In trying to come to terms with Grillparzer's Ein Bruderzwist in Habsburg, the reader will experience the frustrating sensation that T. S. Eliot formulated so well in his line “That is not what I meant at all.” He ponders, tries to see through the veils that obscure the essence of the play. An insight may be about to take shape, but in formulating it, he sees that he is missing his mark. He conveys something, finally, that may be true, vaguely, but not entirely germane. What he was trying to get at remains behind the veil. The play is elusive, and its impact is in its atmosphere, in an area that defies penetration by our interpretative tools.

The action, as a whole, is not difficult to follow. It takes place on a realistic level, and the plot can be paraphrased with ease. True, a paraphrase can never convey the Gehalt of a literary work; but here it seems to do less than nothing. For example, would it not impart a more essential aspect of the play to mention that Lukrezia always appears as if out of a dream and almost inexplicably, than to give a precise summary of the peace talks in the second act? Or would a description of Rudolf's gestures not come closer to the Gehalt of the play than a limning of his views on unrest and revolution?

Critics have claimed that Grillparzer's play is not stage-worthy, that it is a “Gedankendrama,”¹ and that it begins to make sense only after it is comprehended in terms of history and philosophy.² The historical and philosophical content is easy to perceive; it is one of the outermost layers of Grillparzer's artistic fabric. Like other historical playwrights, he has taken certain liberties with the actual events, has telescoped time, and has created characters that may have little in common with their historical models. On the philosophical and sociological level, Grillparzer has given voice, through Rudolf, to his conservative views to a degree that is surprising for one who fought frustrating battles against the censorship of an absolutistic era and complained bitterly about the stultifying effect the monarchic system had on the arts. A good comprehension of the intellectual background of the play and its historical content, important though it is, will barely scratch the surface.

The character of Rudolf leads more deeply into the complexities. Obviously, he is not the historical Rudolf. But most critics are willing to forgive Grillparzer his transgressions against history. What is considered a more serious matter is the inconsistency of the character as drawn by the playwright himself. In some scenes, Rudolf's paranoia shows pathological dimensions, in others, he is kind and reveals a sense of humor. He appears to be an apostle of peace and yet is eager to continue the war in Hungary. He is patient and humane in some instances—for example, when he expresses his horror at Ferdinand's ruthless expulsion of the Protestants—and unreasonable in others, for instance, when refusing to listen to a defense of Field Marshall Rußworm. His threat against Don Cäsar to have him executed if he continues to speak out for Rußworm is inconceivable. On the one hand, he has a deep understanding for matters of the heart—he is horrified by Ferdinand's decision to break with the woman he loves and marry an unloved one for political reasons—on the other, he chastizes Don Cäsar for wooing Lukrezia. Most striking of all, he refuses to permit that medical aid be given to his son, whom he loves deeply, thus causing his death.³

Such instances are part of a larger, more general tendency in the play. Grillparzer did not seem overly concerned with a tight, logical structure, a close nexus between the events, or even a careful delineation of cause and effect. Criticizing him on these counts merely reveals a wrong premise on the part of the critic: that Grillparzer, since his creative period followed that of German Classicism, should be measured against Goethe and Schiller and their dramatic technique, which was usually flawless indeed with regard to the details mentioned above. But we know that Grillparzer's art was not indebted primarily to Weimar Classicism; he was not a poor, but at best an unwilling pupil, and probably no pupil at all, of Schiller and Goethe. Commenting, in his diaries, on the historical tragedy—a favorite quotation in recent Grillparzer scholarship—the playwright concedes that there can be no question of the dramatist's need to show cause and effect, but he continues: “Aber wie in der Natur sich höchst selten Ursache und Wirkung wechselseitig ganz decken, so ist, in der Behandlung eine gewisse Inkongruenz beider durchblicken zu lassen, vielleicht die höchste Aufgabe, die ein Dichter sich stellen kann.”⁴

“Eine gewisse Inkongruenz”: Perhaps a heritage from Baroque drama, passed on to Grillparzer via the Viennese popular theater, it can be traced in the theater tradition in which Grillparzer has his place. Hofmannsthal shows it, for example in Der Schwierige, with its somewhat inconsistent portrayal of Hans Karl's character, and the very inconsistent one of Count Hechingen, whose role fluctuates between the comic and the serious. It can be seen in plays that are rooted more directly in the tradition of the Viennese popular theater, above all in Raimund's works, and to a lesser degree in Nestroy's. There the dramatic possibilities of the individual scene, its theatricality, are as important as the progress of the action as a whole. If the playwright wants to make a specific point, or a joke, he will do it, through one of his characters, even though this may cause the character to abandon his role for a moment. Brecht, always eager to acknowledge his indebtedness to Nestroy, has further emphasized these traits and placed them prominently in the development of modern drama.

