There is nothing worth thinking but it has been thought before; we must
only try to think it again.
How can a man come to know himself? Never by thinking, but by doing. Try
to do your duty, and you will know at once what you are worth. But what
is your duty? The claims of the day.
The longer I live, the more it grieves me to see man, who occupies his
supreme place for the very purpose of imposing his will upon nature, and
freeing himself and his from an outrageous necessity—to see him taken
up with some false notion, and doing just the opposite of what he wants
to do; and then, because the whole bent of his mind is spoilt, bungling
miserably over everything.
In the works of mankind, as in those of nature, it is really the motive
which is chiefly worth attention.
In Botany there is a species of plants called Incompletæ; and just in
the same way it can be said there are men who are incomplete and
imperfect. They are those whose desires and struggles are out of
proportion to their actions and achievements.
It is a great error to take oneself for more than one is, or for less
than one is worth.
From time to time I meet with a youth in whom I can wish for no
alteration or improvement, only I am sorry to see how often his nature
makes him quite ready to swim with the stream of the time; and it is on
this that I would always insist, that man in his fragile boat has the
rudder placed in his hand, just that he may not be at the mercy of the
waves, but follow the direction of his own insight.
If I am to listen to another man's opinion, it must be expressed
positively. Of things problematical I have enough in myself.
Piety is not an end, but a means: a means of attaining the highest
culture by the purest tranquility of soul. Hence it may be observed that
those who set up piety as an end and object are mostly hypocrites.
Reading ought to mean understanding; writing ought to mean knowing
something; believing ought to mean comprehending; when you desire a
thing, you will have to take it; when you demand it, you will not get
it; and when you are experienced, you ought to be useful to others.
The stream is friendly to the miller whom it serves; it likes to pour
over the mill wheels; what is the good of it stealing through the valley
in apathy?
Theory is in itself of no use, except in so far as it makes us believe
in the connection of phenomena.
"Le sens common est le génie de l'humanité." Common-sense, which is
here put forward as the genius of humanity, must be examined first of
all in the way it shows itself. If we inquire the purpose to which
humanity puts it, we find as follows: Humanity is conditioned by needs.
If they are not satisfied, men become impatient; and if they are, it
seems not to affect them. The normal man moves between these two states,
and he applies his understanding—his so-called common sense—to the
satisfaction of his needs. When his needs are satisfied, his task is to
fill up the waste spaces of indifference. Here, too, he is successful,
if his needs are confined to what is nearest and most necessary. But if
they rise and pass beyond the sphere of ordinary wants, common-sense is
no longer sufficient; it is a genius no more, and humanity enters on the
region of error.
There is no piece of foolishness but it can be corrected by intelligence
or accident; no piece of wisdom but it can miscarry by lack of
intelligence or by accident.
Justice insists on obligation, law on decorum. Justice weighs and
decides, law superintends and orders. Justice refers to the individual,
law to society.
The history of knowledge is a great fugue in which the voices of the
nations one after the other emerge.
If a man is to achieve all that is asked of him, he must take himself
for more than he is, and as long as he does not carry it to an absurd
length, we willingly put up with it.
People whip curds to see if they cannot make cream of them.
Wisdom lies only in truth.
When I err, every one can see it; but not when I lie.
Before the storm breaks, the dust rises violently for the last time—the
dust that is soon to be laid for ever.
Men do not come to know one another easily, even with the best will and
the best purpose. And then ill-will comes in and distorts everything.
In the world the point is, not to know men, but at any given moment to
be cleverer than the man who stands before you. You can prove this at
every fair and from every charlatan.
Not everywhere where there is water, are there frogs; but where you have
frogs, there you will find water.
In the formation of species Nature gets, as it were, into a cul-de-sac;
she cannot make her way through, and is disinclined to turn back. Hence
the stubbornness of national character.
Many a man knocks about on the wall with his hammer, and believes that
he hits the right nail on the head every time.
Those who oppose intellectual truths do but stir up the fire, and the
cinders fly about and burn what they had else not touched.
Those from whom we are always learning are rightly called our masters;
but not every one who teaches us deserves this title.
It is with you as with the sea: the most varied names are given to what
is in the end only salt water.
It is said that vain self-praise stinks in the nostrils. That may be so;
but for the kind of smell which comes from unjust blame by others the
public has no nose at all.
There are problematical natures which are equal to no position in which
they find themselves, and which no position satisfies. This it is that
causes that hideous conflict which wastes life and deprives it of all
pleasure.
Dirt glitters as long as the sun shines.
He is the happiest man who can set the end of his life in connection
with the beginning.
A state of things in which every day brings some new trouble is not the
right one.
The Hindoos of the Desert make a solemn vow to eat no fish.
To venture an opinion is like moving a piece at chess it may be taken,
but it forms the beginning of a game that is won.
Truth belongs to the man, error to his age. This is why it has been said
that, while the misfortune of the age caused his error, the force of his
soul made him emerge from the error with glory.
I pity those who make much ado about the transitory nature of all things
and are lost in the contemplation of earthly vanity: are we not here to
make the transitory permanent? This we can do only if we know how to
value both.
A rainbow which lasts a quarter of an hour is looked at no more.
Faith is private capital, kept in one's own house. There are public
savings-banks and loan-offices, which supply individuals in their day of
need; but here the creditor quietly takes his interest for himself.
During a prolonged study of the lives of various men both great and
small, I came upon this thought: In the web of the world the one may
well be regarded as the warp, the other as the woof. It is the little
men, after all, who give breadth to the web, and the great men firmness
and solidity; perhaps, also, the addition of some sort of pattern. But
the scissors of the Fates determine its length, and to that all the rest
must join in submitting itself.
Truth is a torch, but a huge one, and so it is only with blinking eyes
that we all of us try to get past it, in actual terror of being burnt.
The really foolish thing in men who are otherwise intelligent is that
they fail to understand what another person says, when he does not
exactly hit upon the right way of saying it.
One need only grow old to become gentler in one's judgments. I see no
fault committed which I could not have committed myself.
Why should those who are happy expect one who is miserable to die before
them in a graceful attitude, like the gladiator before the Roman mob?
By force of habit we look at a clock that has run down as if it were
still going, and we gaze at the face of a beauty as though she still
loved.
Dilettantism treated seriously, and knowledge pursued mechanically, end
by becoming pedantry.
No one but the master can promote the cause of Art. Patrons help the
master—that is right and proper; but that does not always mean that Art
is helped.
The most foolish of all errors is for clever young men to believe that
they forfeit their originality in recognizing a truth which has already
been recognized by others.
It is much easier to recognize error than to find truth; for error lies
on the surface and may be overcome; but truth lies in the depths, and to
search for it is not given to every one.
No one should desire to live in irregular circumstances; but if by
chance a man falls into them, they test his character and show of how
much determination he is capable.
An honorable man with limited ideas often sees through the rascality of
the most cunning jobber.
Against criticism a man can neither protest nor defend himself; he must
act in spite of it, and then criticism will gradually yield to him.
The masses cannot dispense with men of ability, and such men are always
a burden to them.
If you lay duties upon people and give them no rights, you must pay them
well.
I can promise to be sincere, but not to be impartial.
Word and picture are correlatives which are continually in quest of each
other, as is sufficiently evident in the case of metaphors and similes.
So from all time what was said or sung inwardly to the ear had to be
presented equally to the eye. And so in childish days we see word and
picture in continual balance; in the book of the law and in the way of
salvation, in the Bible and in the spelling-book. When something was
spoken which could not be pictured, and something pictured which could
not be spoken, all went well; but mistakes were often made, and a word
was used instead of a picture; and thence arose those monsters of
symbolical mysticism, which are doubly an evil.
The importunity of young dilettanti must be borne with good-will; for as
they grow old they become the truest worshippers of Art and the Master.
People have to become really bad before they care for nothing but
mischief, and delight in it.
Clever people are the best encyclopædia.
There are people who make no mistakes because they never wish to do
anything worth doing.
A man cannot live for every one; least of all for those with whom he
would not care to live.
I should like to be honest with you, without our falling out; but it
will not do. You act wrongly, and fall between two stools; you win no
adherents and lose your friends. What is to be the end of it?
If a clever man commits a folly, it is not a small one.
I went on troubling myself about general ideas until I learnt to
understand the particular achievements of the best men.
The errors of a man are what make him really lovable.
As in Rome there is, apart from the Romans, a population of statues, so
apart from this real world there is a world of illusion, almost more
potent, in which most men live.
Mankind is like the Red Sea; the staff has scarcely parted the waves
asunder before they flow together again. Thoughts come back; beliefs
persist; facts pass by never to return.
Of all peoples, the Greeks have dreamt the dream of life the best.
We readily bow to antiquity, but not to posterity. It is only a father
that does not grudge talent to his son. The whole art of living consists
in giving up existence in order to exist.
All our pursuits and actions are a wearying process. Well is it for him
who wearies not.
Hope is the second soul of the unhappy.
At all times it has not been the age, but individuals alone, who have
worked for knowledge. It was the age which put Socrates to death by
poison, the age which burnt Huss. The ages have always remained alike.
If a man knows where to get good advice, it is as though he could supply
it himself.
A man must pay dear for his errors if he wishes to get rid of them, and
even then he is lucky.
Enthusiasm is of the greatest value, so long as we are not carried away
by it.
Error is related to truth as sleep to waking. I have observed that on
awakening from error a man turns again to truth as with new vigor.
Every one suffers who does not work for himself. A man works for others
to have them share in his joy.
Common-sense is born pure in the healthy man, is self-developed, and is
revealed by a resolute perception and recognition of what is necessary
and useful. Practical men and women avail themselves of it with
confidence. Where it is absent, both sexes find anything necessary when
they desire it, and useful when it gives them pleasure.
All men, as they attain freedom, give play to their errors. The strong
do too much, and the weak too little.
The conflict of the old, the existing, the continuing, with development,
improvement and reform, is always the same. Order of every kind turns at
last to pedantry, and to get rid of the one, people destroy the other;
and so it goes on for a while, until people perceive that order must be
established anew. Classicism and Romanticism; close corporations and
freedom of trade; the maintenance of large estates and the division of
the land—it is always the same conflict which ends by producing a new
one. The best policy of those in power would be so to moderate this
conflict as to let it right itself without the destruction of either
element. But this has not been granted to men, and it seems not to be
the will of God.
A great work limits us for the moment, because we feel it above our
powers; and only in so far as we afterward incorporate it with our
culture, and make it part of our mind and heart, does it become a dear
and worthy object.
There are many things in the world that are at once good and excellent,
but they do not come into contact.
When men have to do with women, they get spun off like a distaff.
It may well be that a man is at times horribly threshed by misfortunes,
public and private: but the reckless flail of Fate, when it beats the
rich sheaves, crushes only the straw; and the corn feels nothing of it
and dances merrily on the floor, careless whether its way is to the mill
or the furrow.
In the matter of knowledge, it has happened to me as to one who rises
early and in the dark impatiently awaits the dawn and then the sun, but
is blinded when it appears.
People often say to themselves in life that they should avoid a variety
of occupation, and, more particularly, be the less willing to enter upon
new work the older they grow. But it is easy to talk, easy to give
advice to oneself and others. To grow old is itself to enter upon a new
business; all the circumstances change, and a man must either cease
acting altogether, or willingly and consciously take over the new rôle.
To live in a great idea means to treat the impossible as though it were
possible. It is just the same with a strong character; and when an idea
and a character meet, things arise which fill the world with wonder for
thousands of years.
Napoleon lived wholly in a great idea, but he was unable to take
conscious hold of it. After utterly disavowing all ideals and denying
them any reality, he zealously strove to realize them. His clear,
incorruptible intellect could not, however, tolerate such a perpetual
conflict within; and there is much value in the thoughts which he was
compelled, as it were, to utter, and which are expressed very peculiarly
and with much charm.
Man is placed as a real being in the midst of a real world, and endowed
with such organs that he can perceive and produce the real and also the
possible.
All healthy men have the conviction of their own existence and of an
existence around them. However, even the brain contains a hollow spot,
that is to say, a place in which no object is mirrored; just as in the
eye itself there is a little spot that does not see. If a man pays
particular attention to this spot and is absorbed in it, he falls into a
state of mental sickness, has presentiments of 'things of another
world,' which are, in reality, no things at all, possessing neither form
nor limit, but alarming him like dark, empty tracts of night, and
pursuing him as something more than phantoms, if he does not tear
himself free from them.
To the several perversities of the day a man should always oppose only
the great masses of universal history. That we have many criticisms to
make on those who visit us, and that, as soon as they depart, we pass no
very amiable judgment upon them, seems to me almost natural; for we
have, so to speak, a right to measure them by our own standard. Even
intelligent and fair-minded men hardly refrain from sharp censure on
such occasions.
But if, on the contrary, we have been in their homes, and have seen them
in their surroundings and habits and the circumstances which are
necessary and inevitable for them; if we have seen the kind of influence
they exert on those around them, or how they behave, it is only
ignorance and ill-will that can find food for ridicule in what must
appear to us in more than one sense worthy of respect.
Women's society is the element of good manners.
The most privileged position, in life as in society, is that of an
educated soldier. Rough warriors, at any rate, remain true to their
character, and as great strength is usually the cover for good nature,
we get on with them at need.
No one would come into a room with spectacles on his nose, if he knew
that women at once lose any inclination to look at or talk to him.
There is no outward sign of politeness that will be found to lack some
deep moral foundation. The right kind of education would be that which
conveyed the sign and the foundation at the same time.
A man's manners are the mirror in which he shows his portrait.
Against the great superiority of another there is no remedy but love.
It is a terrible thing for an eminent man to be gloried in by fools.
It is said that no man is a hero to his valet. That is only because a
hero can be recognized only by a hero. The valet will probably know how
to appreciate his like—his fellow-valet.
Fools and wise folk are alike harmless. It is the half-wise, and the
half-foolish, who are the most dangerous.
To see a difficult thing lightly handled gives us the impression of the
impossible.
Difficulties increase the nearer we come to our aim.
Sowing is not so painful as reaping.
If any one meets us who owes us a debt of gratitude, it immediately
crosses our mind. How often can we meet some one to whom we owe
gratitude, without thinking of it!
To communicate oneself is Nature; to receive a communication as it is
given is Culture.
Contradiction and flattery make, both of them, bad conversation.
By nothing do men show their character more than by the things they
laugh at.
An intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, a wise man hardly
anything.
A man well on in years was reproved for still troubling himself about
young women. "It is the only means," he replied, "of regaining one's
youth; and that is something every one wishes to do."
A man does not mind being blamed for his faults, and being punished for
them, and he patiently suffers much for the sake of them; but he becomes
impatient if he is required to give them up.
Passion is enhanced and tempered by avowal. In nothing, perhaps, is the
middle course more desirable than in confidence and reticence toward
those we love.
To sit in judgment on the departed is never likely to be equitable. We
all suffer from life; who, except God, can call us to account? Let not
their faults and sufferings, but what they have accomplished and done,
occupy the survivors.
It is failings that show human nature, and merits that distinguish the
individual; faults and misfortunes we all have in common; virtues belong
to each one separately.
It would not be worth while to see seventy years if all the wisdom of
this world were foolishness with God. The true is Godlike; we do not see
it itself; we must guess at it through its manifestations.
The real scholar learns how to evolve the unknown from the known, and
draws near the master.
In the smithy the iron is softened by blowing up the fire, and taking
the dross from the bar. As soon as it is purified, it is beaten and
pressed, and becomes firm again by the addition of fresh water. The same
thing happens to a man at the hands of his teacher.
What belongs to a man he cannot get rid of, even though he throws it
away.
Of true religions there are only two: one of them recognizes and
worships the Holy that, without form or shape, dwells in and around us;
and the other recognizes and worships it in its fairest form. Everything
that lies between these two is idolatry.
The Saints were all at once driven from heaven; and senses, thought and
heart were turned from a divine mother with a tender child, to the grown
man doing good and suffering evil, who was later transfigured into a
being half-divine in its nature, and then recognized and honored as God
himself. He stood against a background where the Creator had opened out
the universe; a spiritual influence went out from him; his sufferings
were adopted as an example, and his transfiguration was the pledge of
ever-lastingness.
As a coal is revived by incense, so prayer revives the hopes of the
heart.
From a strict point of view we must have a reformation of ourselves
every day, and protest against others, even though it be in no religious
sense.
It should be our earnest endeavor to use words coinciding as closely as
possible with what we feel, see, think, experience, imagine and reason.
It is an endeavor which we cannot evade, and which is daily to be
renewed.
Let every man examine himself, and he will find this a much harder task
than he might suppose; for, unhappily, a man usually takes words as mere
make-shifts; his knowledge and his thought are in most cases better than
his method of expression.
False, irrelevant, and futile ideas may arise in ourselves and others,
or find their way into us from without. Let us persist in the effort to
remove them as far as we can, by plain and honest purpose.
Where I cannot be moral, my power is gone.
A man is not deceived by others; he deceives himself.
Laws are all made by old people and by men. Youths and women want the
exceptions, old people the rules.
Chinese, Indian and Egyptian antiquities are never more than
curiosities; it is well to make acquaintance with them; but in point of
moral and æsthetic culture they can help us little.
The German runs no greater danger than to advance with and by the
example of his neighbors. There is perhaps no nation that is fitter for
the process of self-development; so that it has proved of the greatest
advantage to Germany to have obtained the notice of the world so late.
The greatest difficulties lie where we do not look for them.
The mind endowed with active powers and keeping with a practical object
to the task that lies nearest, is the worthiest there is on earth.
Perfection is the measure of heaven, and the wish to be perfect the
measure of man.
When a great idea enters the world as a Gospel, it becomes an offense to
the multitude, which stagnates in pedantry; and to those who have much
learning, but little depth, it is folly.
You may recognize the utility of an idea, and yet not quite understand
how to make a perfect use of it.
Credo Deum! That is a fine, a worthy thing to say; but to recognize
God where and as he reveals himself, is the only true bliss on earth.
Kepler said: 'My wish is that I may perceive the God whom I find
everywhere in the external world, in like manner also within and inside
me.' The good man was not aware that, in that very moment, the divine in
him stood in the closest connection with the divine in the Universe.
What is predestination? It is this: God is mightier and wiser than we
are, and so he does with us as he pleases.
Toleration should, strictly speaking, be only a passing mood; it ought
to lead to acknowledgment and appreciation. To tolerate a person is to
affront him.
Faith, Love and Hope once felt, in a quiet sociable hour, a plastic
impulse in their nature; they worked together and created a lovely
image, a Pandora in the higher sense, Patience.
'I stumbled over the roots of the tree which I planted.' It must have
been an old forester who said that.
Does the sparrow know how the stork feels?
Lamps make oil spots, and candles want snuffing; it is only the light of
heaven that shines pure and leaves no stain.
If you miss the first button-hole, you will not succeed in buttoning up
your coat.
A burnt child dreads the fire; an old man who has often been singed is
afraid of warming himself.
It is not worth while to do anything for the world that we have with us,
as the existing order may in a moment pass away. It is for the past and
the future that we must work: for the past, to acknowledge its merits;
for the future, to try to increase its value.
Let no one think that people have waited for him as for the Savior.
Character in matters great and small consists in a man steadily pursuing
the things of which he feels himself capable.
Can a nation become ripe? That is a strange question. I would answer,
Yes! if all the men could be born thirty years of age. But as youth will
always be too forward and old age too backward, the really mature man is
always hemmed in between them, and has to resort to strange devices to
make his way through.
The most important matters of feeling as of reason, of experience as of
reflection, should be treated of only by word of mouth. The spoken word
at once dies if it is not kept alive by some other word following on it
and suited to the hearer. Observe what happens in social converse. If
the word is not dead when it reaches the hearer, he murders it at once
by a contradiction, a stipulation, a condition, a digression, an
interruption, and all the thousand tricks of conversation. With the
written word the case is still worse. No one cares to read anything to
which he is not already to some extent accustomed; he demands the known
and the familiar under an altered form. Still, the written word has this
advantage, that it lasts and can await the time when it is allowed to
take effect.
Opponents fancy they refute us when they repeat their own opinion and
pay no attention to ours.
It is with history as with nature and with everything of any depth, it
may be past, present or future: the further we seriously pursue it, the
more difficult are the problems that appear.
Every phenomenon is within our reach if we treat it as an inclined
plane, which is of easy ascent, though the thick end of the wedge may be
steep and inaccessible.
If a man would enter upon some course of knowledge, he must either be
deceived or deceive himself, unless external necessity irresistibly
determines him. Who would become a physician if, at one and the same
time, he saw before him all the horrible sights that await him?
Literature is a fragment of fragments: the least of what happened and
was spoken, has been written; and of the things that have been written,
very few have been preserved.
And yet, with all the fragmentary nature of literature, we find
thousandfold repetition; which shows how limited is man's mind and
destiny.
We must remember that there are many men who, without being productive,
are anxious to say something important, and the results are most
curious.
Some books seem to have been written, not to teach us anything, but to
let us know that the author has known something.
An author can show no greater respect for his public than by never
bringing it what it expects, but what he himself thinks right and proper
in that stage of his own and others' culture in which for the time he
finds himself.
That glorious hymn, Veni Creator Spiritus, is really an appeal to
genius. That is why it speaks so powerfully to men of intellect and
power.
Translators are like busy match-makers; they sing the praises of some
half-veiled beauty, and extol her charms, and arouse an irresistible
longing for the original.
My relations with Schiller rested on the decided tendency of both of us
toward a single aim, and our common activity rested on the diversity of
the means by which we endeavored to attain that aim.
The best that history gives us is the enthusiasm it arouses.
We really learn only from those books which we cannot criticise. The
author of a book which we could criticise would have to learn from us.
That is the reason why the Bible will never lose its power; because, as
long as the world lasts, no one can stand up and say: I grasp it as a
whole and understand all the parts of it. But we say humbly: as a whole
it is worthy of respect, and in all its parts it is applicable.
There is and will be much discussions as to the use and harm of
circulating the Bible. One thing is clear to me mischief will result, as
heretofore, by using it fantastically as a system of dogma; benefit, as
heretofore, by a loving acceptance of its teachings.
I am convinced that the Bible will always be more beautiful the more it
is understood; the more, that is, we see and observe that every word
which we take in a general sense and apply specially to ourselves, had,
under certain circumstances of time and place, a peculiar, special and
directly individual reference.
If one has not read the newspapers for some months and then reads them
altogether, one sees, as one never saw before, how much time is wasted
with this kind of literature.
Shakespeare's Henry IV. If everything were lost that has ever been
preserved to us of this kind of writing, the arts of poetry and rhetoric
could be completely restored out of this one play.
Shakespeare's finest dramas are wanting here and there in facility: they
are something more than they should be, and for that very reason
indicate the great poet.
The dignity of Art appears perhaps most conspicuously in Music; for in
Music there is no material to be deducted. It is wholly form and
intrinsic value, and it raises and ennobles all that it expresses.
