22, 70 n. 30 Joseph II, Emperor of Austria, 6 justice, 14, 18, 59, 113, 126–48, 150–51, 159 Kant, Immanuel, 6, 30, 44 n. 6, 50, 75, 98 n. 42 Kant, Immanuel, works by: Die Metaphysik der Sitten, 98 n. 42; Was ist Aufklärung?, 6 Kayser, Wolfgang, 41–42, 47 n. 42, 95 n. 7 Kennedy, Barbara H., 71 n. 44 Kittler, Friedrich A., 96 n. 15 Kittler, Wolf, 39, 41, 46 nn. 30, 31, 98 n. 38, 105, 110, 119 nn. 16, 23, 24, 119 n. 24, 121 nn. 42, 43, 122 n. 53 Kleist, Heinrich von: antiNapoleonic activism of, 35–36, 37, 39; as a Prussian civil servant, 33–34; as a student, 29; as newspaper editor, 37; childhood of, 28; death of, 38; detention in France of, 34–35; engagement of, 29, 32; life in Dresden of, 35–36; life in Mainz of, 33; life in Paris of,

31; life in Switzerland of, 32; literary development of, 27, 32, 34, 36–37, 40–44; military career of, 28–29, 32–33; response to Kantian philosophy of, 30, 44 n. 6 Kleist, Heinrich von, works by: journalistic works: Berliner Abendblätter (editor), 2, 19, 37, 39, 46 n. 38, 81, 91, 95, 96 n. 16, 108, 120 n. 32, 156 n. 65, 159 Germania (editor), 36, 106, 160 Phöbus (editor), 35, 44 n. 9, 45 nn. 14, 19, 90 plays: Amphitryon, 35, 146 Das Käthchen von Heilbronn, 36, 45 n. 19, 156 nn. 58, 63 Der zerbrochne Krug, 34, 35, 45 n. 14, 127–34, 150, 151 n. 5, 152 nn. 7, 10, 15, 16, 17, 153 nn. 22, 23, 159, 160 Die Familie Schroffenstein, 32, 49–52, 125–27, 150, 151 n. 3, 158, 161 Die Herrmannsschlacht, 35, 36, 39, 45 n. 18, 58–63, 67, 70 nn. 30, 31, 71 nn. 36, 38, 40, 44, 103–10, 119 nn. 23, 28, 120 n. 29, 121 n. 37, 129, 150, 159, 160 Penthesilea, 2, 34, 35, 45 n. 14, 52–58, 63, 67, 68 n. 13, 69 nn. 19, 20, 94, 101– 3, 105, 117, 118 n. 15, 119 n. 16, 142, 150, 158, 160, 161

INDEX

Kleist, Heinrich von, works by: plays (continued): Prinz Friedrich von Homburg, 2, 36, 105, 109–17, 121 nn. 45, 48, 122 nn. 49, 50, 51, 53, 54, 123 n. 57, 157 n. 74, 158, 159, 160 Robert Guiskard, 2, 32, 44 n. 9, 107 stories: Das Erdbeben in Chili, 34, 36, 45 n. 14, 76–81, 83, 94, 95, 96 nn. 10, 15, 158, 161 Der Findling, 83–89, 95, 97 n. 27, 158, 161 Der Zweikampf, 41, 142–47, 149, 150, 151, 156 nn. 57, 63, 159, 161 Die heilige Cäcilie oder die Gewalt der Musik, 147–49, 156 n. 65, 157 n. 73 Die Marquise von O. . . , 34, 36, 90, 97 n. 29, 157 n. 75 Die Verlobung in St. Domingo, 41–42, 63–67, 72 nn. 53, 55, 57, 161 Michael Kohlhaas, 34, 36, 39, 41, 45 n. 14, 84, 134–42, 147, 151, 153 n. 27, 154 nn. 33, 34, 35, 36, 155 nn. 39, 42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 48, 158, 159, 160 other prose works: Allerneuester Erziehungsplan, 91–93 Anekdote (Napoleon), 107, 120 n. 32 Anekdote aus dem letzten Kriege, 108 Anekdote aus dem letzten preußischen Kriege, 107–8; Aufsatz, den sichern Weg des Glücks zu finden, 28– 29, 44 n. 3