In the passage quoted above, Grillparzer singled out historical plays as vehicles to show a “certain incongruence.” In his own historical plays, as has often been observed, Grillparzer tends to treat the motifs of power and worldly splendor in a negative fashion. For example, Ottokar's rise is shown in one act, in sequences that have an unreal, dreamlike quality and depict the hero as proud and callous, while his defeat is treated at great length and with a detailed presentation of his growing humanity. The affairs of the world, its power struggles and intrigues, were motifs that Grillparzer used in order to show lack of human substance. In the quoted passage, he did not clarify, either abstractly or through examples, what exactly he had in mind when speaking of incongruence, but it is possible to see in it also the mutual exclusion of external success and human substance, as it prevails in his plays. In König Ottokars Glück und Ende, the development of Ottokar as a human being runs contrary to his political fate, to the rise and fall of his power. In Ein Bruderzwist in Habsburg, there is no such obvious juxtaposition. And yet, there is a distinct polarity in the play: The action fluctuates between scenes depicting power struggles and court intrigues on the one hand, and scenes presenting the most intimate manifestations of the individual psyche and of human interaction on the other. At least one critic has spoken of the “inner action” of the play.⁵ The external and the internal levels of action are not as clearly discernible as in Ottokar; they are interwoven in a more subtle fashion, and the difficulty in coming to terms with the play may well be explained by the high degree of subtlety in which the close, private sphere is contraposed to the grandiose, political.

Grillparzer's Rudolf epitomizes the private, intimate sphere. To be sure, he knows the public sphere and is aware of what he owes it. After he bestows his own private order of the Knights of Peace upon Duke Julius, he is obliged to face the Bohemian estates. Preparing to receive them, he asks for his sword and when Julius—no servant is nearby—brings him the sword as well as the imperial robe, Rudolf is uncertain at first: “Ihr bringt den Mantel auch?” but continues, “Habt Ihr doch recht / Die Welt verlangt den Schein. Wir Beide nur / Wir tragen innerhalb des Kleids den Orden.”⁶ What is essential and important to him is the private, secretly worn order. It is worn inside, close to the heart. Robe and sword are insignia of a realm from which he has withdrawn spiritually. He exhibits them unwillingly. In the last moment, he decides against wearing the sword and asks Julius to put it down somewhere.

Scenes from which Rudolf is absent, scenes of force, political ambition, and intrigue, are fraught with confusion and futility. The peace negotiations in the second act may be cited as the foremost example. The very fact that there are four archdukes present introduces an element of confusion. It may be true that Grillparzer complained about the oversupply of archdukes in the plot⁷; but he could have made use of the historical playwright's most basic prerogative: to eliminate characters from the plot, for the sake of clarity and expediency. He chose not to. The nature of their debate during the conference further confuses the issue and may be taken as an indication that Grillparzer in effect strove for a measure of entanglement in this scene. The actions of the various participants in the debate are motivated in a distorted way. Klesel speaks out for peace; this may be considered a proper goal for a man of the cloth to pursue, until it becomes evident that he plans to use the conclusion of the peace as an act of revolt against the emperor, and as a crucial step in enhancing Mathias' power. Mathias, Klesel's tool, ought to echo his mentor's views. However, Mathias has lost a battle, once again, and is eager to continue the war in order to have an opportunity for making up the defeat and regaining his personal honor. He is blind to the fact that he will hardly manage a victory with the number of his men cut in half after he had previously been defeated with the forces still intact. Klesel, first upset by Mathias' refusal to speak out for peace, quickly discerns the advantageous side of the situation: If Mathias does not agree with Klesel, for once, the other archdukes will not suspect any foul play on their part and will be less reluctant to go along with Klesel's plans. “Bleibt, Herr, bei eurer Weigrung,” he encourages Mathias before Max, Ferdinand, and Leopold enter, “Vielleicht reift unsern Anschlag grade dies” (212). The conference, conducted according to parliamentary procedures, begins in a fashion familiar to all veterans of township, council or faculty meetings: A few words about the table are exchanged—Max is glad that the table cloth is green and not red or blue—one participant is asked to take minutes, another states that he would rather stand than sit because he likes to stand and because he won't sit until he knows what the meeting is all about. Then there is a brief, jocular exchange about Leopold's recent love adventure, and Klesel is asked not to put this into the minutes.