It is only by Art, and especially by Poetry, that the imagination is
regulated. Nothing is more frightful than imagination without taste.
Art rests upon a kind of religious sense; it is deeply and ineradicably
in earnest. Thus it is that Art so willingly goes hand in hand with
Religion.
A noble philosopher spoke of architecture as frozen music; and it was
inevitable that many people should shake their heads over his remark. We
believe that no better repetition of this fine thought can be given than
by calling architecture a speechless music.
In every artist there is a germ of daring, without which no talent is
conceivable.
Higher aims are in themselves more valuable, even if unfulfilled, than
lower ones quite attained.
In every Italian school the butterfly breaks loose from the chrysalis.
Let us be many-sided! Turnips are good, but they are best mixed with
chestnuts. And these two noble products of the earth grow far apart.
In the presence of Nature even moderate talent is always possessed of
insight; hence drawings from Nature that are at all carefully done
always give pleasure.
A man cannot well stand by himself, and so he is glad to join a party;
because if he does not find rest there, he at any rate finds quiet and
safety.
It is difficult to know how to treat the errors of the age. If a man
oppose them, he stands alone; if he surrender to them, they bring him
neither joy nor credit.
There are some hundred Christian sects, every one of them acknowledging
God and the Lord in its own way, without troubling themselves further
about one another. In the study of nature, nay, in every study, things
must of necessity come to the same pass. For what is the meaning of
every one speaking of toleration, and trying to prevent others from
thinking and expressing themselves after their own fashion?
We more readily confess to errors, mistakes and short-comings in our
conduct than in our thought. And the reason of it is that the
conscience is humble and even takes a pleasure in being ashamed. But the
intellect is proud, and if forced to recant is driven to despair. * * *
This also explains how it is that truths which have been recognized are
at first tacitly admitted, and then gradually spread, so that the very
thing which was obstinately denied appears at last as something quite
natural.
Ignorant people raise questions which were answered by the wise
thousands of years ago.
Our advice is that every man should remain in the path he has struck out
for himself, and refuse to be overawed by authority, hampered by
prevalent opinion, or carried away by fashion.
Every investigator must, before all things, look upon himself as one who
is summoned to serve on a jury. He has only to consider how far the
statement of the case is complete and clearly set forth by the evidence.
Then he draws his conclusion and gives his vote, whether it be that his
opinion coincides with that of the foreman or not.
The history of philosophy, of science, of religion, all shows that
opinions spread in masses, but that that always comes to the front
which is more easily grasped, that is to say, is most suited and
agreeable to the human mind in its ordinary condition. Nay, he who has
practised self-culture in the higher sense may always reckon upon
meeting an adverse majority.
What is a musical string, and all its mechanical division, in comparison
with the musician's ear? May we not also say, what are the elementary
phenomena of nature itself compared with man, who must control and
modify them all before he can in any way assimilate them to himself?
Everything that we call Invention or Discovery in the higher sense of
the word is the serious exercise and activity of an original feeling for
truth, which, after a long course of silent cultivation, suddenly
flashes out into fruitful knowledge. It is a revelation working from
within on the outer world, and lets a man feel that he is made in the
image of God. It is a synthesis of World and Mind, giving the most
blessed assurance of the eternal harmony of things.
A man must cling to the belief that the incomprehensible is
comprehensible; otherwise he would not try to fathom it. A man does not
need to have seen or experienced everything himself. But if he is to
commit himself to another's experiences and his way of putting them, let
him consider that he has to do with three things—the object in question
and two subjects.
If we look at the problems raised by Aristotle, we are astonished at his
gift of observation. What wonderful eyes the Greeks had for many things!
Only they committed the mistake of being overhasty, of passing
straightway from the phenomenon to the explanation of it, and thereby
produced certain theories that are quite inadequate. But this is the
mistake of all times, and still made in our own day.
Hypotheses are cradle-songs by which the teacher lulls his scholars to
sleep. The thoughtful and honest observer is always learning more and
more of his limitations; he sees that the further knowledge spreads,
the more numerous are the problems that make their appearance.
If many a man did not feel obliged to repeat what is untrue, because he
has said it once, the world would have been quite different.
There is nothing more odious than the majority; it consists of a few
powerful men to lead the way; of accommodating rascals and submissive
weaklings; and of a mass of men who trot after them, without in the
least knowing their own mind.
When I observe the luminous progress and expansion of natural science in
modern times, I seem to myself like a traveler going eastward at dawn,
and gazing at the growing light with joy, but also with impatience;
looking forward with longing to the advent of the full and final light,
but, nevertheless, having to turn away his eyes when the sun appeared,
unable to bear the splendor he had awaited with so much desire.
We praise the eighteenth century for concerning itself chiefly with
analysis. The task remaining to the nineteenth is to discover the false
syntheses which prevail, and to analyze their contents anew.
A school may be regarded as a single individual who talks to himself for
a hundred years, and takes an extraordinary pleasure in his own being,
however foolish and silly it may be.
In science it is a service of the highest merit to seek out those
fragmentary truths attained by the ancients, and to develop them
further.
Nature fills all space with her limitless productivity. If we observe
merely our own earth, everything that we call evil and unfortunate is so
because Nature cannot provide room for everything that comes into
existence, and still less endow it with permanence.
The finest achievement for a man of thought is to have fathomed what may
be fathomed, and quietly to revere the unfathomable.
There are two things of which a man cannot be careful enough: of
obstinacy, if he confines himself to his own line of thought; of
incompetency, if he goes beyond it.
The century advances; but every individual begins anew.
What friends do with us and for us is a real part of our life; for it
strengthens and advances our personality. The assault of our enemies is
not part of our life; it is only part of our experience; we throw it off
and guard ourselves against it as against frost, storm, rain, hail or
any other of the external evils which may be expected to happen.
A man cannot live with every one, and therefore he cannot live for every
one. To see this truth aright is to place a high value upon one's
friends, and not to hate or persecute one's enemies. Nay, there is
hardly any greater advantage for a man to gain than to find out, if he
can, the merits of his opponents: it gives him a decided ascendency over
them.
Every one knows how to value what he has attained in life; most of all
the man who thinks and reflects in his old age. He has a comfortable
feeling that it is something of which no one can rob him.
The best metempsychosis is for us to appear again in others.
It is very seldom that we satisfy ourselves; all the more consoling is
it to have satisfied others.
We look back upon our life only as on a thing of broken pieces, because
our misses and failures are always the first to strike us, and outweigh
in our imagination what we have done and attained.
Nature! We are surrounded by her and locked in her clasp—powerless to
leave her, and powerless to come closer to her. Unasked and unwarned she
takes us up into the whirl of her dance, and hurries on with us till we
are weary and fall from her arms.
We live in the midst of her and are strangers. She speaks to us
unceasingly and betrays not her secret.
We are always influencing her and yet can do her no violence.
Individuality seems to be all her aim, and she cares naught for
individuals. She is always building and always destroying, and her
work-shop is not to be approached.
Nature lives in her children only, and the mother, where is she? She is
the sole artist—out of the simplest materials the greatest diversity;
attaining, with no trace of effort, the finest perfection, the closest
precision, always softly veiled. Each of her works has an essence of its
own; every shape that she takes is in idea utterly isolated; and yet all
forms one.
She plays a drama; whether she sees it herself, we know not; and yet she
plays it for us who stand but a little way off.
She has thought, and she ponders unceasingly; not as a man, but as
Nature. The meaning of the whole she keeps to herself, and no one can
learn it of her.
She rejoices in illusion. If a man destroys this in himself and others,
she punishes him like the hardest tyrant. If he follows her in
confidence, she presses him to her heart as if it were her child.
Her children are numberless. To no one of them is she altogether
niggardly; but she has her favorites, on whom she lavishes much, and for
whom she makes many a sacrifice. Over the great she has spread the
shield of her protection.
She spurts forth her creatures out of nothing, and tells them not whence
they come and whither they go. They have only to go their way; she knows
the path.
The drama she plays is always new, because she is always bringing new
spectators. Life is her fairest invention, and Death is her device for
having life in abundance.
She envelops man in darkness, and urges him constantly to the light. She
makes him dependent on the earth, heavy and sluggish, and always rouses
him up afresh.
She creates wants, because she loves movement. How marvelous that she
gains it all so easily! Every want is a benefit, soon satisfied, soon
growing again. If she gives more, it is a new source of desire; but the
balance quickly rights itself.
She lets every child work at her, every fool judge of her, and thousands
pass her by and see nothing; and she has her joy in them all, and in
them all finds her account.
Man obeys her laws even in opposing them; he works with her even when he
wants to work against her.
Speech or language she has none; but she creates tongues and hearts
through which she feels and speaks.
Her crown is Love. Only through Love can we come near her. She puts
gulfs between all things, and all things strive to be interfused. She
isolates everything, that she may draw everything together. With a few
draughts from the cup of Love she repays for a life full of trouble.
She is all things. She rewards herself and punishes herself; and in
herself rejoices and is distressed. She is rough and gentle, loving and
terrible, powerless and almighty. In her everything is always present.
Past or Future she knows not. The present is her Eternity. She is kind.
I praise her with all her works. She is wise and still. No one can force
her to explain herself, or frighten her into a gift that she does not
give willingly. She is crafty, but for a good end; and it is best not to
notice her cunning.
She is whole, and yet never finished. As she works now, so can she work
forever.
She has placed me in this world; she will also lead me out of it. I
trust myself to her. She may do with me as she pleases. She will not
hate her work. I did not speak of her. No! what is true and what is
false, she has spoken it all. Everything is her fault, everything is her
merit.
(Extracts from the Author's Preface.) TRANSLATED BY JOHN OXENFORD
This collection of Conversations with Goethe took its rise chiefly from
an impulse, natural to my mind, to appropriate to myself by writing any
part of my experience which strikes me as valuable or remarkable.
Moreover, I felt constantly the need of instruction, not only when I
first met with that extraordinary man, but also after I had lived with
him for years; and I loved to seize on the import of his words, and to
note it down, that I might possess them for the rest of my life.
When I think how rich and full were the communications by which he made
me so happy for a period of nine years, and now observe how small a part
I have retained in writing, I seem to myself like a child who,
endeavoring to catch the refreshing spring shower with open hands, finds
that the greater part of it runs through his fingers.
* * * * *
I think that these conversations not only contain many valuable
explanations and instructions on science, art, and practical life, but
that these sketches of Goethe, taken directly from life, will be
especially serviceable in completing the portrait which each reader may
have formed of Goethe from his manifold works.
Still, I am far from imagining that the whole internal Goethe is here
adequately portrayed. We may, with propriety, compare this extraordinary
mind and man to a many-sided diamond, which in each direction shines
with a different hue. And as, under different circumstances and with
different persons, he became another being, so I, too, can only say, in
a very modest sense, this is my Goethe.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOETHE'S STUDY]
My relation to him was peculiar, and of a very intimate kind: it was
that of the scholar to the master; of the son to the father; of the poor
in culture to the rich in culture. He drew me into his own circle, and
let me participate in the mental and bodily enjoyments of a higher state
of existence. Sometimes I saw him but once a week, when I visited him in
the evening; sometimes every day, when I had the happiness to dine with
him either alone or in company. His conversation was as varied as his
works. He was always the same, and always different. Now he was occupied
by some great idea, and his words flowed forth rich and inexhaustible;
they were often like a garden in spring where all is in blossom, and
where one is so dazzled by the general brilliancy that one does not
think of gathering a nosegay. At other times, on the contrary, he was
taciturn and laconic, as if a cloud pressed upon his soul; nay, there
were days when it seemed as if he were filled with icy coldness, and a
keen wind was sweeping over plains of frost and snow. When one saw him
again he was again like a smiling summer's day, when all the warblers of
the wood joyously greet us from hedges and bushes, when the cuckoo's
voice resounds through the blue sky, and the brook ripples through
flowery meadows. Then it was a pleasure to hear him; his presence then
had a beneficial influence, and the heart expanded at his words.
Winter and summer, age and youth, seemed with him to be engaged in a
perpetual strife and change; nevertheless, it was admirable in him, when
from seventy to eighty years old, that youth always recovered the
ascendancy; those autumnal and wintry days I have indicated were only
rare exceptions.
His self-control was great—nay, it formed a prominent peculiarity in
his character. It was akin to that lofty deliberation (Besonnenheit)
through which he always succeeded in mastering his material, and giving
his single works that artistical finish which we admire in them. Through
the same quality he was often concise and circumspect, not only in many
of his writings, but also in his oral expressions. When, however, in
happy moments, a more powerful demon[7] was active within him, and that
self-control abandoned him, his discourse rolled forth with youthful
impetuosity, like a mountain cataract. In such moments he expressed what
was best and greatest in his abundant nature, and such moments are to be
understood when his earlier friends say of him, that his spoken words
were better than those which he wrote and printed. Thus Marmontel said
of Diderot, that whoever knew him from his writings only knew him but
half; but that as soon as he became animated in actual conversation he
was incomparable, and irresistibly carried his hearers along.
* * * * *
1823
_Weimar, June 10.[8]—I arrived here a few days ago, but did not see
Goethe till today. He received me with great cordiality; and the
impression he made on me was such, that I consider this day as one of
the happiest in my life.
Yesterday, when I called to inquire, he fixed today at twelve o'clock as
the time when he would be glad to see me. I went at the appointed time,
and found a servant waiting for me, preparing to conduct me to him.
The interior of the house made a very pleasant impression upon me;
without being showy, everything was extremely simple and noble; even the
casts from antique statues, placed upon the stairs, indicated Goethe's
especial partiality for plastic art, and for Grecian antiquity. I saw
several ladies moving busily about in the lower part of the house, and
one of Ottilie's beautiful boys, who came familiarly up to me, and
looked fixedly in my face.
After I had cast a glance around, I ascended the stairs, with the very
talkative servant, to the first floor.
He opened a room, on the threshold of which the motto Salve was
stepped over as a good omen of a friendly welcome. He led me through
this apartment and opened another, somewhat more spacious, where he
requested me to wait, while he went to announce me to his master. The
air here was most cool and refreshing; on the floor was spread a carpet;
the room was furnished with a crimson sofa and chairs, which gave a
cheerful aspect; on one side stood a piano; and the walls were adorned
with many pictures and drawings, of various sorts and sizes.
Through an open door opposite, one looked into a farther room, also hung
with pictures, through which the servant had gone to announce me.
It was not long before Goethe came in, dressed in a blue frock-coat, and
with shoes. What a sublime form! The impression upon me was surprising.
But he soon dispelled all uneasiness by the kindest words. We sat down
on the sofa. I felt in a happy perplexity, through his look and his
presence, and could say little or nothing.
He began by speaking of my manuscript. "I have just come from you,"
said he; "I have been reading your writing all the morning; it needs no
recommendation—it recommends itself." He praised the clearness of the
style, the flow of the thought, and the peculiarity that all rested on a
solid basis and had been thoroughly considered. "I will soon forward
it," said he; "today I shall write to Cotta by post, and send him the
parcel tomorrow." I thanked him with words and looks.
We then talked of my proposed excursion. I told him that my design was
to go into the Rhineland, where I intended to stay at a suitable place,
and write something new. First, however, I would go to Jena, and there
await Herr von Cotta's answer.
Goethe asked whether I had acquaintance in Jena. I replied that I hoped
to come in contact with Herr von Knebel; on which he promised me a
letter which would insure me a more favorable reception. "And, indeed,"
said he, "while you are in Jena, we shall be near neighbors, and can see
or write to one another as often as we please." We sat a long while
together, in a tranquil, affectionate mood. I was close to him; I forgot
to speak for looking at him—I could not look enough. His face is so
powerful and brown! full of wrinkles, and each wrinkle full of
expression! And everywhere there is such nobleness and firmness, such
repose and greatness! He spoke in a slow, composed manner, such as you
would expect from an aged monarch. You perceive by his air that he
reposes upon himself, and is elevated far above both praise and blame. I
was extremely happy near him; I felt becalmed like one who, after many
toils and tedious expectations, finally sees his dearest wishes
gratified.
Thursday, September 18.—"The world is so great and rich, and life so
full of variety, that you can never want occasions for poems. But they
must all be occasional[9] poems; that is to say, reality must give both
impulse and material for their production. A particular case becomes
universal and poetic by the very circumstance that it is treated by a
poet. All my poems are occasional poems, suggested by real life, and
having therein a firm foundation. I attach no value to poems snatched
out of the air.
"Let no one say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this the
poet proves his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common
subject an interesting side. Reality must give the motive, the points to
be expressed, the kernel, as I may say; but to work out of it a
beautiful, animated whole, belongs to the poet. You know Fürnstein,
called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem possible,
on the cultivation of hops.
"I have now proposed to him to make songs for the different crafts of
working-men, particularly a weaver's song, and I am sure he will do it
well, for he has lived among such people from his youth; he understands
the subject thoroughly, and is therefore master of his material. That is
exactly the advantage of small works; you need only choose those
subjects of which you are master. With a great poem, this cannot be: no
part can be evaded; all which belongs to the animation of the whole, and
is interwoven into the plan, must be represented with precision. In
youth, however, the knowledge of things is only one-sided. A great work
requires many-sidedness, and on that rock the young author splits."
[Illustration: THE GARDEN AT GOETHE'S CITY HOUSE WEIMAR After a Water
Color by PETER WOLTZE]
I told Goethe that I had contemplated writing a great poem upon the
seasons, in which I might interweave the employments and amusements of
all classes. "Here is the very case in point," replied Goethe; "you may
succeed in many parts, but fail in others which refer to what you have
not duly investigated. Perhaps you would do the fisherman well, and the
huntsman ill; and if you fail anywhere, the whole is a failure, however
good single parts may be, and you have not produced a perfect work. Give
separately the single parts to which you are equal, and you make sure of
something good.
"I especially warn you against great inventions of your own; for then
you would try to give a view of things, and for that purpose youth is
seldom ripe. Further, character and views detach themselves as sides
from the poet's mind, and deprive him of the fulness requisite for
future productions. And, finally, how much time is lost in invention,
internal arrangement, and combination, for which nobody thanks us, even
supposing our work is happily accomplished.
"With a given material, on the other hand, all goes easier and better.
Facts and characters being provided, the poet has only the task of
animating the whole. He preserves his own fulness, for he needs to part
with but little of himself, and there is much less loss of time and
power, since he has only the trouble of execution. Indeed, I would
advise the choice of subjects which have been worked before. How many
Iphigenias have been written! yet they are all different, for each
writer considers and arranges the subject differently; namely, after his
own fashion.
"But, for the present, you had better lay aside all great undertakings.
You have striven long enough; it is time that you should enter into the
cheerful period of life, and for the attainment of this, the working out
of small subjects is the best expedient."
Sunday, October 19.—Today, I dined for the first time with Goethe. No
one was present except Frau von Goethe, Fräulein Ulrica, and little
Walter, and thus we were all very comfortable. Goethe appeared now
solely as father of a family, helping to all the dishes, carving the
roast fowls with great dexterity, and not forgetting between whiles to
fill the glasses. We had much lively chat about the theatre, young
English people, and other topics of the day; Fräulein Ulrica was
especially lively and entertaining. Goethe was generally silent, coming
out only now and then with some pertinent remark. From time to time he
glanced at the newspaper, now and then reading us some passages,
especially about the progress of the Greeks.
They then talked about the necessity of my learning English, and Goethe
earnestly advised me to do so, particularly on account of Lord Byron;
saying, that a character of such eminence had never existed before, and
probably would never come again. They discussed the merits of the
different teachers here, but found none with a thoroughly good
pronunciation; on which account they deemed it better to go to some
young Englishman.
After dinner, Goethe showed me some experiments relating to his theory
of colors. The subject was, however, new to me; I neither understood
the phenomena, nor what he said about them. Nevertheless, I hoped that
the future would afford me leisure and opportunity to initiate myself a
little into this science.
* * * * *
Thursday, November 13.—Some days ago, as I was walking one fine
afternoon towards Erfurt, I was joined by an elderly man, whom I
supposed, from his appearance, to be an opulent citizen. We had not
talked together long, before the conversation turned upon Goethe. I
asked him whether he knew Goethe. "Know him?" said he, with some
delight; "I was his valet almost twenty years!" He then launched into
the praises of his former master. I begged to hear something of Goethe's
youth, and he gladly consented to gratify me.
"When I first lived with him," said he, "he might have been about
twenty-seven years old; he was thin, nimble, and elegant in his person.
I could easily have carried him in my arms."
I asked whether Goethe, in that early part of his life here, had not
been very gay. "Certainly," replied he; "he was always gay with the gay,
but never when they passed a certain limit; in that case he usually
became grave. Always working and seeking; his mind always bent on art
and science; that was generally the way with my master. The duke often
visited him in the evening, and then they often talked on learned topics
till late at night, so that I got extremely tired, and wondered when the
duke would go. Even then he was interested in natural science.
"One time he rang in the middle of the night, and when I entered his
room I found he had rolled his iron bed to the window, and was lying
there, looking out upon the heavens. 'Have you seen nothing in the sky?'
asked he; and when I answered in the negative, he bade me run to the
guard-house, and ask the man on duty if he had seen nothing. I went
there; the guard said he had seen nothing, and I returned with this
answer to my master, who was still in the same position, lying in his
bed, and gazing upon the sky. 'Listen,' said he to me; 'this is an
important moment; there is now an earthquake, or one is just going to
take place;' then he made me sit down on the bed, and showed me by what
signs he knew this."
I asked the good old man "what sort of weather it was." "It was very
cloudy," he replied; "no air stirring; very still and sultry."
I asked if he at once believed there was an earthquake on Goethe's word.
"Yes," said he, "I believed it, for things always happened as he said
they would. Next day he related his observations at court, when a lady
whispered to her neighbor, 'Only listen, Goethe is dreaming.' But the
duke, and all the men present, believed Goethe, and the correctness of
his observations was soon confirmed; for, in a few weeks, the news came
that a part of Messina, on that night, had been destroyed by an
earthquake."
Friday, November 14.—Towards evening Goethe sent me an invitation to
call upon him. Humboldt, he said, was at court, and therefore I should
be all the more welcome. I found him, as I did some days ago, sitting in
his armchair; he gave me a friendly shake of the hand, and spoke to me
with heavenly mildness. The chancellor soon joined us. We sat near
Goethe, and carried on a light conversation, that he might only have to
listen. The physician, Counsellor Rehbein, soon came also. To use his
own expression, he found Goethe's pulse quite lively and easy. At this
we were highly pleased, and joked with Goethe on the subject. "If I
could only get rid of the pain in my left side!" he said. Rehbein
prescribed a plaster there; we talked on the good effect of such a
remedy, and Goethe consented to it. Rehbein turned the conversation to
Marienbad, and this appeared to awaken pleasant reminiscences in Goethe.
