From: Conversations with Goethe in the Last Years of His Life (1839)
Author: Johann Peter Eckermann, Trans. S. Margaret Fuller
Published: Hilliard Gray and Co. 1839 Boston
I went to Goethe at one. He showed me a supplement he had written to my criticism on the “Paria.”
“You were quite right,” said he, “to try to become acquainted with India, on account of your little critical essay, since, in the end, we retain from our studies only that part which we can practically apply,”
I answered that I had found it so in all the instruction I had ever received. I had retained what any natural tendency would lead me to apply, and forgotten all the rest. “I have,” said I, “heard Heeren’s lectures on ancient and modem history, and know now nothing about the matter. But, if I study a period of history for the sake of writing a drama, what I learn in that way abides with me.”
“Every where,” said Goethe, “they teach in academies too many things, and many useless things. In former days, the physician learned chemistry and botany, to aid him in his profession, and they were m such a state that he could manage them. Now, each of these departments has become so extensive, that any competent acquaintance-with it is the work of a life; yet acquaintance with both is expected from the physician. That cannot be;—one must be renounced or neglected for the sake of the other. He who is wise will put aside all claims which may dissipate his attention, and determine to excel in some one branch.”
He then, after showing me a short criticism he had been writing upon Lord Byron’s “Cain,” added,
“We see how the inadequate dogmas of the church work upon a free mind like Byron’s, and how throughout such a piece he struggles to get rid of the doctrine which has been forced upon him. The English clergy will not thank him; but I shall be surprised if he does not take up biblical subjects of similar import; and, among others, that of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
He then showed me a carved gem, of which he had expressed his admiration some days before. I was enchanted by the naïveté of the design. It represented a man who has taken a heavy vessel from his shoulder to give a boy drink. But the boy finds it is not bent down sufficiently; the drink will not flow; he has hold of the vessel with both hands, and is looking up into the man’s face with an expression which seems to ask that he will lean it a little more towards him.
“Now! how do you like that?” said Goethe. “We moderns,” continued he, “can indeed feel the beauty of such a perfectly natural, perfectly naïve design, but we cannot make such; the understanding is always uppermost, and will not permit that unconscious and enchanting grace.”
We looked then at a medal by Brandt of Berlin; representing young Theseus taking the arms of his father from under the stone. The attitude had merit, but we found the limbs not sufficiently strained to lift such a burden. It seemed, too, a mistake for the youth to have one hand on the arms, while with the other he lifts the stone; for, according to the nature of the thing, he should first roll aside the heavy stone, and then take the arms. “I will show you,” said Goethe, “an antique gem, and let you see how the same subject is treated there.”
He bid Stadelmann bring a box which contained several hundred copies of antique gems, which he had collected while in Italy. The Greek, indeed, had treated this subject differently. On the antique gem, I found the youth exerting his whole strength to more the stone, and not in vain; the stone is on the point of falling aside. All his bodily powers are directed by the young hero to the removal of this obstacle only; his looks are fixed on the arms which lie beneath.
We rejoiced in the truth and nature of this representation.
“Meyer,” continued Goethe, laughing, “used to say, ‘If only the thought were not so hard.’ And the worst is, that no thinking will bring us such thoughts; we must be made right by nature, and let these line thoughts come before us like free children of God, and cry, ‘Here we are.’”
To-day, Goethe showed me two very remarkable poems, both highly moral in their tendency, but in action so natural and true, so perfectly unreserved, that the world would style them immoral; and he, therefore, does not publish them:
“Could intellect and high cultivation,” ‘said he, “indeed become the property of all, the poet would have fair play; he would be true to himself throughout, and would not fear to tell his best thoughts. But, as it is, he must always keep on a certain level; must remember that his works will be read by a mixed society; and must take care not to do any thing which by over-great openness may annoy the majority of good men. Then, Time is a tyrant, who has strange whims, and turns a new face to each new century. We cannot, with propriety, say things which were very proper for the ancient Greeks; and the Englishman of 1820 cannot endure what suited the vigorous contemporaries of Shakspeare; so that the present day finds it necessary to have a family Shakspeare.”