The actual conference, from Max's admonition “zur Sache” to the adjournment, is long by the standards of stage technique: two hundred and forty lines. It is a tour-de-force in the art of conniving and brainwashing. At the beginning of the meeting, none of the archdukes is in favor of concluding the peace; at the end, only Leopold refuses to agree to the treaty. Klesel, the non-voting member of the assembly, masterminds their change of hearts without their noticing it. Some details in the dialog border on the comic. Max chides Mathias for wanting to save face as a commander by continuing the war with his decimated troops. Therefore, Max is against continuing the war. Klesel inquires eagerly, “So seid ihr für den Frieden?” Max: “Ich? Bewahr!” Klesel: “Doch spracht entgegen ihr dem Krieg.” Max: “Ei, laßt mich!” (219). The last phrase, which would have to be rendered as “Leave me alone (with your silly logic),” bespeaks the hopeless muddle of the situation. Soon Max and Ferdinand commit themselves to a vote for peace. Mathias states that he might as well join them since he is being outvoted. Leopold reminds him that there would be two of them since he, Leopold, will vote against the treaty. Mathias' remarkable reply is: “Gerade deshalb Frieden auch” (223). Whereas Max's “Laßt mich” at least acknowledged his inability to respond logically, Mathias' answer openly mocks the principle of meaningful discussion.

This bit of parliamentary confusion is set between two scenes that provide a fitting frame. The conference is preceded by a scene in the imperial camp that introduces the motif of confusion on a physical level: A standard bearer relates how the imperial army, caught between two Turkish columns, found itself in such a state of chaos that imperial soldiers pursued and killed other imperial soldiers.⁸ There was no leadership during the battle. The troops are close to rebelling. The scene is further complicated by the appearance of a Protestant delegation. A captain comments that he would send them packing if he were the archduke (Mathias); a colonel replies that it was the archduke who had invited them. When the same captain accuses Protestant soldiers of having committed treason by starting the rout during the battle, one soldier contradicts him, saying that it makes no differences, in combat, which religion a soldier favors: “Im Lager hier sind alle Tapfern Brüder” (200).

The motif of fraternal relationships, oddly twisted, is followed through at some length. In the conference scene, two sets of brothers conspire against another brother, the emperor. In the scene just discussed, soldiers are reported to have killed their brothers inadvertently, while members of conflicting religions consider themselves brothers. In the scene following the peace conference, an attempt by Don Cäsar to abduct Lukrezia is thwarted by the appearance of two of the archdukes and their entourages. As in the scene preceding the conference, there occurs the motif of enemy action within one war party. The soldiers hired to perform the abduction flee, and Archduke Leopold comments: “Nicht Türken sinds, des eignen Lagers Auswurf, / Zu Brudermord gezückt das feige Schwert” (235). The only member of the band captured turns out to be the emperor's son.

These scenes comprise the second act, one of the two acts from which Rudolf is absent altogether. The act encompasses a series of incidents that pertain to the world of intrigue, power, and warfare. Nothing is accomplished throughout the act, except that a dubious peace treaty has been concluded, against the emperor's wishes, and that Mathias has been appointed to act in place of the emperor should the latter refuse to ratify the treaty. Both steps leave everyone uneasy, except Klesel, the arbitrator. Leopold comments, “Ihr werdet sehen was ihr angerichtet” (224); and “Wir haben keinen guten Kampf gekämpft” (231). Uncertainty and confusion determine the act, combined with demagoguery and collusion. It illustrates both the dramatic principles that have been outlined above as characteristic of Grillparzer's art: a certain incongruence of cause and effect, and the futility and inscrutability of the affairs of the world. The act does not have the qualities of a Lesedrama. It is extremely stageworthy, and the fact that the action is indecisive and confusing is not a weakness but its most salient feature.