Arrangements were made to go there again, it was said that the great
duke would join the party, and these prospects put Goethe in the most
cheerful mood. They also talked about Madame Szymanowska, and mentioned
the time when she was here, and all the men were solicitous for her
favor.
When Rehbein was gone, the chancellor read the Indian poems, and Goethe,
in the meanwhile, talked to me about the Marienbad Elegy.
At eight o'clock, the chancellor went, and I was going, too, but Goethe
bade me stop a little, and I sat down. The conversation turned on the
stage, and the fact that Wallenstein was to be done tomorrow. This
gave occasion to talk about Schiller.
"I have," said I, "a peculiar feeling towards Schiller. Some scenes of
his great dramas I read with genuine love and admiration; but presently
I meet with something which violates the truth of nature, and I can go
no further. I feel this even in reading Wallenstein. I cannot but
think that Schiller's turn for philosophy injured his poetry, because
this led him to consider the idea far higher than all nature; indeed,
thus to annihilate nature. What he could conceive must happen, whether
it were in conformity with nature or not."
"It was sad," said Goethe, "to see how so highly gifted a man tormented
himself with philosophical disquisitions which could in no way profit
him. Humboldt has shown me letters which Schiller wrote to him in those
unblest days of speculation. There we see how he plagued himself with
the design of perfectly separating sentimental from naive poetry. For
the former he could find no proper soil, and this brought him into
unspeakable perplexity."
"As if," continued he, smiling, "sentimental poetry could exist at all
without the naive ground in which, as it were, it has its root."
"It was not Schiller's plan," continued Goethe, "to go to work with a
certain unconsciousness, and as it were instinctively; he was forced, on
the contrary, to reflect on all he did. Hence it was that he never could
leave off talking about his poetical projects, and thus he discussed
with me all his late pieces, scene after scene.
"On the other hand, it was contrary to my nature to talk over my poetic
plans with anybody—even with Schiller. I carried everything about with
me in silence, and usually nothing was known to any one till the whole
was completed. When I showed Schiller my Hermann and Dorothea
finished, he was astonished, for I had said not a syllable to him of any
such plan.
"But I am curious to hear what you will say of Wallenstein tomorrow.
You will see noble forms, and the piece will make an impression on you
such as you probably do not dream of."
Saturday, November 15.—In the evening I was in the theatre, where I
for the first time saw Wallenstein. Goethe had not said too much; the
impression was great, and stirred my inmost soul. The actors, who had
almost all belonged to the time when they were under the personal
influence of Schiller and Goethe, gave an ensemble of significant
personages, such as on a mere reading were not presented to my
imagination with all their individuality. On this account the piece had
an extraordinary effect upon me, and I could not get it out of my head
the whole night.
Sunday, November 16.—In the evening at Goethe's; he was still sitting
in his elbow-chair, and seemed rather weak. His first question was about
Wallenstein. I gave him an account of the impression the piece had
made upon me as represented on the stage, and he heard me with visible
satisfaction.
M. Soret came in, led in by Frau von Goethe, and remained about an hour.
He brought from the duke some gold medals, and by showing and talking
about these seemed to entertain Goethe very pleasantly.
Frau von Goethe and M. Soret went to court, and I was left alone with
Goethe.
Remembering his promise to show me again his Marienbad Elegy at a
fitting opportunity, Goethe arose, put a light on the table, and gave
me the poem. I was delighted to have it once more before me. He quietly
seated himself again, and left me to an undisturbed perusal of the
piece.
After I had been reading a while, I turned to say something to him, but
he seemed to be asleep. I therefore used the favorable moment, and read
the poem again and again with a rare delight. The most youthful glow of
love, tempered by the moral elevation of the mind, seemed to me its
pervading characteristic. Then I thought that the feelings were more
strongly expressed than we are accustomed to find in Goethe's other
poems, and imputed this to the influence of Byron—which Goethe did not
deny.
"You see the product of a highly impassioned mood," said he. "While I
was in it I would not for the world have been without it, and now I
would not for any consideration fall into it again.
"I wrote that poem immediately after leaving Marienbad, while the
feeling of all I had experienced there was fresh. At eight in the
morning, when we stopped at the first stage, I wrote down the first
strophe; and thus I went on composing in the carriage, and writing down
at every stage what I had just composed in my head, so that by the
evening the whole was on paper. Thence it has a certain directness, and
is, as I may say, poured out at once, which may be an advantage to it as
a whole."
"It is," said I, "quite peculiar in its kind, and recalls no other poem
of yours."
"That," said he, I "may be, because I staked upon the present moment as
a man stakes a considerable sum upon a card, and sought to enhance its
value as much as I could without exaggeration."
These words struck me as very important, inasmuch as they threw a light
on Goethe's method so as to explain that many-sidedness which has
excited so much admiration.
1824
Friday, January 2.—Dined at Goethe's, and enjoyed some cheerful
conversation. Mention was made of a young beauty belonging to the Weimar
society, when one of the guests remarked that he was on the point of
falling in love with her, although her understanding could not exactly
be called brilliant.
"Pshaw," said Goethe, laughing, "as if love had anything to do with the
understanding. The things that we love in a young lady are something
very different from the understanding. We love in her beauty,
youthfulness, playfulness, trustingness, her character, her faults, her
caprices, and God knows what 'je ne sais quoi' besides; but we do not
love her understanding. We respect her understanding when it is
brilliant, and by it the worth of a girl can be infinitely enhanced in
our eyes. Understanding may also serve to fix our affections when we
already love; but the understanding is not that which is capable of
firing our hearts, and awakening a passion."
We found much that was true and convincing in Goethe's words, and were
very willing to consider the subject in that light. After dinner, and
when the rest of the party had departed, I remained sitting with Goethe,
and conversed with him on various interesting topics.
We discoursed upon English literature, on the greatness of Shakespeare,
and on the unfavorable position held by all English dramatic authors who
had appeared after that poetical giant.
"A dramatic talent of any importance," said Goethe, "could not forbear
to notice Shakespeare's works, nay, could not forbear to study them.
Having studied them, he must be aware that Shakespeare has already
exhausted the whole of human nature in all its tendencies, in all its
heights and depths, and that, in fact, there remains for him, the
aftercomer, nothing more to do. And how could one get courage only to
put pen to paper, if one were conscious in an earnest, appreciating
spirit, that such unfathomable and unattainable excellences were
already in existence!
"It fared better with me fifty years ago in my own dear Germany. I could
soon come to an end with all that then existed; it could not long awe
me, or occupy my attention. I soon left behind me German literature, and
the study of it, and turned my thoughts to life and to production. So on
and on I went in my own natural development, and on and on I fashioned
the productions of epoch after epoch. And at every step of life and
development, my standard of excellence was not much higher than what at
such step I was able to attain. But had I been born an Englishman, and
had all those numerous masterpieces been brought before me in all their
power, at my first dawn of youthful consciousness, they would have
overpowered me, and I should not have known what to do. I could not have
gone on with such fresh light-heartedness, but should have had to
bethink myself, and look about for a long time, to find some new
outlet."
I turned the conversation back to Shakespeare. "When one, to some
degree, disengages him from English literature," said I, "and considers
him transformed into a German, one cannot fail to look upon his gigantic
greatness as a miracle. But if one seeks him in his home, transplants
oneself to the soil of his country, and to the atmosphere of the century
in which he lived; further, if one studies his contemporaries, and his
immediate successors, and inhales the force wafted to us from Ben
Jonson, Massinger, Marlowe, and Beaumont and Fletcher, Shakespeare
still, indeed, appears a being of the most exalted magnitude; but still,
one arrives at the conviction that many of the wonders of his genius
are, in some measure, accessible, and that much is due to the powerfully
productive atmosphere of his age and time."
"You are perfectly right," returned Goethe. "It is with Shakespeare as
with the mountains of Switzerland. Transplant Mont Blanc at once into
the large plain of Lüneburg Heath, and we should find no words to
express our wonder at its magnitude. Seek it, however, in its gigantic
home, go to it over its immense neighbors, the Jungfrau, the
Finsteraarhorn, the Eiger, the Wetterhorn, St. Gotthard, and Monte Rosa;
Mont Blanc will, indeed, still remain a giant, but it will no longer
produce in us such amazement."
"Besides, let him who will not believe," continued Goethe, "that much of
Shakespeare's greatness appertains to his great vigorous time, only ask
himself the question, whether a phenomenon so astounding would be
possible in the present England of 1824, in these evil days of
criticising and hair-splitting journals?"
"That undisturbed, innocent, somnambulatory production, by which alone
anything great can thrive, is no longer possible. Our talents at present
lie before the public. The daily criticisms which appear in fifty
different places, and the gossip that is caused by them amongst the
public, prevent the appearance of any sound production. In the present
day, he who does not keep aloof from all this, and isolate himself by
main force, is lost. Through the bad, chiefly negative, æsthetical and
critical tone of the journals, a sort of half culture finds its way into
the masses; but to productive talent it is a noxious mist, a dropping
poison, which destroys the tree of creative power, from the ornamental
green leaves, to the deepest pith and the most hidden fibres.
"And then how tame and weak has life itself become during the last two
shabby centuries. Where do we now meet an original nature? and where is
the man who has the strength to be true, and to show himself as he is?
This, however, affects the poet, who must find all within himself, while
he is left in the lurch by all without."
The conversation now turned on Werthe. "That," said Goethe, "is a
creation which I, like the pelican, fed with the blood of my own heart.
It contains so much from the innermost recesses of my breast—so much
feeling and thought, that it might easily be spread into a novel of ten
such volumes. Besides, as I have often said, I have only read the book
once since its appearance, and have taken good care not to read it
again. It is a mass of congreve-rockets. I am uncomfortable when I look
at it; and I dread lest I should once more experience the peculiar
mental state from which it was produced."
I reminded him of his conversation with Napoleon, of which I knew by the
sketch amongst his unpublished papers, which I had repeatedly urged him
to give more in detail. "Napoleon," said I, "pointed out to you a
passage in Werther, which, it appeared to him, would not stand a
strict examination; and this you allowed. I should much like to know
what passage he meant."
"Guess!" said Goethe, with a mysterious smile.
"Now," said I, "I almost think it is where Charlotte sends the pistols
to Werther, without saying a word to Albert, and without imparting to
him her misgivings and apprehensions. You have given yourself great
trouble to find a motive for this silence, but it does not appear to
hold good against the urgent necessity where the life of the friend was
at stake."
"Your remark," returned Goethe, "is really not bad; but I do not think
it right to reveal whether Napoleon meant this passage or another.
However, be that as it may, your observation is quite as correct as
his."
I asked the question, whether the great effect produced by the
appearance of Werther was really to be attributed to the period. "I
cannot," said I, "reconcile to myself this view, though it is so
extensively spread. Werther made an epoch because it appeared—not
because it appeared at a certain time. There is in every period so much
unexpressed sorrow—so much secret discontent and disgust for life, and,
in single individuals, there are so many disagreements with the
world—so many conflicts between their natures and civil regulations,
that Werther would make an epoch even if it appeared today for the
first time."
"You are quite right," said Goethe; "it is on that account that the book
to this day influences youth of a certain age, as it did formerly. It
was scarcely necessary for me to deduce my own youthful dejection from
the general influence of my time, and from the reading of a few English
authors. Rather was it owing to individual and immediate circumstances
which touched me to the quick, and gave me a great deal of trouble, and
indeed brought me into that frame of mind which produced Werther. I
had lived, loved, and suffered much—that was it."
"On considering more closely the much-talked-of Werther period, we
discover that it does not belong to the course of universal culture, but
to the career of life in every individual, who, with an innate free
natural instinct, must accommodate himself to the narrow limits of an
antiquated world. Obstructed fortune, restrained activity, unfulfilled
wishes, are not the calamities of any particular time, but those of
every individual man; and it would be bad, indeed, if every one had not,
once in his life, known a time when Werther seemed as if it had been
written for him alone."
Sunday, January 4.—Today, after dinner, Goethe went through a
portfolio, containing some works of Raphael, with me. He often busies
himself with Raphael, in order to keep up a constant intercourse with
that which is best, and to accustom himself to muse upon the thoughts of
a great man. At the same time, it gives him pleasure to introduce me to
such things.
We afterwards spoke about the Divan[10]—especially about the "book of
ill-humor," in which much is poured forth that he carried in his heart
against his enemies.
"If I have, however," continued he, "been very moderate: if I had
uttered all that vexed me or gave me trouble, the few pages would soon
have swelled to a volume.
"People were never thoroughly contented with me, but always wished me
otherwise than it has pleased God to make me. They were also seldom
contented with my productions. When I had long exerted my whole soul to
favor the world with a new work, it still desired that I should thank it
into the bargain for considering the work endurable. If any one praised
me, I was not allowed, in self-congratulation, to receive it as a
well-merited tribute; but people expected from me some modest
expression, humbly setting forth the total unworthiness of my person and
my work. However, my nature opposed this; and I should have been a
miserable hypocrite, if I had so tried to lie and dissemble. Since I was
strong enough to show myself in my whole truth, just as I felt, I was
deemed proud, and am considered so to the present day.
"In religious, scientific, and political matters, I generally brought
trouble upon myself, because I was no hypocrite, and had the courage to
express what I felt.
"I believed in God and in Nature, and in the triumphs of good over evil;
but this was not enough for pious souls; I was also required to believe
other points, which were opposed to the feeling of my soul for truth;
besides, I did not see that these would be of the slightest service to
me.
"It was also prejudicial to me that I discovered Newton's theory of
light and color to be an error, and that I had the courage to contradict
the universal creed. I discovered light in its purity and truth, and I
considered it my duty to fight for it. The opposite party, however, did
their utmost to darken the light; for they maintained that shade is a
part of light. It sounds absurd when I express it; but so it is: for
they said that colors, which are shadow and the result of shade, are
light itself, or, which amounts to the same thing, are the beams of
light, broken now in one way, now in another."
Goethe was silent, whilst an ironical smile spread over his expressive
countenance. He continued—
"And now for political matters. What trouble I have taken, and what I
have suffered, on that account, I cannot tell you. Do you know my
'Aufgeregten?'"[11]
"Yesterday, for the first time," returned I, "I read the piece, in
consequence of the new edition of your works; and I regret from my heart
that it remains unfinished. But, even as it is, every right-thinking
person must coincide with your sentiments."
"I wrote it at the time of the French Revolution," continued Goethe,
"and it may be regarded, in some measure, as my political confession of
faith at that time. I have taken the countess as a type of the nobility;
and, with the words which I put into her mouth, I have expressed how the
nobility really ought to think. The countess has just returned from
Paris; she has there been an eye-witness of the revolutionary events,
and has drawn, therefore, for herself, no bad doctrine. She has
convinced herself that the people may be ruled, but not oppressed, and
that the revolutionary outbreaks of the lower classes are the
consequence of the injustice of the higher classes. 'I will for the
future,' says she, 'strenuously avoid every action that appears to me
unjust, and will, both in society and at court, loudly express my
opinion concerning such actions in others. In no case of injustice will
I be silent, even though I should be cried down as a democrat.'
"I should have thought this sentiment perfectly respectable," continued
Goethe; "it was mine at that time, and it is so still; but as a reward
for it, I was endowed with all sorts of titles, which I do not care to
repeat."
"One need only read Egmont," answered I, "to discover what you think.
I know no German piece in which the freedom of the people is more
advocated than in this."
"Sometimes," said Goethe, "people do not like to look on me as I am,
but turn their glances from everything which could show me in my true
light. Schiller, on the contrary—who, between ourselves, was much more
of an aristocrat than I am, but who considered what he said more than
I—had the wonderful fortune to be looked upon as a particular friend of
the people. I give it up to him with all my heart, and console myself
with the thought that others before me had fared no better.
"It is true that I could be no friend to the French Revolution; for its
horrors were too near me, and shocked me daily and hourly, whilst its
beneficial results were not then to be discovered. Neither could I be
indifferent to the fact that the Germans were endeavoring, artificially,
to bring about such scenes here, as were, in France, the consequence of
a great necessity.
"But I was as little a friend to arbitrary rule. Indeed, I was perfectly
convinced that a great revolution is never a fault of the people, but of
the government. Revolutions are utterly impossible as long as
governments are constantly just and constantly vigilant, so that they
may anticipate them by improvements at the right time, and not hold out
until they are forced to yield by the pressure from beneath.
"Because I hated the Revolution, the name of the 'Friend of the powers
that be' was bestowed upon me. That is, however, a very ambiguous
title, which I would beg to decline. If the 'powers that be' were all
that is excellent, good, and just, I should have no objection to the
title; but, since with much that is good there is also much that is bad,
unjust, and imperfect, a friend of the 'powers that be' means often
little less than the friend of the obsolete and bad.[12]
"But time is constantly progressing, and human affairs wear every fifty
years a different aspect; so that an arrangement which, in the year
1800, was perfection, may, perhaps, in the year 1850, be a defect.
"And, furthermore, nothing is good for a nation but that which arises
from its own core and its own general wants, without apish imitation of
another; since what to one race of people, of a certain age, is a
wholesome nutriment, may perhaps prove a poison for another. All
endeavors to introduce any foreign innovation, the necessity for which
is not rooted in the core of the nation itself, are therefore foolish;
and all premeditated revolutions of the kind are I unsuccessful, for
they are without God, who keeps aloof from such bungling. If, however,
there exists an actual necessity for a great reform amongst a people,
God is with it, and it prospers. He was visibly with Christ and his
first adherents; for the appearance of the new doctrine of love was a
necessity to the people. He was also visibly with Luther; for the
purification of the doctrine corrupted by the priests was no less a
necessity. Neither of the great powers whom I have named was, however, a
friend of the permanent; much more were both of them convinced that the
old leaven must be got rid of, and that it would be impossible to go on
and remain in the untrue, unjust, and defective way."
Tuesday, January 27.—Goethe talked with me about the continuation of
his memoirs, with which he is now busy. He observed that this later
period of his life would not be narrated with such minuteness as the
youthful epoch of Dichtung and Wahrheit.[13] "I must," said he, "treat
this later period more in the fashion of annals: my outward actions must
appear rather than my inward life. Altogether, the most important part
of an individual's life is that of development, and mine is concluded in
the detailed volumes of Dichtung and Wahrheit. Afterwards begins the
conflict with the world, and that is interesting only in its results.
"And then the life of a learned German—what is it? What may have been
really good in my case cannot be communicated, and what can be
communicated is not worth the trouble. Besides, where are the hearers
whom one could entertain with any satisfaction?
"When I look back to the earlier and middle periods of my life, and now
in my old age think how few are left of those who were young with me, I
always think of a summer residence at a bathing-place. When you arrive,
you make acquaintance and friends of those who have already been there
some time, and who leave in a few weeks. The loss is painful. Then you
turn to the second generation, with which you live a good while, and
become most intimate. But this goes also, and leaves us alone with the
third, which comes just as we are going away, and with which we have,
properly, nothing to do.
"I have ever been esteemed one of Fortune's chiefest favorites; nor will
I complain or find fault with the course my life has taken. Yet, truly,
there has been nothing but toil and care; and I may say that, in all my
seventy-five years, I have never had a month of genuine comfort. It has
been the perpetual rolling of a stone, which I have always had to raise
anew. My annals will render clear what I now say. The claims upon my
activity, both from within and without, were too numerous.
"My real happiness was my poetic meditation and production. But how was
this disturbed, limited, and hindered by my external position! Had I
been able to abstain more from public business, and to live more in
solitude, I should have been happier, and should have accomplished much
more as a poet. But, soon after my Goetz and Werther, that saying of a
sage was verified for me—'If you do anything for the sake of the world,
it will take good care that you shall not do it a second time.'
"A wide-spread celebrity, an elevated position in life, are good
things. But, for all my rank and celebrity, I am still obliged to be
silent as to the opinion of others, that I may not give offense. This
would be but poor sport, if by this means I had not the advantage of
learning the thoughts of others without their being able to learn mine."
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 25.—Today, Goethe showed me two very remarkable
poems, both highly moral in their tendency, but in their several motives
so unreservedly natural and true, that they are of the kind which the
world styles immoral. On this account he keeps them to himself, and does
not intend to publish them.
"Could intellect and high cultivation," said he, "become the property of
all, the poet would have fair play; he could be always thoroughly true,
and would not be compelled to fear uttering his best thoughts. But, as
it is, he must always keep on a certain level; must remember that his
works will fall into the hands of a mixed society; and must, therefore,
take care lest by over-great openness he may give offense to the
majority of good men. Then Time is a strange thing. It is a whimsical
tyrant, which in every century has a different face for all that one
says and does. We cannot, with propriety, say things which were
permitted to the ancient Greeks; and the Englishmen of 1820 cannot
endure what suited the vigorous contemporaries of Shakespeare; so that,
at the present day, it is found necessary to have a Family Shakespeare."
"Then," said I, "there is much in the form also. The one of these two
poems, which is composed in the style and metre of the ancients, would
be far less offensive than the other. Isolated parts would displease,
but the treatment throws so much grandeur and dignity over the whole,
that we seem to hear a strong ancient, and to be carried back to the age
of the Greek heroes. But the other, being in the style and metre of
Messer Ariosto, is far more hazardous. It relates an event of our day,
in the language of our day, and as it thus comes quite unveiled into
our presence, the particular features of boldness seem far more
audacious."
"You are right," said he; "mysterious and great effects are produced by
different poetical forms. If the import of my Romish elegies were put
into the measure and style of Byron's Don Juan, the whole would be
found infamous."
The French newspapers were brought. The campaign of the French in Spain
under the Duke d'Angoulême, which was just ended, had great interest for
Goethe. "I must praise the Bourbons for this measure," said he; "they
had not really gained the throne till they had gained the army, and that
is now accomplished. The soldier returns with loyalty, to his king; for
he has, from his own victories, and the discomfitures of the many-headed
Spanish host, learned the difference between obeying one and many. The
army has sustained its ancient fame, and shown that it is brave in
itself, and can conquer without Napoleon."
Goethe then turned his thoughts backward into history, and talked much
of the Prussian army in the Seven Years' War, which, accustomed by
Frederic the Great to constant victory, grew careless, so that, in after
days, it lost many battles from over-confidence. All the minutest
details were present to his mind, and I had reason to admire his
excellent memory.
"I had the great advantage," said he, "of being born at a time when the
greatest events which agitated the world occurred, and such have
continued to occur during my long life; so that I am a living witness of
the Seven Years' War, of the separation of America from England, of the
French Revolution, and of the whole Napoleon era, with the downfall of
that hero, and the events which followed. Thus I have attained results
and insight impossible to those who are born now and must learn all
these things from books which they will not understand.
"What the next years will bring I cannot predict; but I fear we shall
not soon have repose. It is not given to the world to be contented; the
great are not such that there will be no abuse of power; the masses not
such that, in hope of gradual improvement, they will be contented with a
moderate condition. Could we perfect human nature, we might also expect
a perfect state of things; but, as it is, there will always be a
wavering hither and thither; one part must suffer while the other is at
ease, envy and egotism will be always at work like bad demons, and party
strife will be without end.