♦ 185

Betrachtungen über den Weltlauf, 70 n. 35 Brief eines jungen Dichters an einen jungen Maler, 91 Brief eines politischen Pescherä über einen Nürnberger Zeitungsartikel, 109 Brief eines rheinbündischen Offiziers an seinen Freund, 120 n. 31 Franzosen-Billigkeit, 120 n. 30 Französisches Exercitium, 107 Gebet des Zoroaster, 45 n. 21 Katechismus der Deutschen, 61, 103, 104, 105, 106, 119 n. 21 Lehrbuch der französischen Journalistik, 109 Schreiben eines Bürgermeisters in einer Festung an einen Unterbeamten, 106–7 Über die Abreise des Königs von Sachsen aus Dreßden, 106 Über die allmählige Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden, 35, 42, 43, 93–94 Über die Aufhebung des laßbäuerlichen Verhältnisses, 82–83, 97 n. 18 Über die Aufklärung des Weibes, 44 n. 7 Über die Finanzmaßregeln der Regierung (editorial title), 82 Über die Luxussteuern (editorial title), 81–82, 96 n. 17 Über die Rettung von Österreich, 104, 105, 106, 110, 119 nn. 21, 26

186 ♦

INDEX

Von der Überlegung, 107, 144 Was gilt es in diesem Kriege?, 103–4 Zu E. M. Arndts “Geist der Zeit” (editorial title), 103 poems: “An die Königin von Preußen,” 36 “An Friedrich Wilhelm den Dritten, König in Preußen,” 120 n. 28 “Das Sprachversehen,” 94 “Der Pädagog,” 90 “Der unbefugte Kritikus,” 90 “Die Marquise von O. . . ,” 90 “Die unverhoffte Wirkung,” 90 “Eine notwendige Berichtigung,” 70 n. 26 “Germania an ihre Kinder,” 119 n. 27 “Kriegslied der Deutschen,” 104 “P. . . und F. . . ,” 90–91 “Rettung der Deutschen,” 121 n. 44 Kleist, Joachim Friedrich von, 28 Kleist, Leopold von, 30 Kleist, Marie von, 36, 37 Kleist, Ulrike von, 30, 32, 36, 42, 47 Klenner, Hermann, 152 n. 11 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 6– 8, 59, 62–63 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, works by: Deutsche Gelehrtenrepublik, 7; Hermanns Schlacht, 59, 62 Knobloch, Hans-Jörg, 121 n. 45 Köckeritz, Karl Leopold von, 33, 42 Koehler, Benedikt, 26 n. 96, 134 n. 52

Koopmann, Helmut, 77, 96 n. 9 Körner, Theodor, 11 Körner, Theodor, works by: “Auf dem Schlachtfeld von Aspern,” 23 n. 50 Koselleck, Reinhard, 22 nn. 27, 28 Kraus, Christian Jacob, 13, 14, 33, 37, 43, 93 Krause, K. H., 110, 121 n. 46 Kreutzer, Hans Joachim, 69 n. 13, 155 n. 39, 162 n. 2 Krüger, Gerhard, 24 n. 61 Kügelgen, Gerhard von, 35 Kuhns, Richard, 154 n. 32 La Fontaine, Jean de, 94 Labhardt, Robert, 119 n. 19, 152 n. 13 Lamport, F. J., xi Landwehr, Margarethe, 141–42, 156 n. 54 Lange, Sigrid, 57, 69 n. 14, 70 n. 28 language, theories of, 7–8, 16–17, 59, 70 n. 30 Lannes, Jean, 107 law, 6, 18, 57, 64–65, 85, 109, 113–17, 122 nn. 49, 53, 124, 127–48, 150–51, 157 nn. 73, 74, 159 Le Veau, Jean-Jacques, 127 legal codification, 6, 127–28, 134–35 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, works by: Nathan der Weise, 89 levée en masse, 9 Levin, Rahel, 36 Lichnowsky, Prince Eduard von, 108 Loch, Rudolf, 44 nn. 1, 4, 10, 11 Loose, Hans-Dieter, 71 n. 36 Louis XVI, King of France, 9 Louis Ferdinand, Prince of Prussia, 110