One scene in the third act presents a confrontation between the external world with its strifes, and the internal realm, exemplified in the figure of the emperor. The Bohemian estates, newly encouraged by the unrest in the capitol and by the rumor that Archduke Mathias is approaching with armed forces, demand that the emperor sign an agreement granting religious freedom, the “Letter of Majesty.” Their arguments are transparent and their demands have the sound of blackmail. Rudolf, fully aware of the nature of their maneuver, responds by speaking to them of love, respect, and belief, and by admonishing them not to question God's wisdom. His words are genuine, simple, direct, and they are poetic. Nevertheless, it is apparent that Rudolf is not reaching them. There is no communication between him and the delegation. He is aware of the falseness of their arguments, but refrains from challenging them. They in turn do not hear what he has to say to them. Their reply, after the close of Rudolf's exhortations, is a renewed request for his approval of their demands. They have talked past each other, each within his own frame of reference. Rudolf signs their document, in disdain, impatient with them, and discouraged. They honor him with an exclamation, “Mit Gut und Blut für unsern Herrn und Kaiser!” (266). Minutes later, they will cheer Mathias as their new champion.

The end of the third act brings to a climax the juxtaposition of the occurences in the physical and the spiritual world. Mathias, in a splendid procession, enters Prague. Bells ring, music is played, and banners are waved. Mathias is shown riding past on a horse, towering over the crowd. The people rush toward him and cheer “Vivat Mathias! Hoch des Landes Recht!” (277). This takes place upstage. Downstage, Duke Julius has tried in vain to persuade Archduke Leopold not to take up arms against Mathias proceeds, Julius turns aside with a gesture of grief. The realms of action are aligned in a striking tableau that concludes the act: Mathias in his glory, the image of a quickly passing worldly triumph; and Julius in his grief, knowing and understanding, the image of introspection, awareness, and integrity.

The play ends with a variation of this scene. Rudolf is dead and Mathias is emperor. Now that he has reached his goal, he is guilt-ridden at his brother's death and wishes he were dead and Rudolf alive. Yet he cannot take his eyes off the imperial insignia that have been brought to him: “Wie ein Magnet ziehts mir die Augen hin / Und täuscht mit Formen, die nicht sind, ich weiß” (337). The people cheer and want to see their new emperor. Reluctantly, Mathias shows himself on the balcony. Again, the shout “Vivat Mathias!” is heard. Back on stage, Mathias kneels and speaks the liturgical formula “Mea culpa, mea culpa, / Mea maxima culpa” (337). The play ends with the shouts of “Vivat Mathias” continuing from the street, and Mathias, on his knees, covering his face with both hands. Like the third act, the fifth closes on a tableau that signifies the deceitfulness and duplicity of power.

Little has been made in criticism of the scene of Lukrezia's death at the hands of Don Cäsar in the fourth act. It does not seem to have any function, in the structure of the play, other than to add to the crimes of the perpetrator and precipitate his downfall. Lukrezia remains a pale, undefined figure to her end. One could view her death as one of Grillparzer's self-contained scenes that are not closely integrated into the action. However, if the deceitfulness and illusoriness of worldly things is indeed one theme of the play, the scene assumes a subtle significance. Don Cäsar, up to this point nothing more than a rash good-for-nothing, is shown in a new light. He approaches Lukrezia for one more time, but only in search for truth. In a concrete sense, he wants to know who and what Lukrezia really is. “Laßt mich erkennen euch, nur deshalb kam ich; / Zu wissen was ihr seid, nicht was ihr scheint” (282). Lukrezia, vague and shadowy throughout the play, is an embodiment of the evasive element that prevails in the action. Don Cäsar's wish to discover her true self seems plausible to the reader; moreover, the motif of the quest for recognition is pertinent in a play that presents an action veiled in the dusk of futility and doubt. Don Cäsar gains stature in this scene. He reveals himself as a person with substantial thoughts and feelings by asking questions that are only asked by minds that have pondered problems concerning the very nature of existence. But his wish to know Lukrezia remains unfulfilled, as does his larger quest for truth. He fails in trying to penetrate the veil that covers the essence of things:

Und Recht und Unrecht, Wesen, Wirklichkeit,
Das ganze Spiel der buntbewegten Welt,
Liegt eingehüllt in des Gehirnes Räumen,
Das sie erzeugt und aufhebt wie es will.
Ich plagte mich mit wirren Glaubenszweifeln,
Ich pochte forschend an des Fremden Tür,
Gelesen hab' ich und gehört, verglichen,
Und fand sie Beide haltlos, Beide leer.
Vertilgt die Bilder solchen Schattenspiels,
Blieb nur das Licht zurück, des Gauklers Lampe,
Das sie als Wesen an die Wände malt,
Als einz'ge Leidenschaft der Wunsch: zu wissen.

(282)

The truth that Cäsar seeks is present in the play, although he would not recognize it as an answer to his questions. Rudolf embodies truth. He is the still center around which the fleeting matter of the action revolves. This is shown, in part, through his language. Herbert Seidler has demonstrated that Grillparzer's use of Prunkreden lends a certain rhythm to his plays. Scenes of action alternate with reflective pauses in which the essence of the action is crystallized in extended speeches resembling monologues. Such passages show a markedly elevated language and poetic refinement.⁹Ein Bruderzwist contains several of these Prunkreden, all of them spoken by Rudolf. In fact, a good portion of Rudolf's role consists of Prunkreden. According to Seidler's count, two are in the first act (ll. 320-346; 391-439), three in the third act (ll. 1233-1276; 1460-1471; 1533-1669), and two in the fourth (ll. 2239-2269; 2286-2428). Altogether, 436 of Rudolf's lines are are spoken in Prunkreden. This leaves 427 lines of his role for dialog other than Prunkreden,—slightly less than half. In the fourth act, the last in which Rudolf appears, the proportion is 172 lines of Prunkreden versus 18 lines of dialog.

These numbers alone testify to the pivotal significance of Rudolf's role. To some extent, these speeches serve to define Rudolf's philosophical outlook. The contraposition of the vita activa and the vita contemplativa, shown through the action surrounding Rudolf and his own meditative inaction, has been widely discussed in criticism. However, a concentration on the emperor's philosophical and political views neglects the unique features of this character and reduces the play to a contest of intellectual dispositions. In examining the Prunkreden, attention must be paid both to their philosophical significance and to their poetic impact. Rudolf's last speech exemplifies Grillparzer's intent to remove his hero to a realm beyond that of the political intrigues he was supposed to cope with and chose to ignore. It is a realm that comes alive in poetry only. In his meditations, Rudolf's thoughts involuntarily converge on religious subjects. The recollection of Christmas takes him back to his childhood, and forward to the threshold of the hereafter. He asks: “Ist hier Musik?” and Julius replies, “Wir hören nichts, o Herr” (305). Only Rudolf hears the music of a realm he is about to enter, and his departure from one world into another is realized convincingly by the poet:

Mein Geist verirrt sich in die Jugendzeit.
Als ich aus Spanien kam, wo ich erzogen,
Und man nun meldete, daß Deutschlands Küste
Sich nebelgleich am Horizonte zeige,
Da lief ich aufs Verdeck und offner Arme
Rief ich: mein Vaterland! Mein teures Vaterland!
—So dünkt mich nun ein Land in dem ein Vater—
Am Rand der Ewigkeit emporzutauchen.
—Ist es denn dunkel hier?—Dort seh' ich Licht
Und flügelgleich umgibt es meinen Leib.
—Aus Spanien komm' ich, aus gar harter Zucht,
Und eile dir entgegen,—nicht mehr deutsches,
Nein himmlisch Vaterland.—Willst du?—Ich will!

(308)

Here Grillparzer employs the symbol of the voyage, a traditional literary topos, but his poetic power elevates the scene into the realm of the religious and sublime.

Despite Rudolf's saintly death, it is wrong to see in him nothing but a martyr to his age; a man who could not and would not cope with reality; who triumphed, in the end, through his wisdom, kindness, and religious bearing. There are the harsh realities of his occasional ruthlessness and injustice, his whims and pathological capriciousness. Grillparzer did not attempt to pit an unblemished hero against the wicked world. The inner conflict he depicted, as a playwright and poet, is one of atmosphere: the duality between an external action running its futile course in a vague, unfathomable way, and a personage drawn closely and intimately. This duality is at the root of our difficulties in coming to terms with the play, but it is also the source of its strong poetic impact.