"The most reasonable way is for every one to follow his own vocation to
which he has been born, and which he has learned, and to avoid hindering
others from following theirs. Let the shoemaker abide by his last, the
peasant by his plough, and let the king know how to govern; for, this is
also a business which must be learned, and with which no one should
meddle who does not understand it."
Returning to the French papers, Goethe said: "The liberals may speak,
for when they are reasonable we like to hear them; but with the
royalists, who have the executive power in their hands, talking comes
amiss—they should act. They may march troops, and behead and hang—that
is all right; but attacking opinions, and justifying their measures in
public prints, does not become them. If there were a public of kings,
they might talk.
"For myself," he continued, "I have always been a royalist. I have let
others babble, and have done as I saw fit. I understood my course, and
knew my own object. If I committed a fault as a single individual, I
could make it good again; but if I committed it jointly with three or
four others, it would be impossible to make it good, for among many
there are many opinions."
Goethe was in excellent spirits today. He showed me Frau von Spiegel's
album, in which he had written some very beautiful verses. A place had
been left open for him for two years, and he rejoiced at having been
able to perform at last an old promise. After I had read the "Poem to
Frau von Spiegel," I turned over the leaves of the book, in which I
found many distinguished names. On the very next page was a poem by
Tiedge, written in the very spirit and style of his Urania. "In a
saucy mood," said Goethe, "I was on the point of writing some verses
beneath those; but I am glad I did not. It would not have been the first
time that, by rash expressions, I had repelled good people, and spoiled
the effect of my best works.
"However," continued Goethe, "I have had to endure not a little from
Tiedge's Urania; for, at one time, nothing was sung and nothing was
declaimed but this same Urania. Wherever you went, you found Urania on
the table. Urania and immortality were the topics of every
conversation. I would by no means dispense with the happiness of
believing in a future existence, and, indeed, would say, with Lorenzo
de' Medici, that those are dead even for this life who hope for no
other. But such incomprehensible matters lie too far off to be a theme
of daily meditation and thought-distracting speculation. Let him who
believes in immortality enjoy his happiness in silence, he has no reason
to give himself airs about it. The occasion of Tiedge's Urania led me
to observe that piety, like nobility, has its aristocracy. I met stupid
women, who plumed themselves on believing, with Tiedge, in immortality,
and I was forced to bear much dark examination on this point. They were
vexed by my saying I should be well pleased if, after the close of this
life, we were blessed with another, only I hoped I should hereafter meet
none of those who had believed in it here. For how should I be
tormented! The pious would throng around me, and say, 'Were we not
right? Did we not predict it? Has not it happened just as we said?' And
so there would be ennui without end, even in the other world.
"This occupation with the ideas of immortality," he continued, "is for
people of rank, and especially ladies, who have nothing to do. But an
able man, who has some thing regular to do here, and must toil and
struggle and produce day by day, leaves the future world to itself, and
is active and useful in this. Thoughts about immortality are also good
for those who have not been very successful here; and I would wager
that, if the good Tiedge had enjoyed a better lot, he would also have
had better thoughts."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 9.—I passed this evening with Goethe. We talked of
Klopstock and Herder; and I liked to listen to him, as he explained to
me the merits of those men.
"Without those powerful precursors," said Goethe, "our literature could
not have become what it now is. When they appeared, they were before
their age, and were obliged, as it were, to drag it after them; but now
the age has far outrun them, and they who were once so necessary and
important have now ceased to be means to an end. A young man who would
take Klopstock and Herder for his teachers nowadays would be far
behindhand."
We talked over Klopstock's Messiah and his Odes, touching on their
merits and their defects. We agreed that he had no faculty for observing
and apprehending the visible world, or for drawing characters; and that
he therefore wanted the qualities most essential to the epic and
dramatic poet, or, perhaps it might be said, to the poet generally.
"An ode occurs to me," said Goethe, "where he makes the German Muse run
a race with the British; and, indeed, when one thinks what a picture it
is, where the two girls run one against the other, throwing about their
legs and kicking up the dust, one must assume that the good Klopstock
did not really have before his eyes such pictures as he wrote, else he
could not possibly have made such mistakes."
I asked how he had felt towards Klopstock in his youth. "I venerated
him," said Goethe, "with the devotion which was peculiar to me; I looked
upon him as my uncle. I revered whatever he had done, and never thought
of reflecting upon it, or finding fault with it. I let his fine
qualities work upon me; for the rest, I went my own way."
We came back to Herder, and I asked Goethe which of his works he
thought the best. "His Idea for the History of Mankind" (Ideen zur
Geschichte der Menschheit), replied Goethe, "are undoubtedly the best.
In after days, he took the negative side, and was not so agreeable."
"Considering the great weight of Herder," said I, "I cannot understand
how he had so little judgment on some subjects. For instance, I cannot
forgive him, especially at that period of German literature, for sending
back the manuscript of Goetz von Berlichingen without any praise of
its merits, and with taunting remarks. He must have utterly wanted
organs to perceive some objects."
"Yes, Herder was unfortunate in this respect," replied Goethe; "nay,"
added he, with vivacity, "if his spirit were present at this
conversation, it would not understand us."
"On the other hand," said I, "I must praise Merck, who urged you to
print Goetz."
"He was indeed an odd but important man," said Goethe. "'Print the
thing,' quoth he, 'it is worth nothing, but print it.' He did not wish
me to make any alteration in it, and he was right; for it would have
been different, but not better."
Wednesday, November 24.—I went to see Goethe this evening, before
going to the theatre, and found him very well and cheerful. He inquired
about the young Englishmen who are here. I told him that I proposed
reading with Mr. Doolan a German translation of Plutarch. This led the
conversation to Roman and Grecian history; and Goethe expressed himself
as follows:
"The Roman history," said he, "is no longer suited to us. We have become
too humane for the triumphs of Cæsar not to be repugnant to our
feelings. Neither are we much charmed by the history of Greece. When
this people turns against a foreign foe, it is, indeed, great and
glorious; but the division of the states, and their eternal wars with
one another, where Greek fights against Greek, are insufferable.
Besides, the history of our own time is thoroughly great and important;
the battles of Leipsic and Waterloo stand out with such prominence that
that of Marathon and others like it are gradually eclipsed. Neither are
our individual heroes inferior to theirs; the French Marshals, Blücher,
and Wellington, vie with any of the heroes of antiquity."
We then talked of the late French literature, and the daily increasing
interest in German works manifested by the French.
"The French," said Goethe, "do well to study and translate our writers;
for, limited as they are both in form and motives, they can only look
without for means. We Germans may be reproached for a certain
formlessness; but in matter we are their superiors. The theatrical
productions of Kotzebue and Iffland are so rich in motives that they may
pluck them a long time before all is used up. But, especially, our
philosophical Ideality is welcome to them; for every Ideal is
serviceable to revolutionary aims.
"The French have understanding and esprit, but neither a solid basis
nor piety. What serves the moment, what helps his party, seems right to
the Frenchman. Hence they praise us, never from an acknowledgment of our
merits, but only when they can strengthen their party by our views."
We then talked about our own literature, and of the obstacles in the way
of some of our latest young poets.
"The majority of our young poets," said Goethe, "have no fault but this,
that their subjectivity is not important, and that they cannot find
matter in the objective. At best, they only find a material, which is
similar to themselves, which corresponds to their own subjectivity; but
as for taking the material on its own account, when it is repugnant to
the subjectivity, merely because it is poetical, such a thing is never
thought of.
"Still, as I have said, if we only had important personages, formed by
great studies and situations in life, it might still go well with us,
at least as far as our young lyric poets are concerned."
1825
Monday, January 10.—Goethe, consistently with his great interest for
the English, has desired me to introduce to him the young Englishmen who
are here at present.
After we had waited a few minutes, Goethe came in, and greeted us
cordially. He said to Mr. H., "I presume I may address you in German, as
I hear you are already well versed in our language." Mr. H. answered
with a few polite words, and Goethe requested us to be seated.
Mr. H.'s manners and appearance must have made a good impression on
Goethe; for his sweetness and mild serenity were manifested towards the
stranger in their real beauty. "You did well," said he "to come hither
to learn German; for here you will quickly and easily acquire, not only
a knowledge of the language, but also of the elements on which it rests,
our soil, climate, mode of life, manners, social habits, and
constitution, and carry it away with you to England."
Mr. H. replied, "The interest taken in the German language is now great,
so that there is now scarcely a young Englishman of good family who does
not learn German."
"We Germans," said Goethe, good-humoredly, "have, however, been half a
century before your nation in this respect. For fifty years I have been
busy with the English language and literature; so that I am well
acquainted with your writers, your ways of living, and the
administration of your country. If I went over to England, I should be
no stranger there.
"But, as I said before, your young men do well to come to us and learn
our language; for, not only does our literature merit attention on its
own account, but no one can deny that he who now knows German well can
dispense with many other languages. Of the French, I do not speak; it is
the language of conversation, and is indispensable in traveling,
because everybody understands it, and in all countries we can get on
with it instead of a good interpreter. But as for Greek, Latin, Italian,
and Spanish, we can read the best works of those nations in such
excellent German translations, that, unless we have some particular
object in view, we need not spend much time upon the toilsome study of
those languages. It is in the German nature duly to honor, after its
kind, everything produced by other nations, and to accommodate itself to
foreign peculiarities. This, with the great flexibility of our language,
makes German translations thoroughly faithful and complete. And it is
not to be denied that, in general, you get on very far with a good
translation. Frederick the Great did not know Latin, but he read Cicero
in the French translation with as much profit as we who read him in the
original."
Then, turning the conversation on the theatre, he asked Mr. H. whether
he went frequently thither. "Every evening," he replied, "and find that
I thus gain much towards the understanding of the language."
"It is remarkable," said Goethe, "that the ear, and generally the
understanding, gets the start of speaking; so that a man may very soon
comprehend all he hears, but by no means express it all."
"I experience daily," said Mr. H., "the truth of that remark. I
understand very well whatever I hear or read; I even feel when an
incorrect expression is made use of in German. But when I speak, nothing
will flow, and I cannot express myself as I wish. In light conversation
at court, jests with the ladies, a chat at balls, and the like, I
succeed pretty well. But, if I try to express an opinion on any
important topic, to say anything peculiar or luminous, I cannot get on."
"Be not discouraged by that," said Goethe, "since it is hard enough to
express such uncommon matters in one's own mother tongue."
He then asked what Mr. H. read in German literature. "I have read
Egmont," he replied, "and found so much pleasure in the perusal that
I returned to it three times. Torquato Tasso, too, has afforded me
much enjoyment. Now I am reading Faust, but find that it is somewhat
difficult."
Goethe laughed at these last words. "Really," said he, "I would
not have advised you to undertake Faust. It is mad stuff, and
goes quite beyond all ordinary feeling. But since you have done it of
your own accord, without asking my advice, you will see how you will get
through. Faust is so strange an individual that only few can sympathize
with his internal condition. Then the character of Mephistopheles is, on
account of his irony, and also because he is a living result of an
extensive acquaintance with the world, also very difficult. But you will
see what lights open upon you. Tasso, on the other hand, lies far
nearer the common feelings of mankind, and the elaboration of its form
is favorable to an easy comprehension of it."
"Yet," said Mr. H., "Tasso is thought difficult in Germany, and people
have wondered to hear me say that I was reading it."
"What is chiefly needed for Tasso," replied Goethe, "is that one
should be no longer a child, and should have been in good society. A
young man of good family, with sufficient mind and delicacy, and also
with enough outward culture, such as will be produced by intercourse
with accomplished men of the higher class, will not find' Tasso
difficult."
The conversation turning upon Egmont, he said, "I wrote Egmont in
1775—fifty years ago. I adhered closely to history, and strove to be as
accurate as possible. Ten years afterwards, when I was in Rome, I read
in the newspapers that the revolutionary scenes in the Nether lands
there described were exactly repeated. I saw from this that the world
remains ever the same, and that my picture must have some life in it."
Amid this and similar conversation, the hour for the theatre had come.
We arose, and Goethe dismissed us in a friendly manner.
As we went homeward, I asked Mr. H. how he was pleased with Goethe. "I
have never," said he, "seen a man who, with all his attractive
gentleness, had so much native dignity. However he may condescend, he is
always the great man."
Professor Riemer was announced, Rehbein took leave, and Riemer sat down
with us. The conversation still turned on the motives of the Servian
love-poems. Riemer was acquainted with the topic, and made the remark
that, according to the table of contents given above, not only could
poems be made, but that the same motives had been already used by the
Germans, without any knowledge that they had been treated in Servia. He
mentioned some poems of his own, and I mentioned some poems by Goethe,
which had occurred to me during the reading.
"The world," said Goethe, "remains always the same; situations are
repeated; one people lives, loves, and feels like another; why should
not one poet write like another? The situations of life are alike; why,
then, should those of poems be unlike?"
"This very similarity in life and sensation," said Riemer, "makes us all
able to appreciate the poetry of other nations. If this were not the
case, we should never know what foreign poems were about."
"I am, therefore," said I, "always surprised at the learned, who seem to
suppose that poetizing proceeds not from life to the poem, but from the
book to the poem. They are always saying, 'He got this here; he got that
there.' If, for instance, they find passages in Shakespeare which are
also to be found in the ancients, they say he must have taken them from
the ancients. Thus there is a situation in Shakespeare, where, on the
sight of a beautiful girl, the parents are congratulated who call her
daughter, and the youth who will lead her home as his bride. And
because the same thing occurs in Homer, Shakespeare, forsooth, has
taken it from Homer. How odd! As if one had to go so far for such
things, and did not have them before one's eyes, feel them and utter
them every day." "Ah, yes," said Goethe, "it is very ridiculous."
"Lord Byron, too," said I, "is no wiser, when he takes Faust to
pieces, and thinks you found one thing here, the other there."
"The greater part of those fine things cited by Lord Byron," said
Goethe, "I have never even read, much less did I think of them, when
I was writing Faust. But Lord Byron is great only as a poet; as
soon as he reflects, he is a child. He knows not how to help himself
against the stupid attacks of the same kind made upon him by his own
countrymen. He ought to have expressed himself more strongly against
them. 'What is there is mine,' he should have said, 'and whether I got
it from a book or from life, is of no consequence; the only point is,
whether I have made a right use of it.' Walter Scott used a scene from
my Egmont, and he had a right to do so; and because he did it
well, he deserves praise. He has also copied the character of my Mignon
in one of his romances; but whether with equal judgment, is another
question. Lord Byron's transformed Devil[14] is a continuation of
Mephistopheles, and quite right too. If, from the whim of originality,
he had departed from the model, he would certainly have fared worse.
Thus, my Mephistopheles sings a song from Shakespeare, and why should
he not? Why should I give myself the trouble of inventing one of my
own, when this said just what was wanted. If, too, the prologue to my
Faust is something like the beginning of Job, that is again
quite right, and I am rather to be praised than censured."
Goethe was in the best humor. He sent for a bottle of wine, and filled
for Riemer and me; he himself drank Marienbad water. He seemed to have
appointed this evening for looking over, with Riemer, the manuscript of
the continuation of his autobiography, perhaps in order to improve it
here and there, in point of expression. "Let Eckermann stay and hear it
too," said Goethe; which words I was very glad to hear, and he then laid
the manuscript before Riemer, who began to read, commencing with the
year 1795.
I had already, in the course of the summer, had the pleasure of
repeatedly reading and reflecting on the still unpublished record of
those years, down to the latest time. But now to hear them read aloud in
Goethe's presence, afforded quite a new enjoyment. Riemer paid especial
attention to the mode of expression; and I had occasion to admire his
great dexterity, and his affluence of words and phrases. But in Goethe's
mind the epoch of life described was revived; he revelled in
recollections, and on the mention of single persons and events, filled
out the written narrative by the details he orally gave us. That was a
precious evening! The most distinguished of his contemporaries were
talked over; but the conversation always came back to Schiller, who was
so interwoven with this period, from 1795 to 1800. The theatre had been
the object of their united efforts, and Goethe's best works belong to
this time. Wilhelm Meister was completed; Hermann and Dorothea
planned and written; Cellini translated for the "Horen;" the "Xenien"
written by both for Schiller's Musenalmanach; every day brought with
it points of contact. Of all this we talked this evening, and Goethe had
full opportunity for the most interesting communications.
"Hermann and Dorothea," said he, "is almost the only one of my larger
poems which still satisfies me; I can never read it without strong
interest. I love it best in the Latin translation; there it seems to me
nobler, and as if it had returned to its original form."
Wilhelm Meister was often a subject of discourse. "Schiller blamed me
for interweaving tragic elements which do not belong to the novel. Yet
he was wrong, as we all know. In his letters to me, there are most
important views and opinions with respect to Wilhelm Meister. But this
work is one of the most incalculable productions; I myself can scarcely
be said to have the key to it. People seek a central point, and that is
hard, and not even right. I should think a rich, manifold life, brought
close to our eyes, would be enough in itself, without any express
tendency, which, after all, is only for the intellect. But if anything
of the sort is insisted upon, it will perhaps be found in the words
which Frederic, at the end, addresses to the hero, when he says—'Thou
seem'st to me like Saul, the son of Kish, who went out to seek his
father's asses, and found a kingdom.' Keep only to this; for, in fact,
the whole work seems to say nothing more than that man, despite all his
follies and errors, being led by a higher hand, reaches some happy goal
at last."
We then talked of the high degree of culture which, during the last
fifty years, had become general among the middle classes of Germany, and
Goethe ascribed the merit of this not so much to Lessing as to Herder
and Wieland. "Lessing," said he, "was of the very highest understanding,
and only one equally great could truly learn of him. To a half faculty
he was dangerous." He mentioned a journalist who had formed himself on
Lessing, and at the end of the last century had played a part indeed,
but far from a noble one, because he was so inferior to his great
predecessor.
"All Upper Germany," said he, "is indebted to Wieland for its style. It
has learned much from him; and the capability of expressing itself
correctly is not the least."
On mentioning the Xenien,[15] he especially praised those of
Schiller, which he called sharp and biting, while he called his own
innocent and trivial.
"The Thierkreis (Zodiac), which is by Schiller," said he, "I always
read with admiration. The good effects which the Xenien had upon the
German literature of their time are beyond calculation." Many persons
against whom the Xenien were directed, were mentioned on this
occasion, but their names have escaped my memory.
After we had read and talked over the manuscript to the end of the year
1800, interrupted by these and innumerable other observations from
Goethe, he put aside the papers, and had a little supper placed at one
end of the table at which we were sitting. We partook of it, but Goethe
did not touch a morsel; indeed, I have never seen him eat in the
evening. He sat down with us, filled our glasses, snuffed the candles,
and intellectually regaled us with the most agreeable conversation. His
remembrance of Schiller was so lively, that the conversation during the
latter part of the evening was devoted to him alone.
Riemer spoke of Schiller's personal appearance. "The build of his limbs,
his gait in the street, all his motions," said he, "were proud; his eyes
only were soft."
"Yes," said Goethe, "everything else about him was proud and majestic,
only the eyes were soft. And his talent was like his outward form. He
seized boldly on a great subject, and turned it this way and that, and
handled it this way and that. But he saw his object, as it were, only in
the outside; a quiet development from its interior was not within his
province. His talent was desultory. Thus he was never decided—could
never have done. He often changed a part just before a rehearsal.
"And, as he went so boldly to work, he did not take sufficient pains
about motives. I recollect what trouble I had with him, when he wanted
to make Gessler, in Tell, abruptly break an apple from the tree, and
have it shot from the boy's head. This was quite against my nature, and
I urged him to give at least some motive to this barbarity, by making
the boy boast to Gessler of his father's dexterity, and say that he
could shoot an apple from a tree at a hundred paces. Schiller, at first,
would have nothing of the sort: but at last he yielded to my arguments
and intentions, and did as I advised him. I, on the other hand, by too
great attention to motives, kept my pieces from the theatre. My
Eugenie[16] is nothing but a chain of motives, and this cannot
succeed on the stage.
"Schiller's genius was really made for the theatre. With every piece he
progressed, and became more finished; but, strange to say, a certain
love for the horrible adhered to him from the time of The Robbers,
which never quite left him even in his prime. I still recollect
perfectly well, that in the prison scene in my 'Egmont,' where the
sentence is read to him, Schiller would have made Alva appear in the
background, masked and muffled in a cloak, enjoying the effect which the
sentence would produce on Egmont. Thus Alva was to show himself
insatiable in revenge and malice. I, however, protested, and prevented
the apparition. He was a great, odd man.
"Every week he became different and more finished; each time that I saw
him, he seemed to me to have advanced in learning and judgment. His
letters are the fairest memorials of him which I possess, and they are
also among the most excellent of his writings. His last letter I
preserve as a sacred relic, among my treasures." He rose and fetched it.
"See and read it," said he; giving it to me.
It was a very fine letter, written in a bold hand. It contained an
opinion of Goethe's notes to "Rameau's Nephew," which exhibit French
literature at that time, and which he had given Schiller to look over. I
read the letter aloud to Riemer.
"You see," said Goethe, "how apt and consistent is his judgment, and
that the handwriting nowhere betrays any trace of weakness. He was a
splendid man, and went from us in all the fulness of his strength. This
letter is dated the 24th of April, 1805. Schiller died on the 9th of
May."
We looked at the letter by turns, and were pleased both with the clear
style and the fine handwriting. Goethe bestowed several other words of
affectionate reminiscence upon his friend, until it was nearly eleven
o'clock, and we departed.
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 15.—I found Goethe in a very elevated mood this
evening, and had the pleasure of hearing from him many significant
remarks. We talked about the state of the newest literature, when Goethe
expressed himself as follows:
"Deficiency of character in individual investigators and writers is," he
said, "the source of all the evils of our newest literature.
"In criticism, especially, this defect produces mischief to the world,
for it either diffuses the false instead of the true, or by a pitiful
truth deprives us of something great, that would be better.
"Till lately, the world believed in the heroism of a Lucretia—of a
Mucius Scævola—and suffered itself, by this belief, to be warmed and
inspired. But now comes your historical criticism, and says that those
persons never lived, but are to be regarded as fables and fictions,
divined by the great mind of the Romans. What are we to do with so
pitiful a truth? If the Romans were great enough to invent such stories,
we should at least be great enough to believe them.
"Till lately, I was always pleased with a great fact in the thirteenth
century, when the Emperor Frederic the Second was at variance with the
Pope, and the north of Germany was open to all sorts of hostile attacks.
Asiatic hordes had actually penetrated as far as Silesia, when the Duke
of Liegnitz terrified them by one great defeat. They then turned to
Moravia, but were here defeated by Count Sternberg. These valiant men
had on this account been living in my heart as the great saviors of the
German nation. But now comes historical criticism, and says that these
heroes sacrificed themselves quite uselessly, as the Asiatic army was
already recalled, and would have returned of its own accord. Thus is a
great national fact crippled and destroyed, which seems to me most
abominable."