“Then,” said I, “there is much in the form also. One of these two poems, which is composed in the style and metre of the ancients, would be far less offensive than the other: Certainly, parts must displease, but the whole has a tone of grandeur and dignity; so that we seem to hear a strong man of antiquity, and to be carried back to the heroic age of Greece. But the other, being in the style and metre of Messer Ariosto, has a much more suspicious air. It relates an event of our day, and in the language of our day; it wears no sort of veil, and its boldness seems bold indeed.”
“You are right,” said he; “the mysterious influence of different poetic forms is very great. If the import of my Romish elegies were put into the measure and style of Byron’s ‘Don Juan,’ it would scarcely be endured.”
The French newspapers were brought. Goethe was much interested by the campaign of the French in Spain under the Duke D’Angoulême. “The Bourbons,” said he, “deserve praise for this measure; they were not firmly seated on the throne till they had won the army, and that is now accomplished. The soldier returns more loyal; for he has, from his own victory, and the discomfiture of the many-headed Spanish host, learned how much better it is to obey one than many: The army has sustained its former fame, and shown that it is brave in itself, and can fight without Napoleon.”
Goethe then turned his thoughts backward into history, and talked of the seven years’ war, and the Prussian army, which, accustomed by Frederic the Great to constant victory, grew careless, and thus, in after days, lost many battles. All the minutest details were familiar to him, and I had reason to admire his memory.
“I had the great advantage,” said he, “of being born at a time when the world was agitated by great movements, which have continued during my long life; so that I am a living witness of the seven years’ war, the separation of America from England, the French Revolution, and 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 must learn all these things from books.
“What these coming years will bring I cannot predict; but I fear we cannot expect repose, The world is not so framed that it can keep quiet; the great are not so that they will not permit misuse of power; the masses not so that, in hope of a gradual amelioration, they will keep tranquil in an inferior condition. Could we perfect human nature; we might expect perfection every where; but, as it is, there will always be this 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 conflicts find no end.
“The most reasonable way is to follow one’s own vocation—do what you were born or have learned to do, and avoid hindering others from doing the same. Let the shoemaker abide by his last, the peasant by his plough, and the king by his sceptre. For the art of governing also requires an apprenticeship, and no one should meddle with it before having learned it.”
Then, returning to the French papers,—“The Liberals,” said he, “may speak, and, when they are reasonable, we like to hear them; but the Royalists, who have the power in their hands, should not talk, bot act. They may march troops, and head and hang; that is all right;—but to argue in public prints, and try to prove that their measures are right, is not their proper way. They might talk, if they could address a public of kings.
“For myself, I have always been a Royalist. I have let others babble, and have done as I saw fit. I understood my course, and knew what my own object was. If you hurt one, you can make it up to him; but, if two or three, you had best let it alone: among many men there are so many minds.”
Goethe was very gay to-day. He had just written in the album of Frau von Spiegel, and rejoiced in having fulfilled a promise of long standing. Turning over the leaves of this album, in which I found many distinguished names, I saw a poem by Tiedge, written in the very spirit and style of his “Urania.” “In a saucy mood,” said Goethe, “I was tempted to write some verses beneath those; but I am glad I did not. It would not have been the first time that, by indulging myself in rash liberties, I had repelled good people, and spoiled the effect of my best works.
“However, I have endured not a little from Tiedge; for, at one time, nothing was sung or declaimed but this same ‘Urania.’ Wherever you went, there lay ‘Urania’ on the table. ‘Urania’ and immortality were the topics of every conversation. I could in no wise dispense with the happiness of believing in our future existence, and, indeed, could say, with Lorenzo de Medici, that those are dead for this life even, who have no hope for another. But such incomprehensible subjects lie too far off, and only disturb our thoughts if made the theme of daily meditation. Let him who believes in immortality enjoy his happiness in silence without giving himself airs thereupon. The occasion of ‘Urania’ led me to observe that piety has its pretensions to aristocracy, no less than noble blood. I met stupid women, who plumed themselves on believing, with Tiedge, in immortality, and I was forced to bear much catechising on this point. They were vexed by my saying I should be well pleased to be ushered into a future state after the close of this, only I hoped I should there 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 foresee it? Has not it happened just as we said?’ And so there would be ennui without end,
“All this fuss about such points is for people of rank, and especially women, who have nothing to do. But an able man, who has something to do here, and must toil and strive day by day to accomplish it, leaves the future world till it comes, and contents himself with being active and useful in this. Thoughts about immortality are also good for those, who have small success here below, and I would wager that better fortune would have brought our good Tiedge better thoughts.”