INDEX

Lovett, Gabriel H., 23 n. 43 Lucas, Raymond, 154 n. 36 Lüderssen, Klaus, 123 n. 59 Luise, Queen of Prussia, 34, 36, 37 Lukács, Georg, 38–39, 46 nn. 27, 28, 69 n. 15 Luther, Martin 135–36, 139, 153 n. 27, 154 nn. 33, 35, 36 Lutze, Katinka 163 Lützeler, Paul Michael, 154 n. 33, 155 n. 45 luxury taxes, 13, 81–82, 96 n. 17 Maass, Joachim, 44 n. 1 Madlener, Elisabeth, 71 n. 38, 122 n. 51 Mann, Golo, 162 n. 3 Marquardt, Jochen, 122 n. 52, 157 n. 75 Martini, Christian Ernst, 28, 29, 93 Marwitz, Ludwig von der, 19 Marx, Stefanie, 97 nn. 20, 26 McGlathery, James, 119 n. 18 Mehigan, Timothy J., 141, 155 n. 47, 156 n. 53 Melton, James Van Horn, 95 nn. 1, 2, 5 Meyer-Benfey, Heinrich, 157 n. 73 Michelsen, Peter, 120 nn. 28, 36 Milfull, John, 153 n. 22 Miller, Philip B., xi Mirabeau, Honoré-Gabriel Riqueti, comte de, 42, 93, 94 Moering, Michael, 98 n. 36, 120 n. 34 monarchy, 6, 12, 19–20, 105–6, 110, 114, 133, 159–60 Möser, Justus, 4 Mueller-Vollmer, Kurt, 25 n. 83 Müller, Adam, 17–19, 35, 36, 45 n. 25, 96 n. 16, 114, 136, 141, 154 n. 33

♦ 187

Müller, Adam, works by: Elemente der Staatskunst, 18, 114–15, 136; Ueber König Friedrich II., 18–19, 114–15 Müller, Johann Karl-Heinz, 153 n. 17, 155 n. 43 Müller-Michaels, Harro, 123 n. 57 Müller-Salget, Klaus, 44 n. 1, 120 n. 30, 157 n. 66 Müller-Seidel, Walter, 97 n. 25, 122 n. 50 Münch, Paul, 21 n. 3, 22 nn. 17, 22, 26 Münchow-Pohl, Bernd von, 24 nn. 58, 60, 63, 64 Napoleon I, Emperor of France, 9–11, 20, 32–36, 48, 99–100, 105–6, 107, 111, 116, 120 n. 28, 160 narrator, 41, 65–67, 72 nn. 53, 57, 76–79, 81, 83–84, 88, 141–42, 148 nationhood, 4, 7–8, 16–19, 48, 52–63, 65, 67–68, 108 nature, 32, 48–50, 52–54 Newman, Gail M., 97 n. 27 Nobile, Nancy, 45 n. 22, 98 nn. 36, 39, 40, 42, 112, 121 n. 47 Oesterreich, Peter, 26 n. 92 Ogorek, Regina, 154 n. 33 Pannwitz, Juliane Ulrike von, 28 Paret, Peter, 118 n. 7 Paris Convention, 15 Parkes, Ford B., 97 n. 22 Parry, Geraint, 21 nn. 7, 8, 9 partisan war, 10, 35, 96 n. 15, 100–101, 105, 119 n. 23 patriotism, 6, 13, 16–17, 19, 20, 60–61, 81–82, 99, 104–5 peasant emancipation, 13–14, 82– 83