After these remarks on historical critics, Goethe spoke of another class
of seekers and literary men.
"I could never," said he, "have known so well how paltry men are, and
how little they care for really high aims, if I had not tested them by
my scientific researches. Thus I saw that most men care for science only
so far as they get a living by it, and that they worship even error when
it affords them a subsistence.
"In belles lettres it is no better. There, too, high aims and genuine
love for the true and sound, and for their diffusion, are very rare
phenomena. One man cherishes and tolerates another, because he is by him
cherished and tolerated in return. True greatness is hateful to them;
they would fain drive it from the world, so that only such as they might
be of importance in it. Such are the masses; and the prominent
individuals are not better.
"—— 's great talents and world-embracing learning might have done much
for his country. But his want of character has deprived the world of
such great results, and himself of the esteem of the country.
"We want a man like Lessing. For how was he great, except in
character—in firmness? There are many men as clever and as cultivated,
but where is such character?
"Many are full of esprit and knowledge, but they are also full of
vanity; and that they may shine as wits before the short-sighted
multitude, they have no shame or delicacy—nothing is sacred to them.
"Madame de Genlis was therefore perfectly right when she declaimed
against the freedoms and profanities of Voltaire. Clever as they all may
be, the world has derived no profit from them; they afford a foundation
for nothing. Nay, they have been of the greatest injury, since they have
confused men and robbed them of their needful support.
"After all, what do we know, and how far can we go with all our wit?
"Man is born not to solve the problems of the universe, but to find out
where the problem begins, and then to restrain himself within the limits
of the comprehensible.
"His faculties are not sufficient to measure the actions of the
universe; and an attempt to explain the outer world by reason is, with
his narrow point of view, but a vain endeavor. The reason of man and the
reason of the Deity are two very different things.
"If we grant freedom to man, there is an end to the omniscience of God;
for if the Divinity knows how I shall act, I must act so perforce. I
give this merely as a sign how little we know, and to show that it is
not good to meddle with divine mysteries.
"Moreover, we should only utter higher maxims so far as they can benefit
the world. The rest we should keep within ourselves, and they will
diffuse over our actions a lustre like the mild radiance of a hidden
sun."
Sunday, December 25.—"I have of late made an observation, which I
will impart to you.
"Everything we do has a result. But that which is right and prudent does
not always lead to good, nor the contrary to what is bad; frequently the
reverse takes place. Some time since, I made a mistake in one of these
transactions with booksellers, and was sorry that I had done so. But now
circumstances have so altered, that, if I had not made that very
mistake, I should have made a greater one. Such instances occur
frequently in life, and hence we see men of the world, who know this,
going to work with great freedom and boldness."
I was struck by this remark, which was new to me.
I then turned the conversation to some of his works, and we came to the
elegy Alexis and Dora.
"In this poem," said Goethe, "people have blamed the strong, passionate
conclusion, and would have liked the elegy to end gently and peacefully,
without that outbreak of jealousy; but I could not see that they were
right. Jealousy is so manifestly an ingredient of the affair, that the
poem would be incomplete if it were not introduced at all. I myself knew
a young man who, in the midst of his impassioned love for an easily-won
maiden, cried out, 'But would she not act to another as she has acted to
me?'"
I agreed entirely with Goethe, and then mentioned the peculiar
situations in this elegy, where, with so few strokes and in so narrow a
space, all is so well delineated that we think we see the whole life and
domestic environment of the persons engaged in the action. "What you
have described," said I, "appears as true as if you had worked from
actual experience."
"I am glad it seems so to you," said Goethe. "There are, however, few
men who have imagination for the truth of reality; most prefer strange
countries and circumstances, of which they know nothing, and by which
their imagination may be cultivated, oddly enough.
"Then there are others who cling altogether to reality, and, as they
wholly want the poetic spirit, are too severe in their requisitions. For
instance, in this elegy, some would have had me give Alexis a servant to
carry his bundle, never thinking that all that was poetic and idyllic in
the situation would thus have been destroyed."
From Alexis and Dora, the conversation then turned to Wilhelm
Meister. "There are odd critics in this world," said Goethe; "they
blamed me for letting the hero of this novel live so much in bad
company; but by this very circumstance that I considered this so-called
bad company as a vase into which I could put everything I had to say
about good society, I gained a poetical body, and a varied one into the
bargain. Had I, on the contrary, delineated good society by the
so-called good society, nobody would have read the book.
"In the seeming trivialities of Wilhelm Meister, there is always
something higher at bottom, and nothing is required but eyes, knowledge
of the world, and power of comprehension to perceive the great in the
small. For those who are without such qualities, let it suffice to
receive the picture of life as real life."
Goethe then showed me a very interesting English work, which illustrated
all Shakespeare in copper plates. Each page embraced, in six small
designs, one piece with some verses written beneath, so that the leading
idea and the most important situations of each work were brought before
the eyes. All these immortal tragedies and comedies thus passed before
the mind like processions of masks.
"It is even terrifying," said Goethe, "to look through these little
pictures. Thus are we first made to feel the infinite wealth and
grandeur of Shakespeare. There is no motive in human life which he has
not exhibited and expressed! And all with what ease and freedom!
"But we cannot talk about Shakespeare; everything is inadequate. I have
touched upon the subject in my Wilhelm Meister but that is not saying
much. He is not a theatrical poet; he never thought of the stage; it was
far too narrow for his great mind: nay, the whole visible world was too
narrow.
"He is even too rich and too powerful. A productive nature[17] ought
not to read more than one of his dramas in a year if it would not be
wrecked entirely. I did well to get rid of him by writing Goetz, and
Egmont,[18] and Byron did well by not having too much respect and
admiration for him, but going his own way. How many excellent Germans
have been ruined by him and Calderon!
"Shakespeare gives us golden apples in silver dishes. We get, indeed,
the silver dishes by studying his works; but, unfortunately, we have
only potatoes to put into them."
I laughed, and was delighted with this admirable simile.
Goethe then read me a letter from Zelter, describing a representation of
Macbeth at Berlin, where the music could not keep pace with the grand
spirit and character of the piece, as Zelter set forth by various
intimations. By Goethe's reading, the letter gained its full effect, and
he often paused to admire with me the point of some single passage.
"Macbeth," said Goethe, "is Shakespeare's best acting play, the one in
which he shows most understanding with respect to the stage. But would
you see his mind unfettered, read Troilus and Cressida, where he
treats the materials of the Iliad in his own fashion."
The conversation turned upon Byron—the disadvantage in which he appears
when placed beside the innocent cheerfulness of Shakespeare, and the
frequent and generally not unjust blame which he drew upon himself by
his manifold works of negation.
"If Lord Byron," said Goethe, "had had an opportunity of working off all
the opposition in his character, by a number of strong parliamentary
speeches, he would have been much more pure as a poet. But, as he
scarcely ever spoke in parliament, he kept within himself all his
feelings against his nation, and to free himself from them, he had no
other means than to express them in poetical form. I could, therefore,
call a great part of Byron's works of negation 'suppressed parliamentary
speeches,' and think this would be no bad name for them."
We then mentioned one of our most modern German poets, Platen, who had
lately gained a great name, and whose negative tendency was likewise
disapproved. "We cannot deny," said Goethe, "that he has many brilliant
qualities, but he is wanting in—love. He loves his readers and his
fellow-poets as little as he loves himself, and thus we may apply to him
the maxim of the apostle—'Though I speak with the tongues of men and
angels, and have not love (charity), I am become as sounding brass and a
tinkling cymbal.' I have lately read the poems of Platen, and cannot
deny his great talent. But, as I said, he is deficient in love, and
thus he will never produce the effect which he ought. He will be feared,
and will be the idol of those who would like to be as negative as
himself, but have not his talent."
* * * * *
1827
Thursday evening, January 18.—The conversation now turned wholly on
Schiller, and Goethe proceeded thus: "Schiller's proper productive
talent lay in the ideal; and it may be said he has not his equal in
German or any other literature. He has almost everything that Lord Byron
has; but Lord Byron is his superior in knowledge of the world. I wish
Schiller had lived to know Lord Byron's works, and wonder what he would
have said to so congenial a mind. Did Byron publish anything during
Schiller's life?"
I could not say with certainty. Goethe took down the Conversations
Lexicon, and read the article on Byron, making many hasty remarks as he
proceeded. It appeared that Byron had published nothing before 1807, and
that therefore Schiller could have seen nothing of his.
"Through all Schiller's works," continued Goethe, "goes the idea of
freedom; though this idea assumed a new shape as Schiller advanced in
his culture and became another man. In his youth it was physical freedom
which occupied him, and influenced his poems; in his later life it was
ideal freedom.
"Freedom is an odd thing, and every man has enough of it, if he can
only satisfy himself. What avails a superfluity of freedom which we
cannot use? Look at this chamber and the next, in which, through the
open door, you see my bed. Neither of them is large; and they are
rendered still narrower by necessary furniture, books, manuscripts, and
works of art; but they are enough for me. I have lived in them all the
winter, scarcely entering my front rooms. What have I done with my
spacious house, and the liberty of going from one room to another, when
I have not found it requisite to make use of them?
"If a man has freedom enough to live healthy, and work at his craft, he
has enough; and so much all can easily obtain. Then all of us are only
free under certain conditions, which we must fulfil. The citizen is as
free as the nobleman, when he restrains himself within the limits which
God appointed by placing him in that rank. The nobleman is as free as
the prince; for, if he will but observe a few ceremonies at court, he
may feel himself his equal. Freedom consists not in refusing to
recognize anything above us, but in respecting something which is above
us; for, by respecting it, we raise ourselves to it, and by our very
acknowledgment make manifest that we bear within ourselves what is
higher, and are worthy to be on a level with it.
"I have, on my journeys, often met merchants from the north of Germany,
who fancied they were my equals, if they rudely seated themselves next
me at table. They were, by this method, nothing of the kind; but they
would have been so if they had known how to value and treat me.
"That this physical freedom gave Schiller so much trouble in his
youthful years, was caused partly by the nature of his mind, but still
more by the restraint which he endured at the military school. In later
days, when he had enough physical freedom, he passed over to the ideal;
and I would almost say that this idea killed him, since it led him to
make demands on his physical nature which were too much for his
strength.
"The Grand Duke fixed on Schiller, when he was established here, an
income of one thousand dollars yearly, and offered to give him twice as
much in case he should be hindered by sickness from working. Schiller
declined this last offer, and never availed himself of it. 'I have
talent,' said he, 'and must help myself.' But as his family enlarged of
late years, he was obliged, for a livelihood, to write two dramas
annually; and to accomplish this, he forced himself to write days and
weeks when he was not well. He would have his talent obey him at any
hour. He never drank much; he was very temperate; but, in such hours of
bodily weakness, he was obliged to stimulate his powers by the use of
spirituous liquors. This habit impaired his health, and was likewise
injurious to his productions. The faults which some wiseacres find in
his works I deduce from this source. All the passages which they say are
not what they ought to be, I would call pathological passages; for he
wrote them on those days when he had not strength to find the right and
true motives. I have every respect for the categorical imperative. I
know how much good may proceed from it; but one must not carry it too
far, for then this idea of ideal freedom certainly leads to no good."
Amid these interesting remarks, and similar discourse on Lord Byron and
the celebrated German authors, of whom Schiller had said that he liked
Kotzebue best, for he, at any rate, produced something, the hours of
evening passed swiftly along, and Goethe gave me the novel, that I might
study it quietly at home.
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 21.—Dined with Goethe. He spoke much, and with
admiration, of Alexander von Humboldt, whose work on Cuba and Colombia
he had begun to read and whose views as to the project for making a
passage through the Isthmus of Panama appeared to have a particular
interest for him. "Humboldt," said Goethe, "has, with a great knowledge
of his subject, given other points where, by making use of some streams
which flow into the Gulf of Mexico, the end may be perhaps better
attained than at Panama. All this is reserved for the future, and for an
enterprising spirit. So much, however, is certain, that, if they succeed
in cutting such a canal that ships of any burden and size can be
navigated through it from the Mexican Gulf to the Pacific Ocean,
innumerable benefits would result to the whole human race, civilized and
uncivilized. But I should wonder if the United States were to let an
opportunity escape of getting such work into their own hands. It may be
foreseen that this young state, with its decided predilection to the
West, will, in thirty or forty years, have occupied and peopled the
large tract of land beyond the Rocky Mountains. It may, furthermore, be
foreseen that along the whole coast of the Pacific Ocean, where nature
has already formed the most capacious and secure harbors, important
commercial towns will gradually arise, for the furtherance of a great
intercourse between China and the East Indies and the United States. In
such a case, it would not only be desirable, but almost necessary, that
a more rapid communication should be maintained between the eastern and
western shores of North America, both by merchant-ships and men-of-war,
than has hitherto been possible with the tedious, disagreeable, and
expensive voyage round Cape Horn. I therefore repeat, that it is
absolutely indispensable for the United States to effect a passage from
the Mexican Gulf to the Pacific Ocean; and I am certain that they will
do it.
"Would that I might live to see it!—but I shall not. I should like to
see another thing—a junction of the Danube and the Rhine. But this
undertaking is so gigantic that I have doubts of its completion,
particularly when I consider our German resources. And thirdly, and
lastly, I should wish to see England in possession of a canal through
the Isthmus of Suez. Would I could live to see these three great works!
it would be well worth the trouble to last some fifty years more for the
very purpose."
* * * * *
Thursday, May 3.—The highly successful translation of Goethe's
dramatic works, by Stapfer, was noticed by Monsieur J. J. Ampere in the
Parisian Globe of last year, in a manner no less excellent, and this
affected Goethe so agreeably that he very often recurred to it, and
expressed his great obligations to it.
"Ampere's point of view is a very high one," said he.
"When German critics on similar occasions start from philosophy, and in
the consideration and discussion of a poetical production proceed in a
manner that what they intend as an elucidation is only intelligible to
philosophers of their own school, while for other people it is far more
obscure than the work upon which they intended to throw a light, M.
Ampere, on the contrary, shows himself quite practical and popular. Like
one who knows his profession thoroughly, he shows the relation between
the production and the producer, and judges the different poetical
productions as different fruits of different epochs of the poet's life.
"He has studied most profoundly the changing course of my earthly
career, and of the condition of my mind, and has had the faculty of
seeing what I have not expressed, and what, so to speak, could only be
read between the lines. How truly has he remarked that, during the first
ten years of my official and court life at Weimar, I scarcely did
anything; that despair drove me to Italy; and that I there, with new
delight in producing, seized upon the history of Tasso, in order to free
myself, by the treatment of this agreeable subject, from the painful and
troublesome impressions and recollections of my life at Weimar. He
therefore very happily calls Tasso an elevated Werther.
"Then, concerning Faust, his remarks are no less clever, since he not
only notes, as part of myself, the gloomy, discontented striving of the
principal character, but also the scorn and the bitter irony of
Mephistopheles."
In this, and a similar spirit of acknowledgment, Goethe often spoke of
M. Ampere. We took a decided interest in him; we endeavored to picture
to ourselves his personal appearance, and, if we could not succeed in
this, we at least agreed that he must be a man of middle age to
understand the reciprocal action of life and poetry on each other. We
were, therefore, extremely surprised when M. Ampere arrived in Weimar a
few days ago, and proved to be a lively youth, some twenty years old;
and we were no less surprised when, in the course of further
intercourse, he told us that the whole of the contributors of the.
Globe, whose wisdom, moderation, and high degree of cultivation we had
often admired, were only young people like himself.
"I can well comprehend," said I, "that a person may be young and may
still produce something of importance—like Mérimée, for instance, who
wrote excellent pieces in his twentieth year; but that any one at so
early an age should have at his command such a comprehensive view, and
such deep insight, as to attain such mature judgment as the gentlemen of
the Globe, is to me something entirely new."
"To you, in your Heath,"[19] returned Goethe, "it has not been so easy;
and we others also, in Central Germany, have been forced to buy our
little wisdom dearly enough. Then we all lead a very isolated miserable
sort of life! From the people, properly so called, we derive very little
culture. Our talents and men of brains are scattered over the whole of
Germany. One is in Vienna, another in Berlin, another in Königsberg,
another in Bonn or Düseldorf—all about a hundred miles apart from one
another, so that personal contact and personal exchange of thought may
be considered as rarities. I feel what this must be, when such men as
Alexander von Humboldt come here, and in one single day lead me nearer
to what I am seeking and what I require to know than I should have done
for years in my own solitary way."
"But now conceive a city like Paris, where the highest talents of a
great kingdom are all assembled in a single spot, and by daily
intercourse, strife, and emulation, mutually instruct and advance each
other; where the best works, both of nature and art, from all the
kingdoms of the earth, are open to daily inspection; conceive this
metropolis of the world, I say, where every walk over a bridge or
across a square recalls some mighty past, and where some historical
event is connected with every corner of a street. In addition to all
this, conceive not the Paris of a dull, spiritless time, but the
Paris of the nineteenth century, in which, during three generations,
such men as Molière, Voltaire, Diderot, and the like, have kept up
such a current of intellect as cannot be found twice in a single spot
in the whole world, and you will comprehend that a man of talent like
Ampere, who has grown up amid such abundance, can easily be something
in his four-and-twentieth year.
"You said just now," said Goethe, "that you could well understand how
any one in his twentieth year could write pieces as good as those of
Mérimée. I have nothing to oppose to this; and I am, on the whole, quite
of your opinion that good productiveness is easier than good judgment in
a youthful man. But, in Germany, one had better not, when so young as
Mérimée, attempt to produce anything so mature as he has done in his
pieces of Clara Gazul. It is true, Schiller was very young when he
wrote his Robbers, his Love and Intrigue, his Fiesco; but, to
speak the truth, all three pieces are rather the utterances of an
extraordinary talent than signs of mature cultivation in the author.
This, however, is not Schiller's fault, but rather the result of the
state of culture of his nation, and the great difficulty which we all
experience in assisting ourselves on our solitary way.
"On the other hand, take up Béranger. He is the son of poor parents, the
descendant of a poor tailor; at one time a poor printer's apprentice,
then placed in some office with a small salary; he has never been to a
classical school or university; and yet his songs are so full of mature
cultivation, so full of wit and the most refined irony, and there is
such artistic perfection and masterly handling of the language that he
is the admiration, not only of France, but of all civilized Europe.
"But imagine this same Béranger—instead of being born in Paris, and
brought up in this metropolis of the world—the son of a poor tailor in
Jena or Weimar, and let him commence his career, in an equally miserable
manner, in such small places—then ask yourself what fruit would have
been produced by this same tree grown in such a soil and in such an
atmosphere.
"Therefore, my good friend, I repeat that, if a talent is to be speedily
and happily developed, the great point is that a great deal of intellect
and sound culture should be current in a nation.
"We admire the tragedies of the ancient Greeks; but, to take a correct
view of the case, we ought rather to admire the period and the nation in
which their production was possible than the individual authors; for
though each of these pieces differs a little from every other, and
though one of these poets appears somewhat greater and more finished
than the other, still, taking all things together, only one decided
character runs through the whole.
"This is the character of grandeur, fitness, soundness, human
perfection, elevated wisdom, sublime thought, pure, strong intuition,
and whatever other qualities one might enumerate. But when we find all
these qualities, not only in the dramatic works that have come down to
us but also in lyrical and epic works, in the philosophers, the orators,
and the historians, and in an equally high degree in the works of
plastic art that have come down to us, we must feel convinced that such
qualities did not merely belong to individuals, but were the current
property of the nation and the whole period.
"Now, take up Burns. How is he great, except through the circumstance
that the whole songs of his predecessors lived in the mouth of the
people—that they were, so to speak, sung at his cradle; that, as a boy,
he grew up amongst them, and the high excellence of these models so
pervaded him that he had therein a living basis on which he could
proceed further? Again, why is he great, but from this, that his own
songs at once found susceptible ears amongst his compatriots; that, sung
by reapers and sheaf-binders, they at once greeted him in the field; and
that his boon-companions sang them to welcome him at the ale-house?
Something was certainly to be done in this way.
"On the other hand, what a pitiful figure is made by us Germans! Of our
old songs—no less important than those of Scotland—how many lived
among the people in the days of my youth? Herder and his successors
first began to collect them and rescue them from oblivion; then they
were at least printed in the libraries. Then, more lately, what songs
have not Bürger and Voss composed! Who can say that they are more
insignificant or less popular than those of the excellent Burns? but
which of them so lives among us that it greets us from the mouth of the
people? They are written and printed, and they remain in the libraries,
quite in accordance with the general fate of German poets. Of my own
songs, how many live? Perhaps one or another of them may be sung by a
pretty girl to the piano; but among the people, properly so called, they
have no sound. With what sensations must I remember the time when
passages from Tasso were sung to me by Italian fishermen!
"We Germans are of yesterday. We have indeed been properly cultivated
for a century; but a few centuries more must still elapse before so much
mind and elevated culture will become universal amongst our people that
they will appreciate beauty like the Greeks, that they will be inspired
by a beautiful song, and that it will be said of them 'it is long since
they were barbarians.'"
Tuesday, December 16.—I dined today with Goethe alone, in his
work-room. We talked on various literary topics.
"The Germans," said he, "cannot cease to be Philistines. They are now
squabbling about some verses, which are printed both in Schiller's works
and mine, and fancy it is important to ascertain which really belong to
Schiller and which to me; as if anything could be gained by such
investigation—as if the existence of such things were not enough.
Friends, such as Schiller and I, intimate for years, with the same
interests, in habits of daily intercourse, and under reciprocal
obligations, live so completely in each other that it is hardly possible
to decide to which of the two the particular thoughts belong.
"We have made many distiches together; sometimes I gave the thought, and
Schiller made the verse; sometimes the contrary was the case; sometimes
he made one line, and I the other. What matters the mine and thine? One
must be a thorough Philistine, indeed, to attach the slightest
importance to the solution of such questions."
"Something similar," said I, "often happens in the literary world, when
people, for instance, doubt the originality of this or that celebrated
man, and seek to trace out the sources from whence he obtained his
cultivation."
"That is very ridiculous," said Goethe; "we might as well question a
strong man about the oxen, sheep, and swine, which he has eaten, and
which have given him strength.
"We are indeed born with faculties; but we owe our development to a
thousand influences of the great world, from which we appropriate to
ourselves what we can, and what is suitable to us. I owe much to the
Greeks and French; I am infinitely indebted to Shakespeare, Sterne, and
Goldsmith; but in saying this I do not show the sources of my culture;
that would be an endless as well as an unnecessary task. What is
important is to have a soul which loves truth, and receives it wherever
it finds it.
"Besides, the world is now so old, so many eminent men have lived and
thought for thousands of years, that there is little new to be
discovered or expressed. Even my theory of colors is not entirely new.