I dined with Goethe. Alter the cloth had been removed, he bade Stadelmann bring in some large port folios of engravings. Goethe detected some dust on the covers, and, not finding any cloths at hand to wipe it away, he was much displeased, and scolded Stadelmann. “I speak for the last time,” said he; “if these cloths, for which I have asked so often, are not forthcoming to-day, I declare that I will go myself to buy them to-morrow, and you shall see that I will keep my word.” Stadelmann went for them immediately.
“I used the same means with Becker, the actor,” added Goethe to me, in a lively tone, “when he refused to take the part of a trooper in ‘Wallenstein.’ I gave him warning that, if he would not take the part, I myself would appear in it. That did the business. For they knew me at the theatre well enough to be sure that I was not in jest, and would keep my word in any case.”
“And would you really have appeared on the boards?” asked I.
“Yes,” said Goethe, “I would have taken the part, md would have eclipsed Mr. Becker, too, for I under stood the matter better than he dad.”
We then looked at the drawings and engravings. Goethe takes great interest in forming my taste; he shows me only what is complete, and endeavors to make me apprehend the intention of the artist; he would have me think and feel only with the thoughts and feelings of the noblest beings. “This,” said he, “is the way to cultivate what we call taste. Taste should be educated by contemplation, not of the tolerably good, but of the truly excellent. I show you the best, and when you have thoroughly apprehended these, you will have a standard, and will know how to value inferior performances, without overrating them. And I show you the best in each sort, that you may perceive no department is to be despised, since each may be elevated, by genius working, in it, to a source of improvement and delight. For instance, this piece, by a French artist, has a gentility which you see no where else, and is admirable in its way.”
He then showed me some etchings by Roos, the famous painter of animals; they were all of sheep in different postures and situations. The simplicity of their countenances, their fleece, all about them, was represented with wonderful fidelity; it was nature itself. “I am half frightened,” said Goethe, “when I look at these beasts. Their state, so limited, dull, gaping, and dreaming, excites in me such sympathy, that I feel as if I might become a sheep, and as if the artist must have been one. How could be enter so into the inmost character of these creatures? for their very soul looks through the bodies he has drawn. Here you see what great talent can do when it keeps steady to subjects which are congenial with its nature.”
“Has not, then,” said I, “this artist painted dogs, cats, and beasts of prey with equal truth, or indeed has he not, by his gift of sympathy, been able to represent human nature also?”
“No,” said Goethe, “all that lay out of his circle; but the gentle, grass-eating animals, sheep, cows, and the like, he was never weary of repeating; this was the peculiar province of his talent, in which he was content to work. And in this he did well. His sympathy with these animals, his knowledge of their psychology, were horn with him, and this gave him so fine an eye for their bodily structure. The nature of other creatures was riot so transparent to him, and therefore he felt no desire to paint them.”
The remembrance of many analogies awoke within me at these words. So had Goethe said to me, not Jong since, that knowledge of the world is inborn with the genuine poet, who, therefore, needs not much experience or varied observation to represent it adequately. “I wrote Goetz von Berlichingen,” said he, u at two and twenty, and was astonished, ten years after, to observe the fidelity of my own representation. It is obvious that I could have seen and experienced but a small part of that various picture of life, and could only know how to paint it by presentiment.
“I felt unalloyed pleasure in painting my inward world before I became acquainted with the outward. But when I found that the world was really just what I had fancied, I was chagrined, and my pictures gave me no more pleasure. Indeed, having represented the world so clearly before I knew it, when I did know it, my representation might well take a tinge of persiflage.” “There is in every character,” said he, another time, “a certain necessity, a sequence, which obliges secondary features to be formed from leading features. Observation teaches you how to draw your inferences when once you have ascertained certain premises; but some persons possess this knowledge untaught. Whether with me experience and this innate faculty are united, I will not say; but this I know, if I have talked with any man a quarter of an hour, I can make him talk two hours.”