Warmth and closeness are created partially through Grillparzer's language. The nature and the characteristics of the playwright's language have long occupied critics. It is unlike Goethe's and Schiller's, unlike Kleist's, unlike Hebbel's. In Ein Bruderzwist there is no willful pose in Grillparzer's diction; it runs smoothly, softly, and apparently without effort. A good actor would never choose to recite Grillparzer's lines bombastically and at the top of his voice. They require a gentle approach, and they are most effective when spoken with great understanding and feeling. Even the Prunkreden are not meant to be declaimed; they simply require greater insight and penetration. The directness of Grillparzer's language is its most prominent characteristic. Some of Rudolph's questions ring with a sense of closeness and familiarity that immediately establishes a link not only between him and the person addressed, but also between him and the reader or spectator. His last words, “Willst du?—Ich will!” (308), are a foremost example of this stylistic quality. The same is true of the inquiry “Ist hier Musik?” (305), and of Rudolf's reply to Ferdinand's proud statement that he has expelled from his territory all Protestants: “Mit Weib und Kind? Die Nächte sind schon kühl” (190). When Don Cäsar states aggressively that only the Lord is judge in matters of religious belief, Rudolf replies: “Ja Gott und du. Ihr Beide, nicht wahr?” (179). The simplicity and candor of these lines is matched by their poetic impact. Occasionally, Grillparzer uses phrases that are almost quaint. Upon realizing that the man he had not recognized was Ferdinand, Rudolf says “All gut!” (182). Rudolf's chamberlain, Rumpf, carries the quaintness of the language a step further. His is a mixture of officialese and a nearly comic, stenographic, private idiom that imitates the emperor's predilection for elliptic remarks. Rumpf's position in the play is never made quite clear. He is a high-ranking official and chargé-d'affaires at court, but he also seems to serve as a private secretary and, in a scene where the emperor cannot find his robe and calls for Rumpf, as a valet. Rumpf shows traces of the comic person of the Viennese popular theater, traces that are subtly evident in his language. He uses phrases such as “Huldreichst guten Morgen” (168), “hochgnädige Geduld” (168), “Geht nicht” (167), “Guter Gott!” (177, 178), “Du liebe Zeit!” (170), and the comic Austrian interjection “Je” (167, twice).¹⁰ Rumpf is Rudolf's semi-comic foil and counterpart.¹¹

Grillparzer's language may have the ring of quaintness even in scenes that do not deal with Rudolf's sequestered world. For example, in the conference scene in the second act, Max invites the other archdukes to sit down at the table with the phrases “Geht sitzen” (214) and “Komm sitzen” (215). In the same scene, Mathias, at a loss for a reply, urges Klesel to answer, formulating his request in a strikingly direct phrase: “Sagt etwas, Klesel!” (216). Shakespeare was a master at such subtle nuances in the dialog, but no author of tragedy in the German language before Grillparzer conveyed such a degree of immediacy with the use of such simple words.

It has been shown that Grillparzer at times chose to forego the use of words altogether in favor of the gesture.¹² In Ein Bruderzwist, one of the Prunkreden fades away in mumbled sentence fragments and eventually in silence:

([Rudolf] Immer leiser sprechend)
Wenn nun der Herr die Uhr rückt seiner Zeit,
Die Ewigkeit in jedem Glockenschlag
Für die das Oben und das Unten gleich
Ins Brautgemach—des Weltbaus Kräfte eilen
—Gebunden—in der Strahlen Konjunktur—
Und der Malefikus—das böse Trachten—
                    (Er verstummt allmählich. Sein Haupt sinkt auf
die
                    Brust. Pause.)