Plato, Leonardo da Vinci, any many other excellent men, have before me
found and expressed the same thing in a detached form: my merit is, that
I have found it also, that I have said it again, and that I have striven
to bring the truth once more into a confused world.
"The truth must be repeated over and over again, because error is
repeatedly preached among us, not only by individuals, but by the
masses. In periodicals and cyclopædias, in schools and universities;
everywhere, in fact, error prevails, and is quite easy in the feeling
that it has a decided majority on its side.
"Often, too, people teach truth and error together, and stick to the
latter. Thus, a short time ago, I read in an English cyclopædia the
doctrine of the origin of Blue. First came the correct view of Leonardo
da Vinci, but then followed, as quietly as possible, the error of
Newton, coupled with remarks that this was to be adhered to because it
was the view generally adopted."
I could not help laughing with surprise when I heard this. "Every
wax-taper," I said, "every illuminated cloud of smoke from the kitchen,
that has anything dark behind it, every morning mist, when it lies
before a steady spot, daily convinces me of the origin of blue color,
and makes me comprehend the blueness of the sky. What the Newtonians
mean when they say that the air has the property of absorbing other
colors, and of repelling blue alone, I cannot at all understand, nor do
I see what use or pleasure is to be derived from a doctrine in which all
thought stands still, and all sound observation completely vanishes."
"My good innocent friend," said Goethe, "these people do not care a jot
about thoughts and observations. They are satisfied if they have only
words which they can pass as current, as was well shown and not
ill-expressed by my own Mephistopheles:
"Mind, above all, you stick to words,
Thus through the safe gate you will go
Into the fane of certainty;
For when ideas begin to fail
A word will aptly serve your turn," etc.
Goethe recited this passage laughing, and seemed altogether in the best
humor. "It is a good thing," said he, "that all is already in print, and
I shall go on printing as long as I have anything to say against false
doctrine, and those who disseminate it.
"We have now excellent men rising up in natural science," he continued,
after a pause, "and I am glad to see them. Others begin well, but
afterwards fall off; their predominating subjectivity leads them astray.
Others, again, set too much value on facts, and collect an infinite
number, by which nothing is proved. On the whole, there is a want of
originating mind to penetrate back to the original phenomena, and master
the particulars that make their appearance."
A short visit interrupted our discourse, but when we were again alone
the conversation returned to poetry, and I told Goethe that I had of
late been once more studying his little poems, and had dwelt especially
upon two of them, viz., the ballad[20] about the children and the old
man, and the "Happy Couple" (die glücklichen Gatten).
"I myself set some value on these two poems," said Goethe, "although the
German public have hitherto not been able to make much out of them."
"In the ballad," I said, "a very copious subject is brought into a very
limited compass, by means of all sorts of poetical forms and artifices,
among which I especially praise the expedient of making the old man tell
the children's past history down to the point where the present moment
comes in, and the rest is developed before our eyes."
"I carried the ballad a long time about in my head," said Goethe,
"before I wrote it down. Whole years of reflection are comprised in it,
and I made three or four trials before I could reduce it to its present
shape."
"The poem of the 'Happy Couple,'" continued Goethe, "is likewise rich in
motives; whole landscapes and passages of human life appear in it,
warmed by the sunlight of a charming spring sky, which is diffused over
the whole."
"I have always liked that poem," said Goethe, "and I am glad that you
have regarded it with particular interest. The ending of the whole
pleasantry with a double christening is, I think, pretty enough."
We then came to the Bürgergeneral (Citizengeneral); with respect to
which I said that I had been lately reading this piece with an
Englishman, and that we had both felt the strongest desire to see it
represented on the stage. "As far as the spirit of the work is
concerned," said I, "there is nothing antiquated about it; and with
respect to the details of dramatic development, there is not a touch
that does not seem designed for the stage."
"It was a very good piece in its time," said Goethe, "and caused us many
a pleasant evening. It was, indeed, excellently cast, and had been so
admirably studied that the dialogue moved along as glibly as possible.
Malcolmi played Märten, and nothing could be more perfect.
"The part of Schnaps," said I, "seems to me no less felicitous. Indeed,
I should not think there were many better or more thankful parts in the
repertoire. There is in this personage, as in the whole piece, a
clearness, an actual presence, to the utmost extent that can be desired
for a theatre. The scene where he comes in with the knapsack, and
produces the things one after another, where he puts the moustache on
Märten, and decks himself with the cap of liberty, uniform, and sword,
is among the best." "This scene," said Goethe, "used always to be very
successful on our stage. Then the knapsack, with the articles in it, had
really an historical existence. I found it in the time of the
Revolution, on my travels along the French border, when the emigrants,
on their flight, had passed through, and one of them might have lost it
or thrown it away. The articles it contained were just the same as in
the piece. I wrote the scene upon it, and the knapsack, with all its
appurtenances, was always introduced, to the no small delight of our
actors."
The question whether the Bürgergeneral could still be played with any
interest or profit, was for a while the subject of our conversation.
Goethe then asked about my progress in French literature, and I told him
that I still took up Voltaire from time to time, and that the great
talent of this man gave me the purest delight.
"I still know but little of him," said I; "I keep to his short poems
addressed to persons, which I read over and over again, and which I
cannot lay aside."
"Indeed," said Goethe, "all is good which is written by so great a
genius as Voltaire, though I cannot excuse all his profanity. But you
are right to give so much time to those little poems addressed to
persons; they are unquestionably among the most charming of his works.
There is not a line which is not full of thought, clear, bright, and
graceful."
"And we see," said I, "his relations to all the great and mighty of the
world, and remark with pleasure the distinguished position taken by
himself, inasmuch as he seems to feel himself equal to the highest, and
we never find that any majesty can embarrass his free mind even for a
moment."
"Yes," said Goethe, "he bore himself like a man of rank. And with all
his freedom and audacity, he ever kept within the limits of strict
propriety, which is, perhaps, saying still more. I may cite the Empress
of Austria as an authority in such matters; she has repeatedly assured
me, that in those poems of Voltaire's, there is no trace of crossing the
line of convenance."
"Does your excellency," said I, "remember the short poem in which he
makes to the Princess of Prussia, afterwards Queen of Sweden, a pretty
declaration of love, by saying that he dreamed of being elevated to the
royal dignity?"
"It is one of his best," said Goethe, and he recited the lines—
"Je vous aimais, princesse, et j'osais vous le dire;
Les Dieux et mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout ôté,
Je n'ai perdu que mon empire."
"How pretty that is! And never did poet have his talent so completely at
command every moment as Voltaire. I remember an anecdote, when he had
been for some time on a visit to Madame du Chatelet. Just as he was
going away, and the carriage was standing at the door, he received a
letter from a great number of young girls in a neighboring convent, who
wished to play the 'Death of Julius Cæsar' on the birthday of their
abbess, and begged him to write them a prologue. The case was too
delicate for a refusal; so Voltaire at once called for pen and paper,
and wrote the desired prologue, standing, upon the mantlepiece. It is a
poem of perhaps twenty lines, thoroughly digested, finished, perfectly
suited to the occasion, and, in short, of the very best class."
"I am very desirous to read it," said I.
"I doubt," said Goethe, "whether you will find it in your collection. It
has only lately come to light, and, indeed, he wrote hundreds of such
poems, of which many may still be scattered about among private
persons."
"I found of late a passage in Lord Byron," said I, "from which I
perceived with delight that even Byron had an extraordinary esteem for
Voltaire. We may see in his works how much he liked to read, study, and
make use of Voltaire.
"Byron," said Goethe, "knew too well where anything was to be got, and
was too clever not to draw from this universal source of light."
The conversation then turned entirely upon Byron and several of his
works, and Goethe found occasion to repeat many of his former
expressions of admiration for that great genius.
"To all that your excellency says of Byron," said I, "I agree from the
bottom of my heart; but, however great and remarkable that poet may be
as a genius, I very much doubt whether a decided gain for pure human
culture is to be derived from his writings."
"There I must contradict you," said Goethe; "the audacity and grandeur
of Byron must certainly tend towards culture. We should take care not to
be always looking for it in the decidedly pure and moral. Everything
that is great promotes cultivation as soon as we are aware of it."
* * * * *
Thursday, February 12.—Goethe read me the thoroughly noble poem,
"Kein Wesen kann zu nichts zerfallen" (No being can dissolve to
nothing), which he had lately written.
"I wrote this poem," said he, "in contradiction to my lines—
'Denn alles muss zu nichts zerfallen
Wenn es im Seyn beharren will,' etc.
('For all must melt away to nothing
Would it continue still to be')—
which are stupid, and which my Berlin friends, on the occasion of the
late assembly of natural philosophers, set up in golden letters, to my
annoyance."
The conversation turned on the great mathematician, Lagrange, whose
excellent character Goethe highly extolled.
"He was a good man," said he, "and on that very account, a great man.
For when a good man is gifted with talent, he always works morally for
the salvation of the world, as poet, philosopher, artist, or in whatever
way it may be.
"I am glad," continued Goethe, "that you had an opportunity yesterday of
knowing Coudray better. He says little in general society, but, here
among ourselves, you have seen what an excellent mind and character
reside in the man. He had, at first, much opposition to encounter, but
he has now fought through it all and enjoys the entire confidence and
favor of the court. Coudray is one of the most skilful architects of our
time. He has adhered to me and I to him, and this has been of service to
us both. If I had but known him fifty years ago!"
We then talked about Goethe's own architectural knowledge. I remarked
that he must have acquired much in Italy.
"Italy gave me an idea of earnestness and greatness," said he, "but no
practical skill. The building of the castle here in Weimar advanced me
more than anything. I was obliged to assist, and even to make drawings
of entablatures. I had a certain advantage over the professional people,
because I was superior to them in intention."
We talked of Zelter.
"I have a letter from him," said Goethe, "in which he complains that the
performance of the oratorio of the Messiah was spoiled for him by one of
his female scholars, who sang an aria too weakly and sentimentally.
Weakness is a characteristic of our age. My hypothesis is, that it is a
consequence of the efforts made in Germany to get rid of the French.
Painters, natural philosophers, sculptors, musicians, poets, with but
few exceptions, all are weak, and the general mass is no better."
"Yet I do not give up the hope," said I, "of seeing suitable music
composed for Faust."
"Quite impossible!" said Goethe. "The awful and repulsive passages
which must occasionally occur, are not in the style of the time. The
music should be like that of Don Juan. Mozart should have composed for
Faust. Meyerbeer would, perhaps, be capable; but he would not touch
anything of the kind;[21] he is too much engaged with the Italian
theatres."
Afterwards—I do not recollect in connection to what—Goethe made the
following important remark:
"All that is great and skilful exists with the minority. There have been
ministers who have had both king and people against them, and have
carried out their great plans alone. It is not to be imagined that
reason can ever be popular. Passions and feelings may become popular;
but reason always remains the sole property of a few eminent
individuals."
Sunday, December 6.—Today, after dinner, Goethe read me the first
scene of the second act of Faust.[22] The effect was great, and gave
me a high satisfaction. We are once more transported into Faust's study,
where Mephistopheles finds all just as he had left it. He takes from the
hook Faust's old study-gown, and a thousand moths and insects flutter
out from it. By the directions of Mephistopheles as to where these are
to settle down, the locality is brought very clearly before our eyes. He
puts on the gown, while Faust lies behind a curtain in a state of
paralysis, intending to play the doctor's part once more. He pulls the
bell, which gives such an awful tone among the old solitary convent
halls, that the doors spring open and the walls tremble. The servant
rushes in, and finds in Faust's seat Mephistopheles, whom he does not
recognize, but for whom he has respect. In answer to inquiries he gives
news of Wagner, who has now become a celebrated man, and is hoping for
the return of his master. He is, we hear, at this moment deeply occupied
in his laboratory, seeking to produce a Homunculus. The servant retires,
and the bachelor enters—the same whom we knew some years before as a
shy young student, when Mephistopheles (in Faust's gown) made game of
him. He is now become a man, and is so full of conceit that even
Mephistopheles can do nothing with him, but moves his chair further and
further, and at last addresses the pit.
Goethe read the scene quite to the end. I was pleased with his youthful
productive strength, and with the closeness of the whole. "As the
conception," said Goethe, "is so old—for I have had it in my mind for
fifty years—the materials have accumulated to such a degree, that the
difficult operation is to separate and reject. The invention of the
whole second part is really as old as I say; but it may be an advantage
that I have not written it down till now, when my knowledge of the world
is so much clearer. I am like one who in his youth has a great deal of
small silver and copper money, which in the course of his life he
constantly changes for the better, so that at last the property of his
youth stands before him in pieces of pure gold."
We spoke about the character of the Bachelor. "Is he not meant," said I,
"to represent a certain class of ideal philosophers?"
"No," said Goethe, "the arrogance which is peculiar to youth, and of
which we had such striking examples after our war for freedom, is
personified in him. Indeed, every one believes in his youth that the
world really began with him, and that all merely exists for his sake.
"Thus, in the East, there was actually a man who every morning collected
his people about him, and would not go to work till he had commanded the
sun to rise. But he was wise enough not to speak his command till the
sun of its own accord was really on the point of appearing."
Goethe remained a while absorbed in silent thought; then he began as
follows: "When one is old one thinks of worldly matters otherwise than
when one is young. Thus I cannot but think that the demons, to teaze and
make sport with men, have placed among them single figures, which are so
alluring that every one strives after them, and so great that nobody
reaches them. Thus they set up Raffael, with whom thought and act were
equally perfect; some distinguished followers have approached him, but
none have equalled him. Thus, too, they set up Mozart as something
unattainable in music; and thus Shakespeare in poetry. I know what you
can say against this thought; but I only mean natural character, the
great innate qualities. Thus, too, Napoleon is unattainable. That the
Russians were so moderate as not to go to Constantinople is indeed very
great; but we find a similar trait in Napoleon, for he had the
moderation not to go to Rome."
Much was associated with this copious theme; I thought to myself in
silence that the demons had intended something of the kind with Goethe,
inasmuch as he is a form too alluring not to be striven after, and too
great to be reached.
Wednesday, December 16.—Today, after dinner, Goethe read me the
second scene of the second act of "Faust," where Mephistopheles visits
Wagner, who is on the point of making a human being by chemical means.
The work succeeds; the Homunculus appears in the phial, as a shining
being, and is at once active. He repels Wagner's questions upon
incomprehensible subjects; reasoning is not his business; he wishes to
act, and begins with our hero, Faust, who, in his paralyzed condition,
needs a higher aid. As a being to whom the present is perfectly clear
and transparent, the Homunculus sees into the soul of the sleeping
Faust, who, enraptured by a lovely dream, beholds Leda visited by swans,
while she is bathing in a pleasant spot. The Homunculus, by describing
this dream, brings a most charming picture before our eyes.
Mephistopheles sees nothing of it, and the Homunculus taunts him with
his northern nature.
"Generally," said Goethe, "you will perceive that Mephistopheles
appears to disadvantage beside the Homunculus, who is like him in
clearness of intellect, and so much superior to him in his tendency to
the beautiful and to a useful activity. He styles him cousin; for such
spiritual beings as this Homunculus, not yet saddened and limited by a
thorough assumption of humanity, were classed with the demons, and thus
there is a sort of relationship between the two."
"Certainly," said I, "Mephistopheles appears here in a subordinate
situation; yet I cannot help thinking that he has had a secret influence
on the production of the Homunculus. We have known him in this way
before; and, indeed, in the 'Helena' he always appears as a being
secretly working. Thus he again elevates himself with regard to the
whole, and in his lofty repose he can well afford to put up with a
little in particulars."
"Your feeling of the position is very correct," said Goethe; "indeed, I
have doubted whether I ought not to put some verses into the mouth of
Mephistopheles as he goes to Wagner, and the Homunculus is still in a
state of formation, so that his cooperation may be expressed and
rendered plain to the reader.
"It would do no harm," said I. "Yet this is intimated by the words with
which Mephistopheles closes the scene—
Am Ende hangen wir doch ab
Von Creaturen die wir machten.
We are dependent after all,
On creatures that we make."
"True," said Goethe, "that would be almost enough for the attentive; but
I will think about some additional verses."
"But," said I, "those concluding words are very great, and will not
easily be penetrated to their full extent."
"I think," said Goethe, "I have given them a bone to pick. A father who
has six sons is a lost man, let him do what he may. Kings and
ministers, too, who have raised many persons to high places, may have
something to think about from their own experience."
Faust's dream about Leda again came into my head, and I regarded this as
a most important feature in the composition.
"It is wonderful to me," said I, "how the several parts of such a work
bear upon, perfect, and sustain one another! By this dream of Leda,
Helena gains its proper foundation. There we have a constant allusion
to swans and the child of a swan; but here we have the act itself, and
when we come afterwards to Helena, with the sensible impression of such
a situation, how much more clear and perfect does all appear!"
Goethe said I was right, and was pleased that I remarked this.
"Thus you will see," said he, "that in these earlier acts the chords of
the classic and romantic are constantly struck, so that, as on a rising
ground, where both forms of poetry are brought out, and in some sort
balance each other, we may ascend to 'Helena.'
"The French," continued Goethe, "now begin to think justly of these
matters. Both classic and romantic, say they, are equally good. The only
point is to use these forms with judgment, and to be capable of
excellence. You can be absurd in both, and then one is as worthless as
the other. This, I think, is rational enough, and may content us for a
while."
* * * * *
1830.
Sunday, March 14.—This evening at Goethe's. He showed me all the
treasures, now put in order, from the chest which he had received from
David, and with the unpacking of which I had found him occupied some
days ago. The plaster medallions, with the profiles of the principal
young poets of France, he had laid in order side by side upon tables.
On this occasion, he spoke once more of the extraordinary talent of
David, which was as great in conception as in execution. He also showed
me a number of the newest works, which had been presented to him,
through the medium of David, as gifts from the most distinguished men of
the romantic school. I saw works by St. Veuve, Ballanche, Victor Hugo,
Balzac, Alfred de Vigny, Jules Janin, and others.
"David," said he, "has prepared happy days for me by this present. The
young poets have already occupied me the whole week, and afford me new
life by the fresh impressions which I receive from them. I shall make a
separate catalogue of these much esteemed portraits and books, and shall
give them both a special place in my collection of works of art and my
library."
One could see from Goethe's manner that this homage from the young poets
of France afforded him the heartiest delight.
He then read something from the Studies, by Emile Deschamps. He
praised the translation of the Bride of Corinth, as faithful, and very
successful.
"I possess," said he, "the manuscript of an Italian translation of this
poem, which gives the original, even to the rhymes."
The Bride of Corinth induced Goethe to speak of the rest of his
ballads. "I owe them, in a great measure, to Schiller," said he, "who
impelled me to them, because he always wanted something new for his
Horen. I had already carried them in my head for many years; they
occupied my mind as pleasant images, as beautiful dreams, which came and
went, and by playing with which my fancy made me happy. I unwillingly
resolved to bid farewell to these brilliant visions, which had so long
been my solace, by embodying them in poor, inadequate words. When I saw
them on paper, I regarded them with a mixture of sadness. I felt as if I
were about to be separated for ever from a beloved friend."
"At other times," continued Goethe, "it has been totally different with
my poems. They have been preceded by no impressions or forebodings, but
have come suddenly upon me, and have insisted on being composed
immediately, so that I have felt an instinctive and dreamy impulse to
write them down on the spot. In such a somnambulistic condition, it has
often happened that I have had a sheet of paper lying before me all on
one side, and I have not discovered it till all has been written, or I
have found no room to write any more. I have possessed many such sheets
written crossways, but they have been lost one after another, and I
regret that I can no longer show any proofs of such poetic abstraction."
The conversation then returned to the French literature, and the modern
ultra-romantic tendency of some not unimportant men of genius. Goethe
was of opinion that this poetic revolution, which was still in its
infancy, would be very favorable to literature, but very prejudicial to
the individual authors who effect it.
"Extremes are never to be avoided in any revolution," said he. "In a
political one, nothing is generally desired in the beginning but the
abolition of abuses; but before people are aware, they are deep in
bloodshed and horror. Thus the French, in their present literary
revolution, desired nothing at first but a freer form; however, they
will not stop there, but will reject the traditional contents together
with the form. They begin to declare the representation of noble
sentiments and deeds as tedious, and attempt to treat of all sorts of
abominations. Instead of the beautiful subjects from Grecian mythology,
there are devils, witches, and vampires, and the lofty heroes of
antiquity must give place to jugglers and galley slaves. This is
piquant! This is effective! But after the public has once tasted this
highly seasoned food, and has become accustomed to it, it will always
long for more, and that stronger. A young man of talent, who would
produce an effect and be acknowledged, and who is great enough to go his
own way, must accommodate himself to the taste of the day—nay, must
seek to outdo his predecessors in the horrible and frightful. But in
this chase after outward means of effect, all profound study, and all
gradual and thorough development of the talent and the man from within,
is entirely neglected. And this is the greatest injury which can befall
a talent, although literature in general will gain by this tendency of
the moment."
"But," added I, "how can an attempt which destroys individual talents be
favorable to literature in general?"
"The extremes and excrescences which I have described," returned Goethe,
"will gradually disappear; but at last this great advantage will
remain—besides a freer form, richer and more diversified subjects will
have been attained, and no object of the broadest world and the most
manifold life will be any longer excluded as unpoetical. I compare the
present literary epoch to a state of violent fever, which is not in
itself good and desirable, but of which improved health is the happy
consequence. That abomination which now often constitutes the whole
subject of a poetical work, will in future only appear as an useful
expedient; aye, the pure and the noble, which is now abandoned for the
moment, will soon be resought with additional ardor."
"It is surprising to me," remarked I, "that even Mérimée, who is one of
your favorites, has entered upon this ultra-romantic path, through the
horrible subjects of his Guzla."
"Mérimée," returned Goethe, "has treated these things very differently
from his fellow-authors. These poems certainly are not deficient in
various horrible motives, such as churchyards, nightly crossways,
ghosts and vampires; but the repulsive themes do not touch the intrinsic
merit of the poet. On the contrary, he treats them from a certain
objective distance, and, as it were, with irony. He goes to work with
them like an artist, to whom it is an amusement to try anything of the
sort. He has, as I have said before, quite renounced himself, nay, he
has ever renounced the Frenchman, and that to such a degree that at
first these poems of Guzla were deemed real Illyrian popular poems, and
thus little was wanting for the success of the imposition he had
intended."