188 ♦

INDEX

Peninsular War, 10, 35, 37, 39, 105 Perraudin, Michael, 41, 47 n. 43, 72 nn. 47, 50, 73 n. 60 Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich, 15, 17, 74–75, 86, 89, 90–91, 92, 93 Peter, Klaus, 26 n. 99, 123 n. 57 Pfeiffer, Joachim, 97 n. 27 Pfuel, Ernst von, 28, 32, 35 Pillnitz, Declaration of, 9 Prussia, 3, 5–6, 8, 9–21, 28, 30, 33–34, 36, 60, 74–75, 117, 124, 127–28 Prussian reforms: administrative, 11–13, 14, 124; economic, 13, 19, 34, 39, 81–83, 134, 135; educational, 15–16, 75, 92; legal, 6, 14, 124, 127–28; military, 14–15, 29, 39, 99– 101, 105, 108, 116–17, 122 n. 51. See also Finance Edict; peasant emancipation public opinion, 82, 109, 127, 137–38, 142–45, 150, 159, 160 race, 7, 41–42, 64–67 Radrizzani, Ives, 26 n. 93 Reeve, William C., 71 n. 38 Reichsdeputationshauptschluss, 9, 149 Reimer, Georg Andreas, 36, 37 Reinhardt, Hartmut, 153 n. 27, 154 n. 32 Reiss, Hans, 21 nn. 10, 14 religion, 4, 74, 77–78, 85, 135– 36, 142, 145–50 Reske, Hermann, 68 n. 6, 70 n. 32 Reuß, Roland, 72 n. 57 revolutionary wars, 9, 14, 28, 31, 99–101 Ribbat, Ernst, 152 n. 11, 153 n. 25

Rosenberg, Hans, 21 n. 15, 22 nn. 18, 19, 20, 124, 151 n. 2 Ross, Steven T., 118 nn. 4, 5, 8 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 4, 31, 50, 52, 54, 69 n. 20, 77, 154 n. 33 Rüchel, Ernst von, 10 Rückert, Joachim, 156 n. 50 Rühle von Lilienstern, Otto August, 28, 30, 33, 34, 35, 119 n. 19, 120 n. 31 Ryan, Lawrence, 70 n. 34, 71 n. 37, 119 n. 28 Sammons, Jeffrey L., 120 n. 29, 121 n. 38 Samuel, Richard, 23 n. 43, 39, 44 n. 10, 45 nn. 12, 15, 17, 46 nn. 32, 33, 117, 119 nn. 22, 27, 120 n. 31, 121 nn. 9, 41, 44, 123 n. 61 Savigny, Friedrich Karl von, 152 n. 11 Saxony, 11, 36, 40, 100, 105–6, 155 n. 44 Schäfer, Regina, 70 n. 31 Scharnhorst, Gerhard von, 14, 39, 99–101 Schieder, Theodor, 124, 151 n. 1 Schill, Ferdinand von, 36, 110, 121 n. 40 Schiller, Friedrich, 4–5, 16, 17, 57, 61, 70 n. 34, 71 n. 35, 153 n. 23 Schiller, Friedrich, works by: “Das deutsche Reich,” 61; “Das Lied von der Glocke,” 57; “Deutsche Größe,” 4–5; Die Schaubühne als moralische Anstalt betrachtet, 4; Don Carlos, 153 n. 23; Wilhelm Tell, 70 n. 34 Schmidt, Erich, 157 n. 73 Schmidt, Jochen, 39, 46 n. 37, 68 nn. 1, 4, 7, 122 n. 53, 134,