(187)

Originally, Grillparzer had planned to complete the passage with its syntax intact and without an indication of Rudolf's voice dying away.¹³ The abandonment of the spoken word in favor of the gesture is significant. The gesture, when subtly used, can convey delicate nuances of meaning. In the present play, Grillparzer used gestures to a great extent. Especially those assigned to Rudolf are capable of creating an atmosphere of poignancy. Rudolf is both awesome as a ruler and engaging as a person—a unique combination in a tragic character. On the one hand, he is infirm and helpless; when in a rage against Don Cäsar, he becomes feeble and has to be helped by his guards. He walks on a cane, or supported by Rumpf. On the other hand, Grillparzer gave him the curious agility that is at times peculiar to very old people.

Rudolf shows a certain lack of inhibitions in his gestures. For example, he reacts with an odd, almost childish gesture when reminded of Leopold's unsuccessful attempt to occupy the city: “Der Kaiser droht heftig mit dem Finger in die Ferne” (295). There are several scenes in the play where Rudolf contributes his share to the dialog with gestures only. There is, above all, his entrance in the first act, and the scene at the well in the fourth. On stage, these passages invariably fall flat and give rise to unwanted laughter, unless they are played with great taste and discernment. His gestures not only lend a fascination to the emperor, but also bring him close to the reader and spectator on a human, emotional level. They express more than mere reactions to what he sees and hears; Rudolf communicates through gestures, and at times he gets across fairly complex messages. For example, he criticizes the poor workmanship in one part of a painting without even stepping up to it, and rejects the painting (172). The people about him have learned to understand his silent language. When he looks at two persons engaged in conversation, Rumpf informs them that the emperor wishes to know what is being discussed (296). Rudolf wags his finger threateningly, and Julius knows that he means Leopold (295). When the emperor shows an interest in the key to Don Cäsar's prison, Julius seems to suspect what his intentions are (297).¹⁴ He can be insistent in his sign language: When he extends his hand to great Duke Julius and Julius wants to kiss it, Rudolf withdraws his hand, then extends it again, whereupon Julius takes hold of Rudolf's hand with both of his (293). Grillparzer is able to convey much of his characters' inner qualities through their gestures. They are direct and truthful emanations of their innermost feelings. When giving Leopold permission to bring troops to his aid, Rudolf transmits this instruction through a gesture while off-stage—the ultimate in subtlety: The door of his private chamber opens to admit Leopold. In the first act, Rudolf hears of the arrival of young Leopold and, overjoyed, demands to see him. Leopold is summoned; he enters when the emperor and his court have lined up, about to proceed to the chapel, and he is taken aback at the sight of the formal arrangement. The Spanish court ceremonial which rules in the imperial castle in Prague is a new experience to the straightforward young man from the Austrian provinces. Rudolf, somewhat curtly, asks him to take his place in the procession, and Ferdinand beckons him to his side. Leopold's spirits must be dampened—he had reason to expect a warmer welcome from the emperor. Rudolf senses this and corrects the situation:

(Der Zug setzt sich in Bewegung, die beiden Erzherzoge unmittelbar vor dem Kaiser. Nach einigen Schritten tippt Letzterer Erzherzog Leopold auf die Schulter. Dieser wendet sich um und küßt ihm lebhaft die Hand. Der Kaiser winkt ihm liebreich drohend Stillschweigen zu und sie gehen weiter. Die übrigen folgen paarweise.) Der Vorhang fällt.

(193)

The emperor himself takes a quick and secret liberty against the court ceremonial in order to transmit a personal message.

A delicately conveyed, emotional gesture such as this is part of the innermost realm of action in Grillparzer's play. The contrast between this and the realm of the futile, circuitous external action is not primarily one of humanity versus callousness. Rather, it is a contrast between the close and the distant, the inward and the outward, between matter pertaining to the privacy of the heart and matter pertaining to the wordly ambitions of the will and the intellect. Even when Rudolf performs the gesture of dropping the key into the well and in effect executes his son, Grillparzer shows that the dominant emotion prevailing within him during that moment is not cruelty but consuming pain. It is an awesome deed, yet not one performed callously.¹⁵