"Mérimée," continued Goethe, "is indeed a thorough fellow! Indeed,
generally, more power and genius are required for the objective
treatment of a subject than is supposed. Thus, too, Lord Byron,
notwithstanding his predominant personality, has sometimes had the power
of renouncing himself altogether, as may be seen in some of his dramatic
pieces, particularly in his Marino Faliero. In this piece one quite
forgets that Lord Byron, or even an Englishman, wrote it. We live
entirely in Venice, and entirely in the time in which the action takes
place. The personages speak quite from themselves and from their own
condition, without having any of the subjective feelings, thoughts, and
opinions of the poet. That is as it should be. Of our young French
romantic writers of the exaggerating sort, one cannot say as much. What
I have read of them—poems, novels, dramatic works—have all borne the
personal coloring of the author, and none of them ever makes me forget
that a Parisian—that a Frenchman—wrote them. Even in the treatment of
foreign subjects one still remains in France and Paris, quite absorbed
in all the wishes, necessities, conflicts, and fermentations of the
present day."
"Béranger also," I threw in experimentally, "has only expressed the
situation of the great metropolis, and his own interior."
"That is a man," said Goethe, "whose power of representation and whose
interior are worth something. In him is all the substance of an
important personality. Béranger is a nature most happily endowed, firmly
grounded in himself, purely developed from himself, and quite in harmony
with himself. He has never asked—what would suit the times? what
produces an effect? what pleases? what are others doing?—in order that
he might do the like. He has always worked only from the core of his own
nature, without troubling himself as to what the public, or what this or
that party, expects. He has certainly, at different critical epochs,
been influenced by the mood, wishes, and necessities of the people; but
that has only confirmed him in himself, by proving to him that his own
nature is in harmony with that of the people; and has never seduced him
into expressing anything but what already lay in his heart.
"You know that I am, upon the whole, no friend to what is called
political poems, but such as Béranger has composed I can tolerate. With
him there is nothing snatched out of the air, nothing of merely imagined
or imaginary interest; he never shoots at random; but, on the contrary,
has always the most decided, the most important subjects. His
affectionate admiration of Napoleon, and his reminiscences of the great
warlike deeds which were performed under him, and that at a time when
these recollections were a consolation to the somewhat oppressed French;
then his hatred of the domination of priests, and of the darkness which
threatened to return with the Jesuits—these are things to which one
cannot refuse hearty sympathy. And how masterly is his treatment on all
occasions! How he turns about and rounds off every subject in his own
mind before he expresses it! And then, when all is matured, what wit,
spirit, irony, and persiflage, and what heartiness, naivete, and grace,
are unfolded at every step! His songs have every year made millions of
joyous men; they always flow glibly from the tongue, even with the
working-classes, whilst they are so far elevated above the level of the
commonplace, that the populace, in converse with these pleasant spirits,
becomes accustomed and compelled to think itself better and nobler. What
more would you have? and, altogether, what higher praise could be given
to a poet?"
"He is excellent, unquestionably!" returned I. "You know how I loved him
for years, and can imagine how it gratifies me to hear you speak of him
thus. But if I must say which of his songs I prefer, his amatory poems
please me more than his political, in which the particular references
and allusions are not always clear to me."
"That happens to be your case," returned Goethe; "the political poems
were not written for you; but ask the French, and they will tell you
what is good in them. Besides, a political poem, under the most
fortunate circumstances, is to be looked upon only as the organ of a
single nation, and, in most cases, only as the organ of a single party;
but it is seized with enthusiasm by this nation and this party when it
is good. Again, a political poem should always be looked upon as the
mere result of a certain state of the times; which passes by, and with
respect to succeeding times takes from the poem the value which it
derived from the subject. As for Béranger, his was no hard task. Paris
is France. All the important interests of his great country are
concentrated in the capital, and there have their proper life and their
proper echo. Besides, in most of his political songs he is by no means
to be regarded as the mere organ of a single party; on the contrary, the
things against which he writes are for the most part of so universal and
national an interest, that the poet is almost always heard as a great
voice of the people. With us, in Germany, such a thing is not
possible. We have no city, nay, we have no country, of which we could
decidedly say—Here is Germany! If we inquire in Vienna, the answer
is—this is Austria! and if in Berlin, the answer is—this is Prussia!
Only sixteen years ago, when we tried to get rid of the French, was
Germany everywhere. Then a political poet could have had an universal
effect; but there was no need of one! The universal necessity, and the
universal feeling of disgrace, had seized upon the nation like something
dæmonic; the inspiring fire which the poet might have kindled was
already burning everywhere of its own accord. Still, I will not deny
that Arndt, Körner, and Rückert, have had some effect."
"You have been reproached," remarked I, rather inconsiderately, "for not
taking up arms at that great period, or at least cooperating as a poet."
"Let us leave that point alone, my good friend," returned Goethe. "It is
an absurd world, which does not know what it wants, and which one must
allow to have its own way. How could I take up arms without hatred, and
how could I hate without youth? If such an emergency had befallen me
when twenty years old, I should certainly not have been the last; but it
found me as one who had already passed the first sixties.
"Besides, we cannot all serve our country in the same way, but each does
his best, according as God has endowed him. I have toiled hard enough
during half a century. I can say, that in those things which nature has
appointed for my daily work, I have permitted myself no repose or
relaxation night or day, but have always striven, investigated, and done
as much, and that as well, as I could. If every one can say the same of
himself, it will prove well with all."
"The fact is," said I, by way of conciliation, "that you should not be
vexed at that reproach, but should rather feel flattered at it. For what
does it show but that the opinion of the world concerning you is so
great that it desires that he who has done more for the culture of his
nation than any other should at last do everything!"
"I will not say what I think," returned Goethe. "There is more ill-will
towards me hidden beneath that remark than you are aware of. I feel
therein a new form of the old hatred with which people have persecuted
me, and endeavored quietly to wound me for years. I know very well that
I am an eyesore to many; that they would all willingly get rid of me;
and that, since they cannot touch my talent, they aim at my character.
Now, it is said, I am proud; now, egotistical; now, full of envy towards
young men of genius; now, immersed in sensuality; now, without
Christianity; and now, without love for my native country, and my own
dear Germans. You have now known me sufficiently for years, and you feel
what all that talk is worth. But if you would learn what I have
suffered, read my 'Xenien', and it will be clear to you, from my
retorts, how people have from time to time sought to embitter my life.
"A German author is a German martyr! Yes, my friend, you will not find
it otherwise! And I myself can scarcely complain; none of the others has
fared better—most have fared worse; and in England and France it is
quite the same as with us. What did not Molière suffer? What Rousseau
and Voltaire? Byron was driven from England by evil tongues, and would
have fled to the end of the world, if an early death had not delivered
him from the Philistines and their hatred.
"And if it were only the narrow-minded masses that persecuted noble men!
But no! one gifted man and one genius persecutes another; Platen
scandalizes Heine, and Heine Platen, and each seeks to make the other
hateful; while the world is wide enough for all to live and to let live;
and every one has an enemy in his own talent, who gives him quite enough
to do.
"To write military songs, and sit in a room! That forsooth was my duty!
To have written them in the bivouac, when the horses at the enemy's
outposts are heard neighing at night, would have been well enough;
however, that was not my life and not my business, but that of Theodore
Körner. His war-songs suit him perfectly. But to me, who am not of a
warlike nature, and who have no warlike sense, war-songs would have been
a mask which would have fitted my face very badly.
"I have never affected anything in my poetry. I have never uttered
anything which I have not experienced, and which has not urged me to
production. I have composed love-songs only when I have loved. How could
I write songs of hatred without hating! And, between ourselves, I did
not hate the French, although I thanked God that we were free from them.
How could I, to whom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, hate
a nation which is among the most cultivated of the earth, and to which I
owe so great a part of my own cultivation?
"Altogether," continued Goethe, "national hatred is something peculiar.
You will always find it strongest and most violent where there is the
lowest degree of culture. But there is a degree where it vanishes
altogether, and where one stands to a certain extent above nations, and
feels the weal or woe of a neighboring people, as if it had happened to
one's own. This degree of culture was conformable to my nature, and I
had become strengthened in it long before I had reached my sixtieth
year."
* * * * *
1832.
Sunday, March 11.—The conversation turned upon the great men who had
lived before Christ, among the Chinese, the Indians, the Persians, and
the Greeks; and it was remarked, that the divine power had been as
operative in them as in some of the great Jews of the Old Testament. We
then came to the question how far God influenced the great natures of
the present world in which we live?
"To hear people speak," said Goethe, "one would almost believe that they
were of opinion that God had withdrawn into silence since those old
times, and that man was now placed quite upon his own feet, and had to
see how he could get on without God, and his daily invisible breath. In
religious and moral matters a divine influence is indeed still allowed,
but in matters of science and art it is believed that they are merely
earthly and nothing but the product of human powers.
[Illustration: SCHILLER'S GARDEN HOUSE AT JENA Drawing by Goethe]
"Let any one only try, with human will and human power, to produce
something which may be compared with the creations that bear the names
of Mozart, Raphael, or Shakespeare. I know very well that these three
noble beings are not the only ones, and that in every province of art
innumerable excellent geniuses have operated, who have produced things
as perfectly good as those just mentioned. But if they were as great as
those, they rose above ordinary human nature, and in the same proportion
were as divinely endowed as they.
"And, after all, what does it all come to? God did not retire to rest
after the well-known six days of creation, but, on the contrary, is
constantly active as on the first. It would have been for Him a poor
occupation to compose this heavy world out of simple elements, and to
keep it rolling in the sunbeams from year to year, if He had not had the
plan of founding a nursery for a world of spirits upon this material
basis. So He is now constantly active in higher natures to attract the
lower ones."
Goethe was silent. But I cherished his great and good words in my heart.
Early in March.[23]—Goethe mentioned at table that he had received a
visit from Baron Carl Von Spiegel, and that he had been pleased with him
beyond measure.
"He is a very fine young man," said Goethe; "in his mien and manners he
has something by which the nobleman is seen at once. He could as little
dissemble his descent as any one could deny a higher intellect; for
birth and intellect both give him who once possesses them a stamp which
no incognito can conceal. Like beauty, these are powers which one cannot
approach without feeling that they are of a higher nature."
Some days later.—We talked of the tragic idea of Destiny among the
Greeks.
"It no longer suits our way of thinking," said Goethe; "it is obsolete,
and is also in contradiction with our religious views. If a modern poet
introduces such antique ideas into a drama, it always has an air of
affectation. It is a costume which is long since out of fashion, and
which, like the Roman toga, no longer suits us.
"It is better for us moderns to say with Napoleon, 'Politics are
Destiny.' But let us beware of saying, with our latest literati, that
politics are poetry, or a suitable subject for the poet. The English
poet Thomson wrote a very good poem on the Seasons, but a very bad one
on Liberty, and that not from want of poetry in the poet, but from want
of poetry in the subject."
"If a poet would work politically, he must give himself up to a party;
and so soon as he does that, he is lost as a poet; he must bid farewell
to his free spirit, his unbiased view, and draw over his ears the cap of
bigotry and blind hatred.
"The poet, as a man and citizen, will love his native land; but the
native land of his poetic powers and poetic action is the good, noble,
and beautiful, which is confined to no particular province or country,
and which he seizes upon and forms wherever he finds it. Therein is he
like the eagle, who hovers with free gaze over whole countries, and to
whom it is of no consequence whether the hare on which he pounces is
running in Prussia or in Saxony.
"And, then, what is meant by love of one's country? What is meant by
patriotic deeds? If the poet has employed a life in battling with
pernicious prejudices, in setting aside narrow views, in enlightening
the minds, purifying the tastes, ennobling the feelings and thoughts of
his countrymen, what better could he have done? How could he have acted
more patriotically?
"To make such ungrateful and unsuitable demands upon a poet is just as
if one required the captain of a regiment to show himself a patriot, by
taking part in political innovations and thus neglecting his proper
calling. The captain's country is his regiment, and he will show himself
an excellent patriot by troubling himself about political matters only
so far as they concern him, and bestowing all his mind and all his
care on the battalions under him, trying so to train and discipline them
that they may do their duty if ever their native land should be in
peril.
[Illustration: THE MOAT AT JENA Drawing by GOETHE]
"I hate all bungling like sin, but most of all bungling in
state-affairs, which produces nothing but mischief to thousands and
millions.
"You know that, on the whole, I care little what is written about me;
but yet it comes to my ears, and I know well enough that, hard as I have
toiled all my life, all my labors are as nothing in the eyes of certain
people, just because I have disdained to mingle in political parties. To
please such people I must have become a member of a Jacobin club, and
preached bloodshed and murder. However, not a word more upon this
wretched subject, lest I become unwise in railing against folly."
In the same manner he blamed the political course, so much praised by
others, of Uhland.
"Mind," said he, "the politician will devour the poet. To be a member of
the States, and to live amid daily jostlings and excitements, is not for
the delicate nature of a poet. His song will cease, and that is in some
sort to be lamented. Swabia has plenty of men, sufficiently well
educated, well meaning, able, and eloquent, to be members of the States,
but only one poet of Uhland's class."
* * * * *
The last stranger whom Goethe entertained as his guest was the eldest
son of Frau von Arnim; the last words he wrote were some verses in the
album of this young friend.
* * * * *
The morning after Goethe's death, a deep desire seized me to look once
again upon his earthly garment. His faithful servant, Frederic, opened
for me the chamber in which he was laid out. Stretched upon his back, he
reposed as if asleep; profound peace and security reigned in the
features of his sublimely noble countenance. The mighty brow seemed yet
to harbor thoughts. I wished for a lock of his hair; but reverence
prevented me from cutting it off. The body lay naked, wrapped only in a
white sheet; large pieces of ice had been placed near it, to keep it
fresh as long as possible. Frederic drew aside the sheet, and I was
astonished at the divine magnificence of the limbs. The breast was
powerful, broad, and arched; the arms and thighs were full, and softly
muscular; the feet were elegant, and of the most perfect shape; nowhere,
on the whole body, was there a trace either of fat or of leanness and
decay. A perfect man lay in great beauty before me; and the rapture
which the sight caused made me forget for a moment that the immortal
spirit had left such an abode. I laid my hand on his heart—there was a
deep silence—and I turned away to give free vent to my suppressed
tears.
[Illustration: VIEW INTO THE SAALE VALLEY NEAR JENA Drawing by GOETHE]
TRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY, PH.D. GOETHE TO KAROLINE VON HUMBOLDT
January 25, 1804.
How many an hour have I thought of you with genuine and lively interest;
and nearly every time I have marveled at the outrageous intention which
correspondents can express, that, when far apart, they will write to
each other once a month. Distance absolutely precludes interest in
trifles that are close to us; how can we tell each other our daily joys
and sorrows, when the voice which speaks must wait so long for the sound
of the answering voice; and then those unexpected chances happen which
in an instant destroy our careful plans so that, when we would continue,
we know not where we should begin.
This time, in remembrance of so much that has passed, and in
anticipation of so much that is to be, I intend to write you a long
letter that the stream may run once more.
Meanwhile you have suffered a bitter loss, of which I shall not speak. I
trust that all the agencies which nature has contrived for man to
alleviate such woes may have been and may in the future be at your
behest; for they alone can repair the evil they have wrought.
Fernow has come to us; he bears himself gallantly and well, though an
unfortunate fever has given him a deal of trouble. Since he is in
earnest about what he does, and is essentially of an honest disposition,
we are having a good, profitable, and pleasant time together.
Riemer is staying with my August, and I hope they will get along right
well together.
Schiller is continually advancing with great strides, as usual; his
Tell is magnificently planned and, so far as I have seen it, executed
in masterly fashion.
I myself have been placed, by the swindling spirit which has come over
the gentlemen of Jena, and especially over the proprietors of the
Allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung, under the lamentable necessity of again
laboring in person on behalf of this antiquated body of municipal
teachers, wherein I have lost nearly four months of my own time—not
precisely because I did much, but because, notwithstanding, everything
had to be done, and everything that must be done takes time; and thus
for the last three months I have been unable to present you with even a
single little poem.
Meanwhile life has brought us much of interest. Professor Wolf of Halle
spent two weeks with us; Johannes von Müller is here now; and for four
weeks Madame de Staël has also honored us with her presence.
The drawings of the late Herr Carstens, which Fernow brought with him,
have given me much pleasure, since through them I have first learned to
know this rare talent, which, alas, was held back by circumstances in
earlier days, and which at last was mown down even yet unripe.
A couple of large pictures by Hackert have arrived, and anything more
perfect, as faithful copies of reality, could scarcely be imagined.
As to my studies and hobbies, I do not know whether I have ever said
anything to you about my collection of modern medals in bronze and
copper, beginning with the second half of the fifteenth century, and
coming down to the most recent times.
I chanced upon this in connection with my revision of Cellini; for,
since in the north we must be content with crumbs, it seemed possible
for me to gain even an approximately clear survey of plastic art only
through the aid of original medals from the various centuries, which, as
is generally known, invariably kept close to the sculpture of their
time. Through exertion, favor, and good fortune I have already
succeeded extremely well in making a rather important collection. Permit
me to include a couple of commissions and desiderata.
1. For a couple of old medals said to be in the possession of
Mercandetti.[24]
2. For papal medals from Innocent XIII inclusive; I have very fine
specimens of Hamerani's[25] medals of Clement XI.
3. For a medal to be ordered from Mercandetti, a commission which I
especially urge both on you and on Humboldt; for the enterprise is, I
must admit, a serious one; in the long run, some satisfaction may
probably be gained; but should it fail, money will be lost and vexation
will be the result.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
July 30, 1804.
Months ago I wrote the inclosed sheet to your dear wife. She has
recently been here, and I have had the pleasure of conversing with her;
she has, so I hear, safely reached Paris and been delivered. I trust
that, ere long, she may there embrace your dear brother, who has, in a
sense, risen for us from the dead. Your precious letter of February 25
reached me safely in good time, and as I reflect on the long interval
during which I have left you without news from me, I now note through
what singular emotions I have passed during this time.
Schiller's Tell has been completed for some time and is now on the
stage. It is an extraordinary production wherein his dramatic skill puts
forth new branches, and it justly creates a profound sensation. You will
surely receive it before long, for it is already in press.
I have permitted myself to be persuaded to try to make my Götz von
Berlichingen suitable for the stage.
This was an undertaking well-nigh impossible, for its very trend is
untheatrical; like Penelope, I, too, have ceaselessly woven and unwoven
it for a year; and in the process I have learned much, though, I fear, I
have not perfectly attained the end which I had in view. In about six
weeks I hope to present it, and Schiller will, no doubt, speak to you
about it.
Have you chanced to see our Jena Literatur-Zeitung for this year, and
has anything which it contained aroused your interest?
I am extremely grateful to you for the very welcome information which
you give me regarding an improvisatrice. Could I possibly dare to make
use of it in the advertising columns of the Literatur-Zeitung? What
you have said I would modify in every way consonant with its relation to
the public, which needs not know everything. If you could occasionally
communicate to me some information of this type from the wealth of your
observations, you would confer a great pleasure upon us.
Since Jagemann's death, Fernow has received an appointment at the
library of the Duchess Dowager, and his connection with it is of great
value for her house and for the society which assembles there; he makes
love for Italian literature a living force and gives occasion for witty
readings and conversations.
Generally speaking, Weimar is like heaven since the Bottiger goblin [26]
has been banished; and our school is also going very well indeed. A
professorship has been given to Voss's eldest son, who inherits from his
father that fundamental love for antiquity, especially from the
linguistic side, which, after all, is the principal thing in a teacher
of the classics.
Riemer also conducts himself very well in my house, and I am fairly
satisfied with the progress of my boy, who, I must admit, has a greater
interest in subject-matter than in diction.
Madame de Staël's intention of spending a portion of the summer here has
been frustrated by her father's death. She has taken Schlegel with her
from Berlin; they are together in Coppet; and will probably go to Italy
toward winter. Such a visit would doubtless be more delightful to you,
dear friend, than many another.
My warmest thanks are due you for sending me the Odes of Pindar in
translation; they have given a very pleasant hour of recreation to
Riemer and myself.
I trust to your goodness to see that the inclosed memorandum is
delivered to Mercandetti, and perhaps to confer with him in person about
the matter. Then among your ministering spirits you perhaps have some
one who would keep an eye on the affair in future. I should be glad if
our old patron[27] were given such a public token of gratitude, which
should also be noteworthy from the artistic side, but it must be
acknowledged that it is always a daring venture to place any order at
such a distance, and, therefore, I entreat your friendly participation.
Above all things it is important that Mercandetti should make a moderate
charge. He demands three piasters for his Alfieri, which he offers for
sale and which is said to be as large as his Galvani. If, now, he asks
somewhat more for the archchancellor's medal, which is ordered and which
is not supposed to be any larger, surely the extra expense should not be
much, and if it is relatively cheap, I am confident of securing him two
hundred subscribers. As has already been noted in the memorandum, he
will render himself better known in Germany through this medal than
through any other work, a fact which cannot fail to be of great moment
to him in the series of distinguished men of the previous century, which
he intends to issue. Forgive me for adding this new burden to your many
duties, and yet endeavor to conduct the affair so that it will not
require much writing to and fro, and so that, in his reply to the
memorandum, Mercandetti will accept our offer. Letters are now delayed
intolerably; one from Florence here takes twenty days, and more.
It comforts me greatly that you have been pleased with my Natural
Daughter, for though at times I long remain silent toward my absent
friends, my desire is, nevertheless, suddenly to resume relations with
them through that which I have toiled over in silence. Unfortunately, I
have given up this play, and do not know when I shall be able to resume
work on it.
Have you seen the twenty lyric poems which have been published by me in
my Annual of this year? Among them are some that ought not to
displease you. Do not render like for like, but write me soon.
Communicate to me many observations on lands, nations, men, and
languages, which are so instructive and so stimulating. Do not delay,
moreover, to give me some information regarding your own health and that
of your dear wife.
Weimar, July 30, 1804.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
August 31, 1812.
Faithful to its nature, Teplitz continues to be, esteemed friend,
unfavorable to our coming together. This inconvenience is doubly
vexatious to me now that, after your departure from Karlsbad, I
deliberately thought over the value of your presence, and wished to
continue our interviews. I was especially grieved that your beautiful
presentation of the manner in which languages received their expansion
over the world was not completely drawn up, although the most of it
remained with me. If you wish to give me a real proof of friendship,
have the kindness to write out for me such an abstract, and I shall
have a hemispherical map colored for myself accordingly and add it to
Lesage's Atlas, since, in view of my residence abroad for so much of
the year, I am compelled to think more and more of my general need of a
compendious and tabulated traveling library. Thus, with the assistance
of Aulic Councillor Meyer, the history of the plastic arts and of
painting is now being written on the margin of Bredow's Tabellen, and
thus in a very large number of cases your linguistic map will help to
refresh my memory and serve as a guide in much of my reading.
I would gladly have spoken with you in detail regarding Berlin and all
that which, according to your previous preparations and suggestions, is
going on there. Great cities always contain within themselves the image
of whole empires, and even though distorted by exaggerations which
degenerate into caricature, they nevertheless present the nation in
concentrated form to the eye.
State Councillor Langermann, whose good will and energy are so
beautifully balanced, has now delighted me for two weeks with his
instructive conversation, and both by word and by example revived my
courage for many things which I had been on the point of abandoning. It
is very enlivening indeed to re-behold the world in its entirety through
the medium of a truly energetic man; for the Germans seldom know how to
inspire in details, and never as a whole.