INDEX

152 n. 12, 153 nn. 28, 29, 155 n. 44, 162 n. 4 Schneider, Hans-Peter, 151 n. 6, 152 n. 7 Schneider, Helmut J., 96 n. 10, 97 n. 33 Schreiber, Christiane, 39, 41, 46 nn. 35, 36, 105, 119 nn. 24, 25, 134, 138, 153 nn. 26, 30, 155 n. 40, 157 n. 73 Schubert, Gotthilf Heinrich, 35 Schulte, Bettina, 121 n. 37, 156 n. 64 Schunicht, Manfred, 122 n. 51, 153 n. 18 Seeba, Hinrich C., 68 n. 10 self-determination, 54–55, 60–63, 67, 103–5, 109 Shakespeare, William, works by: Romeo and Juliet, 49, 51 Sheehan, James J., 22 nn. 17, 28, 23 n. 42 Siemer, Antje, 23 n. 46 Silber, Kate, 95 nn. 3, 4, 98 n. 36 Silz, Walter, 122 n. 50 Simms, Brendan, 21 n. 1, 22 n. 17, 23 nn. 36, 37, 41, 24 nn. 53, 54, 66 Skrotzki, Ditmar, 97 n. 30, 151 n. 4 Smith, Adam, 13 social change, 20, 74, 79–83, 93– 94 Soller, Alois K., 26 n. 94 Sophocles, works by: Oedipus Rex, 129, 132–33, 152 n. 12 Staegemann, Friedrich August, 36 Staengle, Peter, 44 nn. 1, 6, 45 nn. 13, 20 Stahl, E. L., 69 n. 17 statehood, 6, 8, 18–19, 48, 52– 58, 62–63, 67, 128, 133–34, 136, 154 n. 33, 155 n. 39, 157 n. 74, 159–61

♦ 189

Steig, Reinhold, 39, 46 n. 29, 96 n. 17, 97 n. 18, 98 n. 41, 157 n. 73 Stein, Karl vom, 12–13, 14, 124 Stein, Robert, 152 n. 8 Steinhauer, Harry, 96 n. 8 Stephan, Inge, 57, 70 n. 26 Stephens, Anthony, 44 n. 8, 47 n. 41, 68 nn. 2, 5, 9, 70 n. 28, 71 n. 39, 84, 95 n. 7, 97 nn. 20, 31, 153 n. 23 Streller, Siegfried, 68 n. 4, 69 n. 20 Struensee, Carl August von, 29 Stübig, Heinz, 25 n. 77 Swales, Erika, 122 n. 55 Sweet, Paul R., 26 nn. 88, 89 taxation, 5, 13, 81–82 Technische Deputation, 29–30 Theisen, Bianca, 72 n. 57 Thielen, Peter Gerrit, 24 n. 65, 25 n. 72 Thielmann, Johann Adolph von, 120 n. 31 Tilsit, Treaty of, 10, 15, 35, 117 Tischbein, Johann Heinrich Wilhelm, 35 Tribe, Keith, 22 nn. 21, 23 Uerlings, Herbert, 73 n. 61 Ulm, battle of, 111 Vierhaus, Rudolf, 21 n. 2, 22 nn. 17, 21, 23, 29, 23 n. 40, 44 n. 5 Vogel, Henriette, 38, 45 n. 25 Vohland, Ulrich, 98 n. 35, 152 n. 17 Volk, 8, 106, 108, 125–26, 145, 160 Wagram, battle of, 10, 36, 104, 117 war, 62, 96 n. 15, 98 n. 38, 99– 118. See also partisan war

190 ♦

INDEX

Weber, Ernst, 23 n. 51 Wehler, Hans-Ulrich, 21 n. 3, 23 nn. 36, 42, 25 nn. 78, 81 Weigel, Sigrid, 72 n. 52 Weimar Classicism, 35 Weiss, Hermann, 119 nn. 20, 26, 120 n. 31 Wellbery, David E., 96 n. 13 Westphalia, Peace of, 4, 149 Wexelblatt, Robert, 154 n. 33 Wichmann, Thomas, 44 n. 6 Wieland, Christoph Martin, 32 Wieland, Ludwig, 127 Wittkowski, Wolfgang, 71 n. 34, 96 n. 18, 131, 152 n. 15, 155 nn. 44, 46, 157 n. 68 Wohlhaupter, Eugen, 146, 152 n. 16, 155 n. 42, 156 n. 61 Wolf, Christa, 70 n. 27 Wolff, Hans M., 69 n. 16, 119 n. 17 Zantop, Susanne, 73 n. 58 Zeller, Karl August, 92 Zenge, Hartmann von, 29 Zenge, Wilhelmine von, 29, 30, 32, 50, 160 Zimmermann, Harro, 22 n. 32 Ziolkowski, Theodore, 134, 152 n. 7, 153 nn. 26, 31 Zschokke, Heinrich, 127