The play is open-ended and grants a view into the chaotic times that lie ahead. The external realm is beginning to reign supreme. This prospect is essential to the tragic qualities of the play, as much so as the death of Rudolf and the moral defeat of Mathias. The appearance of young Colonel Wallenstein at the end of the play and his prophecy concerning the duration of the imminent war are often branded by critics as poor in taste. Certainly Wallenstein cuts an offensive figure. Even ruthless Ferdinand is repelled by his overefficiency. Significantly, it is Wallenstein who reports the approach of the emissaries who have come to announce Rudolf's death, and he is the only one to remain untouched by this news. Wallenstein appears as the epitome of the futile ambition that the world has fallen victim to. His figure is odious in the sense that he incorporates all the negative elements of the play. The introduction of a new character in the last scene is not a weakness in the structure of the play comparable to the appearance of Count Bruchsal in Lessing's Minna von Barnhelm. Grillparzer's dramatic art is a match fo such a challenge: Wallenstein, who will not outlive the war that he is so eage to engage in, unwittingly points to the absurdity of his own ambition.

It is in the figure of Wallenstein, in fact, that the theme of the “vanity of the world,” apparent throughout the play, is given its last and strongest embodiment. Led on by Wallenstein, almost everyone on stage cheers the outbreak of the war, and the people in the street cheer the new emperor. But the memory of Rudolf permeates the scene: The imperial insignia are on stage, and Mathias performs his final gesture of repentance.

Notes

1. Urs Helmensdorfer, “Ein Bruderzwist in Habsburg,” Grillparzers Bühnenkunst (Bern: Francke, 1960), p. 99.

2. Ibid., p. 72.

3. Heinz Politzer, in “Grillparzers ‘Bruderzwist’—ein Vater-Sohn-Konflikt in Habsburg.” Festschrift für Bernhard Blume (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, 1967), pp. 173-194, has thrown a sharp light on the father-son relationship in the play.

4. Franz Grillparzer, Sämtliche Werke, Historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe, ed. A. Sauer. II/8 (Vienna: Gerlach, 1916), 176-177.

5. Kare Langvik-Johannessen, “‘Ein Bruderzwist in Habsburg.’ Versuch einer Offenlegung der inneren Handlung.” Grillparzer-Forum Forchtenstein (Heidelberg: Lothar Stiehm), III (1967), 34-42; IV (1968), 43-57. Langvik-Johannessen's foremost concern is the investigation of a psychological basis underlying the action.

6. Historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe, I/6 (Vienna: Scholl, 1927), 259. Future references to this volume will appear by page numbers in the text.

7. Franz Grillparzer, Gespräche und Charakteristiken seiner Persönlichkeit durch die Zeitgenossen, ed. A. Sauer 6 vols. (Vienna: Literarischer Verein, 1904-1916), III, 340.

8. The scene is repeated during the retreat of Leopold's forces from Prague. Cf. 289-290.

9. Herbert Seidler, “Prunkreden in Grillparzers Dramen.” Studien zu Grillparzer und Stifter (Vienna etc.: Böhlau, 1970), pp. 85-117. [First published in 1964 in Sitzungsberichte der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philosophisch-historische Klasse, 244/4].

10. Significantly, “je” occurs many times in Grillparzer's comedy, Weh dem der lügt.

11. Rumpf is related to a number of servant figures in the Austrian theater tradition, notably to Anton in Hofmannsthal's Der Turm, a play that shares a number of themes and motifs with Ein Bruderzwist, such as the prophecy of danger to the ruler through a member of his family, the father-son conflict, the contraposition of corruptness versus purity, and certain inconsistencies in the characterization.

12. E.g., Peter von Matt, Der Grundriß von Grillparzers Bühnenkunst (Zürich: Atlantis, 1965), pp. 136 ff.

13. Matt, p. 138.

14. Cf. Politzer, “Bruderzwist,” p. 179.

15. One possible interpretation of the scene at the well that—to my knowledge—has not been suggested before would be to see in Rudolf's dropping the key an act of mercy. Since the thwarted abduction of Lukrezia, Don Cäsar has been trying desperately to end his life, first in battle, without succeeding, and now by directly attempting suicide. Could it be that by dropping the key the emperor goes along with his son's intentions and wants to spare him the ignominy of a trial and certain public execution? It is possible to see in Rudolf's words: “Er ist gerichtet, / Von mir, von seinem Kaiser, seinem—/ Herrn!” (297), an assertion that only he, as Don Cäsar's father, should judge him, and a final act of fatherly protection. Seen in this light, the scene is considerably less horrid than, e.g., the killing of Emilia Galotti at her father's hands.