I here find an entirely natural transition to the information which you
give me—that our friend Wolf is not satisfied with Niebuhr's work,
although he preëminently should have had reason to be. I feel, however,
very calm about it, for I value Wolf infinitely when he works and acts,
but I have never known him to be sympathetic, especially as regards the
affairs of the present, and herein he is a true German. Moreover, he
knows entirely too much to permit himself to be instructed further and
not to discover the gaps in the knowledge of others. He has his own
mode of thought; how should he recognize the merits of the views of
others? And the great endowments which he possesses are the very ones
which are adapted to rouse and to maintain the spirit of contradiction
and of rejection.
As to myself, a layman, I have been very greatly indebted to Niebuhr's
first volume, and I hope that the second will increase my gratitude
toward him. I am very curious about his development of the lex
agraria. We have heard of it from the time of our youth without gaining
any clear conception of it. How pleasant it is to listen to a learned
and original man on such a theme, especially in these days, when the
summons comes for a more free and unprejudiced consideration of the law
of states and nations, as well as of all the relations of civil law. It
becomes obvious what an advantage it is to know little, and to have
forgotten very much of that little. I never love to mingle in the
wrangles of the day, but I cannot forego the delight of quietly snapping
my fingers at them. I trust that the small leaf inclosed may win a smile
from you.
I beg you to give my best regards to your wife, and convey my kindest
greetings to the Körners. When the young man [28] again has anything
ready, I beg that it may be sent me at once. This time I should be most
happy to receive a rather large article for January 30, the birthday of
the duchess. A thousand fare-you-wells!
* * * * *
Weimar, February 8, 1813.
With sincere thanks I recognize the fact that you have been able so
quickly and so perfectly to fulfil your friendly promise. Your
beautiful sketch has given me an entirely new impulse to studies of all
sorts. It is no longer possible for me to collect materials; but when
they are brought to me in so concentrated a form, it becomes a source of
very real pleasure for me speedily to fill the gaps in my knowledge and
to discover a thousand relations to what information I already possess.
As soon as I can spend a few quiet weeks at Jena in March, I shall get
about my task, which, after your preliminary work, is in reality only a
pastime. Bertuch has had some maps of Europe printed for me in a
brownish tint. One of these is to be laid on a large drawing-board, and
the boundaries are to be colored. I shall then indicate the main
languages and, so far as possible, the dialects as well, by attaching
little slips; and Bertuch is not unwilling then to have such a map
engraved, an easy task in his great establishment which is provided with
artists of every kind. Please have the kindness, therefore, to proceed
and to send me the continuation at the earliest possible moment. A map
of the two hemispheres is now ready and is to have the languages
indicated in like fashion. From my inmost heart I wish success to your
translation of Æschylus, which continually becomes more and more
elaborate, and I rejoice that you have not let yourself be frightened
away from this good work by the threats of the Heidelberg Cyclops[29]
and his crew. At the present moment they menace our friend Wolf, who
certainly is no kitten, with ignominious execution, because he also
dared to land on the translation island which they have received from
Father Neptune in private fief, and to bring with him a readable
Aristophanes. It is written, "Blessed are the dead which die in the
Lord," but still more blessed are they who go mad over some
conceitedness.
Our friend Wieland is blessed in the first sense; he has died in his
Lord, and without particular suffering has passed over to his gods and
heroes. What talent and spirit, learning, common sense, receptivity,
and versatility, conjoined with industry and endurance, can accomplish,
utile nobis proposuit exemplar. If every man would so employ his gifts
and his time, what marvels would then take place!
I have passed my winter as usual, much distracted with my work, yet with
tolerable health, so that it has gone quickly and not without profit. In
November and December my plans were disarranged by theatrical
preparations for the long-expected Iffland, who did not come till toward
the close of the year, and also by preparations for his performances,
which gave me great pleasure. In January and February there were four
birthdays, when either our inventive genius or our collaboration was
demanded; and thus much has been frittered away, willingly, to be sure,
but fruitlessly.
What I have done meanwhile with pleasure and real interest has been to
make a renewed effort to find among extant monuments a trace of those of
which descriptions have come down to us. Philostrati were again the
order of the day, and as to the statues, I believe that I have got on
the track of the Olympian Zeus, on which so many preliminary studies
have already been made, and also on that of the Hera of Samos, the
Doryphorus of Polycletes, and especially on that of the Cow of Myron and
of the bull that carried Europa. Meyer, whose history of ancient art,
now written in a fair copy, furnished the chief inspiration, takes a
lively interest, since both his doubt and his agreement are invariably
well-founded.
And thus I shall now close for this time, in the hope of soon seeing
something from your dear hand once more.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
Tennstädt, September 1, 1816. The great work to which you, dearest
friend, have devoted a large portion of your life, could not have
reached me at a better time; it finds me here in Tennstädt, a little
provincial Thuringian bathing town which is probably not entirely
unknown to you. Here I have now been for five weeks, and alone, since my
friend Meyer left me.
Here, at first, I indulged in a cursory reading both of the introduction
and of the drama[30] itself, to my no small edification; and inasmuch as
I am now, for the second time, enjoying the details together with the
whole, I will no longer withhold my thanks for this gift.
For even though one sympathetically concerns one's self with all the
praiseworthy and with all the good that the most ancient and the most
modern times afford, nevertheless, such a pre-ancient giant figure,
formed like a prodigy, appears amazing to us, and we must collect all
our senses to stand over against it in an attitude even approximately
worthy of it. At such a moment there is no doubt that here the work of
all works of art is seen, or, in more moderate language, a model of the
highest type. That we now can control this easily is our indebtedness to
you; and continuous thanks must fervently reward your efforts, though in
themselves they bring their own reward.
This drama has always been to me one of those most worthy of
consideration, and through your interest it has been made accessible
earlier than the rest. But, more than ever, the texture of this primeval
tapestry now seems most marvelous to me; past, present, and future are
so happily interwoven that the reader himself becomes the seer, that is,
he becomes like unto God, and yet, in the last resort, that is the
triumph of all poetry in the greatest and in the least.
But if we here perceive how the poet had at his service each and every
means by which so tremendous an effort may be produced, we cannot
refrain from the highest admiration. How happily the epic, lyric, and
dramatic diction is interwoven, not compelling, but enticing us to
sympathize with such cruel fates! And how well the scanty didactic
reflection becomes the chorus as it speaks! All this cannot receive too
high a mead of praise.
Forgive me, then, for bringing owls to Athens as a thanks-offering. I
could truly continue thus forever, and tell you what you yourself have
long since better known. Thus I have once more been astonished to see
that each character, except Clytemnestra, the linker of evil unto evil,
has her exclusive Aristeia, so that each one acts an entire poem, and
does not return later for the possible purpose of again burdening us
with her affairs. In every good poem poetry in its entirety must be
contained; but this is a flugleman.
The ideas in your introduction regarding synonymy are precious; would
that our linguistic purists were imbued with them! We will not, however,
contaminate such lofty affairs with the lamentable blunders whereby the
German nation is corrupting its language from the very foundation, an
evil which will not be perceived for thirty years.
You, however, my dearest friend, be and remain blessed for the
benefaction which you have done us. This your Agamemnon shall never
again leave my side.
I cannot judge the rhythmic merit, but I believe I feel it. Our
admirable, talented, and original friend Wolf—although he becomes
intractable in case of contradiction—who spent a number of days with
me, speaks very highly of your careful work. It will be instructive to
see how the Heidelberg gentlemen[31] conduct themselves.
Let me have a word from you before you go to Paris, and give my
greetings to your dear wife. How much I had wished to see you this
summer, for so many things are in progress on every side that only days
suffice to consider what is to be furthered and how. Fortunately for me,
nothing is approaching that I must absolutely refuse, even though
everything is not undertaken and conducted according to my convictions.
And it is precisely this bitter-sweet which can be treated only orally
and in person.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
Weimar, June 22, 1823.
Your letter, dear and honored friend, came at a remarkable juncture
which made it doubly interesting; Schiller's letters had just been
collected, and I was looking them through from the very first, finding
there the most charming traces of the happy and fruitful hours which we
passed together. The invitation to the Horen is contained in the first
letter of June 13, 1794; then the correspondence continues, and with
every letter admiration for Schiller's extraordinary spirit and joy over
his influence on our entire development increases in intensity and
elevation. His letters are an infinite treasure, of which you also
possess rich store; and as, through them, we have made noteworthy
progress, so we must read them again to be protected against backward
steps to which the precious world about us is inclined to tempt us day
by day and hour by hour.
Just imagine to yourself now, my dearest friend, how highly welcome your
announcement seemed to me at this moment when, after ripe reflection, I
desired to give you very friendly counsel to visit us toward the end of
October. Should the gods not dispose otherwise concerning us, you will
surely find me, and whatever else is near and dear to you, assembled
here; quiet, personal communication may very happily alternate with
social recreations, and, above all things, we can take delight in
Schiller's correspondence, since then you will also bring with you the
letters of several years, and in the fruitful present we may edify and
refresh ourselves with the fair bloom of by-gone days. Riemer sends his
very best greetings; he is well; our relation is permanent, mutually
beneficial, and profitable. Aulic Councillor Meyer has left for
Wiesbaden; unfortunately, his health is not of the best.
Two new numbers of Ueber Kunst und Alterthum and Zur
Naturwissenschaft are about to appear—the fruits of my winter's
labors. Fortunately, they have been so carefully prepared that no
noteworthy hindrance was presented by my troubles and by the subsequent
illness of our Grand Duchess, which filled us all, especially my
convalescent self, with fear and anxiety.
Please give my kindest regards to your wife, and, by the way, I need not
assure you that you will certainly be most highly welcome to our most
gracious court. In my household children and grandchildren will meet you
with joyous faces; our nearest friends we shall assemble as we wish. If
in the interval you should have some message for me, I beg you to send
it to my address here, for then it will reach me most quickly.
And now I again send the very best of all kind greetings to your dear
wife; may good fortune bring me once more to her side. Pardon a somewhat
distracted way of writing, indicative of packing.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
October 22, 1826.
Your letter and package, most honored friend, gave me a very welcome
token of your continuous remembrance and friendly sympathy. I wish,
however, that I might have received an equal assurance of your good
health. For my own part, I cannot complain; a ship that is no longer a
deep-sea sailer may perhaps still be useful as a coaster.
I have passed the entire summer at home, laboring undisturbed at editing
my works. Possibly you still remember, my dearest friend, a dramatic
Helena, which was to appear in the second part of Faust. From
Schiller's letters at the beginning of the century I see that I showed
him the commencement of it, and also that he, with true friendship,
counseled me to continue it. It is one of my oldest conceptions, resting
on the marionette tradition that Faust compelled Mephistopheles to
produce Helen of Troy for his nuptials. From time to time I have
continued to work on it, but the piece could not be completed except in
the fulness of time, for its action has now covered three thousand
years, from the fall of Troy to the capture of Missolonghi. This can,
therefore, also be regarded as a unity of time in the higher sense of
the term; the unities of place and action are, however, likewise most
carefully regarded in the usual acceptation of the word. It appears
under the title:
Helena
Classico-Romantic Phantasmagoria.
Interlude to Faust.
This says little indeed, and yet enough, I hope, to direct your
attention more vividly to the first instalment of my works which I hope
to present at Easter.
I next ask, with more confidence, whether perchance you still remember
an epic poem which I had in mind immediately after the completion of
Hermann and Dorothea—in a modern hunt a tiger and a lion were
concerned. At the time you dissuaded me from elaborating the idea, and I
abandoned it; now, in searching through old papers, I find the plot
again, and cannot refrain from executing it in prose; for it may then
pass as a tale, a rubric under which an extremely large amount of
remarkable stuff circulates.
Very recently there has reached my hermitage the portrayal of the very
active life of a man of the world, which highly entertains me—the
journal of Duke Bernhard of Weimar, who left Ghent in April, 1825, and
who returned to us only a short time past. It is written
uninterruptedly, and since his station, his mode of thought, and his
demeanor introduced him to the highest circles of society, and since he
was at ease among the middle classes and did not disdain the most
humble, his reader is very agreeably conducted through most diverse
situations, which, for me at least, it was highly important to survey
directly.
Now, however, I must assure you that the outline which you have sent is
extremely profitable to Riemer and myself, and has given a most
admirable opportunity for discussions on linguistics and philosophy. I
am by no means averse to the literature of India, but I am afraid of it;
for it draws my imaginative power towards the formless and the deformed,
against which I am forced to guard myself more than ever; but if it
comes over the signature of a valued friend, it will always be welcome,
for it gives me the desired opportunity to converse with him on what
interests him, and what must certainly be of importance.
Now, as I prepare to close, I simply say that I am engaged in combining
and uniting the scattered Wanderings of Wilhelm Meister, in its old
and new portions, as two volumes. While engaged in which task nothing
could give me greater delight than to welcome the chief of wanderers,
your highly esteemed brother, to our house, and to learn directly of his
ceaseless activity; nor do I fail to express my hearty wishes to your
dear wife for the best results from the cure which she is seeking in
such lofty regions.
And so, for ever and ever, in truest sympathy, GOETHE.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
October 19, 1830.
How often during these weeks, my dear and honored friend, have I sought
refuge at your side, again taken out your magnificent letters, and found
refreshment in them!
As almost in an instant the earthquake of Lisbon caused its influences
to be felt in the remotest lakes and springs, so we also have been
shaken directly by that western explosion, as was the case forty years
ago.
How comforting it must have been for me in such moments to take up your
priceless letters, you yourself will feel and graciously express.
Through a decided antithesis I was carried back to those times when we
felt mutually pledged to procure a preliminary culture, when, united
with our great and noble friend, we strove after concrete truths, and
most faithfully and diligently sought to attain all that was most
beautiful and sublime in the world about us, for the edification of our
willing, yearning spirits, and to fill to its full an atmosphere which
required substance and contents.
How beautiful and splendid is it now that you should lay the foundations
for your latest composition (Review of Goethe's Italian Travels) in
that happy soil, that you should seek to explain me and my endeavors at
that laborious time, and that attentively and lovingly you should have
traced back that which in my efforts might seem incidental or lacking in
coherence, in sequence, to a spiritual necessity and to individual
characteristic combinations.
Here, now, there would be a most beautiful theme for discussion by word
of mouth. It is impossible to commit to writing how I was mirrored in
your words; how I received elucidation on many things; how, at the same
time, I was again challenged to reflect on the many enigmas that ever
remain unsolved in man, even as regards himself; and seriously to
reflect on the inner nexus of many qualities which cross in the
individual and which, despite a certain degree of contradiction, are
intertwined and united.
Here belongs preëminently my relation to plastic art, to which you have
devoted an attention so deserving of thanks. It is marvelous enough that
man feels an irresistible impulse to prosecute what he cannot achieve,
and yet that by this very process he is most essentially furthered in
his actual achievements.
That, however, this long-delayed letter may no further lag behind, I
shall close, but shall, nevertheless, at the same time inform you that,
while I uttered the sentiments written above, I once more returned to
your letters, and by seeing myself mirrored in them afresh was
challenged to new considerations, and was powerfully reminded of those
times when, united in spirit though not in body, we, already advanced in
years, enjoyed with the strength of youth and with delight those idyllic
days.
For six months [32] now my son has shared in the exuberance with which,
on the priceless peninsula, nature and centuries have, with most
marvelous intricacy, amassed and destroyed in life, created and
demolished in the arts, and played with the fates of men and nations.
He went by steamer from Leghorn to Naples, where he may be even yet, a
decision which, once carried out, has brought very special advantages.
He found Professor Zahn there, and himself, under this scholar's
guidance, completely at home both above and below the ground.
Since now you, too, my dearest friend, are accustoming yourself to
dictating, send me in a happy hour of leisure often a tiny friendly
word, so that, from time to time, I may more frequently and concretely
be aware of the coexistence which has already so long been vouched us on
this terrestrial ball. I tear myself unwillingly from this
communication; how much I have to say floats before me, but at this time
I shall delay only to bless the fortunate star which at this moment
rises over you and your estimable brother. May what has so charmingly
been inaugurated endure for the enjoyment of rich results to you and to
us all!
And so ever!
Weimar, October 19, 1830. J. W. VON GOETHE.
* * * * *
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
Weimar, December 1, 1831.
Already informed by the public press, honored friend, that the beating
waves of that wild Baltic have exercised so happy an influence on the
constitution of my dearest friend, I have rejoiced in a high degree,
and have done all honor and reverence to the waters which so often wreak
destruction. Your welcome note gave the fairest and the best of all
substantiation to these good tidings, so that with comfort I could look
forth from my hermitage over the monastery gardens veiled in snow, since
I could fancy to myself my dearest friend in his four-towered castle,
amid roomy surroundings, surveying a landscape over which winter had
spread far and wide, and at the same time with good courage pursuing to
the minutest detail his deep-founded tasks.
Generally speaking, I can perhaps say that the apperception of great
productive maxims of nature absolutely compels us to continue our
investigations to the minutest possible details, just as the final
ramifications of the arteries meet, at the extreme finger-tips, the
nerves to which they are linked. In particular I might perhaps say that
I have often been brought more closely to you than you probably know;
for conversations with Riemer very often turn on a word, its
etymological signification, formation and mutation, relationship, and
strangeness.
I have been highly grateful to your brother, for whom I find no epithet,
for several hours of frank, friendly conversation; for although
assimilation of his theory of geology, and practical work in accordance
with it, are impossible for my mental process, yet I have seen with true
sympathy and admiration how that of which I cannot convince myself in
him obtains a logical coherence and is amalgamated with the tremendous
mass of his knowledge, where it is then held together by his priceless
character.
If I may express myself with my old frankness, my most honored friend, I
gladly admit that in my advanced years everything becomes more and more
historical to me. Whether a thing has happened in days gone by, in
distant realms, or very close to myself, is quite immaterial; I even
seem to become more and more historical to myself; and when, in the
evening, Plutarch is read to me, I often appear ridiculous to myself,
should I narrate my biography in this way.
Forgive me expressions of this character! In old age men become
garrulous, and since I dictate, it is very easy for this natural
tendency to get the better of me.
Of my Faust there is much and little to say; at a peculiarly happy
time the apothegm occurred to me:
"If bards ye are, as ye maintain;
Now let your inspiration show it."
And through a mysterious psychological turn, which probably deserves
investigation, I believe that I have risen to a type of production which
with entire consciousness has brought forth that which I myself still
approve of—though perhaps without being able ever again to swim in this
current—but which Aristotle and other prose-writers would even ascribe
to a sort of madness. The difficulty of succeeding consisted in the fact
that the second part of Faust—to whose printed portions you have
possibly devoted some attention—has been pondered for fifty years in
its ends and aims, and has been elaborated in fragmentary fashion, as
one or the other situation occurred to me; but the whole has remained
incomplete.
Now, the second part of Faust demands more of the understanding than
the first does, and therefore it was necessary to prepare the reader,
even though he must still supply bridges. The filling of certain gaps
was obligatory both for historical and for æsthetic unity, and this I
continued until at last I deemed it advisable to cry:
"Close ye the wat'ring canal; to their fill have the meadows now drunken."
And now I had to take heart to seal the stitched copy in which printed
and unprinted are thrust side by side, lest I might possibly be led into
temptation to elaborate it here and there; at the same time I regret
that I cannot communicate it to, my most valued friends, as the poet so
gladly does.
I will not send my Metamorphosis of Plants, translated, with an
appendix, by M. Soret, unless certain confessions of life would satisfy
your friendship. Recently I have become more and more entangled in these
phenomena of nature; they have enticed me to continue my labors in my
original field, and have finally compelled me to remain in it. We shall
see what is to be done there likewise, and shall trust the rest to the
future, which, between ourselves, we burden with a heavier task than
would be supposed.
From time to time let us not miss on either side an echo of continued
existence.
G.
GOETHE TO WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
Weimar, March 17, 1832.
After a long, involuntary pause I begin as follows, and yet simply on
the spur of the moment. Animals, the ancients said, were taught by their
organs. I add to this, men also, although they have the advantage of
teaching their organs in return.
For every act, and, consequently, for every talent, an innate tendency
is requisite, working automatically, and unconsciously carrying with
itself the necessary predisposition; yet, for this very reason, it works
on and on inconsequently, so that, although it contains its laws within
itself, it may, nevertheless, ultimately run out, devoid of end or aim.
The earlier a man perceives that there is a handicraft or an art which
will aid him to attain a normal increase of his natural talents, the
more fortunate is he. Moreover, what he receives from without does not
impair his innate individuality. The best genius is that which absorbs
everything within itself, which knows how to adapt everything, without
prejudicing in the least the real fundamental essence—the quality which
is called character—so that it becomes the element which truly elevates
that quality and endows it throughout so far as may be possible.
Here, now, appear the manifold relations between the conscious and the
unconscious. Imagine a musical talent that is to compose an important
score; consciousness and unconsciousness will be related like the warp
and the woof, a simile that I am so fond of using. Through practice,
teaching, reflection, failure, furtherance, opposition, and renewed
reflection the organs of man unconsciously unite, in a free activity,
the acquired and the innate, so that this process creates a unity which
sets the world in amaze. This generalization may serve as a speedy reply
to your query and as an explanation of the note that is herewith
returned.
Over sixty years have passed since, in my youth, the conception of Faust
lay before me clear from the first, although the entire sequence was
present in less detailed form. Now, I have always kept my purpose in the
back of my mind and I have elaborated only the passages that were of
special interest to me, so that gaps remain in the second part which are
to be connected with the remainder through the agency of a uniform
interest. Here, I must admit, appeared the great difficulty of attaining
through resolution and character what should properly belong only to a
nature voluntarily active. It would, however, not have been well had
this not been feasible after so long a life of active reflection, and I
let no fear assail me that it may be possible to distinguish the older
from the newer, and the later from the earlier; which point, then, we
shall intrust to future readers for their friendly examination.
Beyond all question it will give me infinite pleasure to dedicate and
communicate these very serious jests to my valued, ever thankfully
recognized, and widely scattered friends while still living, and to
receive their reply. But, as a matter of fact, the age is so absurd and
so insane that I am convinced that the candid efforts which I have long
expended upon this unusual structure would be ill rewarded, and that,
driven ashore, they will lie like a wreck in ruins and speedily be
covered over by the sand-dunes of time. In theory and practice,
confusion rules the world, and I have no more urgent task than to
augment, wherever possible, what is and has remained within me, and to
redistill my peculiarities, as you also, worthy friend, surely also do
in your castle.
But do you likewise tell me something about your work. Riemer is, as you
doubtless know, absorbed in the same and similar studies, and our
evening conversations often lead to the confines of this specialty.
Forgive this delayed letter! Despite my retirement, there is seldom an
hour when these mysteries of life may be realized.