Goethe had said of Lord Byron, that the world to him was transparent, and that he could paint by the light of his presentiments; I doubted whether Byron would succeed in painting, for instance, a subordinate animal nature, for his individuality seemed to me to be so dear to him, that he could not give himself up to such a subject. Goethe agreed, and said that even genius had not instinctive knowledge on subjects uncongenial with its nature.
“And if your excellency,” said I, “maintain that the world is inborn with the poet, you mean only the world of soul, as it manifests itself in human relations, and not the empiric world of shows and conventions; the latter, surely, even the poet must learn from observation.”
“Certainly,” replied Goethe; “the poet knows by instinct how to represent the region of love, hate, hope, despair, or by whatever other names you may call the moods and passions of the soul. But he knows not by instinct how courts are held, or how a coronation is managed, and, if he meddle with such subjects, must depend either on experience or tradition. Thus, in ‘Faust,’ I might by presentiment have known how to describe my hero’s weariness of life, and the emotions which love excites in the heart of Margaret; but the lines,
Des spaten Monds mit feuchtuer Glut heran!
‘How gloomily does the imperfect orb
Of the late moon arise in humid glow!’
require that the writer should have observed nature.”
“Yet,” said I, “every line of Faust’ bears marks, not to be mistaken, of most careful study of life and the world. The reader would suppose it the fruit of the amplest experience.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Goethe; “yet, had I not the world in my soul from the beginning, I must ever have remained blind with my seeing eyes, and all experience and observation would have been dead and unproductive. The light is there, and the colors surround us; but, if we bore nothing corresponding in our own eyes, the outward apparition would not avail us.”
“There are,” said Goethe, “excellent men, who cannot endure to do any thing impromptu, or superficially, but whose nature demands that they should fix their attention in leisurely tranquillity on any object for which they are to do any thing. Such minds often make us impatient, for we can seldom get from them what we want for the moment; but in their way the noblest tasks are accomplished.”
I spoke of Ramberg. “He,” said Goethe, “is by no means a man of such a stamp, but of most genial talents, and unequalled in his power of impromptu effort. At Dresden, one day, he asked me to give him a subject. I gave him Agamemnon, at the moment when, on his return from Troy, he is descending from his chariot at his own gate, and is seized with a gloomy presentiment as he is about to touch the threshold. You will agree that such a subject would have demanded, in the eyes of most artists, mature deliberation. But the words had scarcely passed my lips, before Ramberg began to draw, and astonished me by his perfect apprehension of his aim.”
We talked then of other arth1ts, who had set to work in a very superficial way, and thus degenerated into mannerists.
“The mannerist,” said Goethe, “is always longing to get through, and has no true enjoyment of his work. But genius is happy in finishing out the details necessary to express its idea. Roos is unwearied in drawing the hair and wool of his goats and sheep, and you see by his nicety in details that he was truly happy in his work, and had no wish to bring it to an end.
“People of little minds are not happy in art for its own sake; while at work they always have before their eyes what they shall get by what they are doing. Such worldly views and tendencies never yet produced any thing great.”
I breakfasted with Goethe. I endeavored to persuade him that his “Gods: Heroes, and Wieland,” as well as his “Letters of a Pastor,” had better be inserted in the new edition of his works.
“I cannot,” said Goethe, “at my present period, judge of the merit of those youthful productions, you younger people are the proper judges of them. Yet I am not inclined to find fault with those beginnings; indeed, I was then in the dark, and struggled on without knowing what it was I sought so earnestly; but had a perception of the right, a divining-rod, that showed me where gold was to be found.”
I observed that if this were not the case with strong intellects, they would lose much time in this mixed world.
The horses were now at the door, and we rode towards Jena. The conversation turned on the late news from France. “The constitution of France,” said Goethe, “belonging to a people who have within themselves so many elements of corruption, rests upon a very different basis from that of England. Every thing and any thing may be done in France by bribery; indeed the whole course of the French revolution was directed by such means.”
He then spoke of the death of Eugene Napoleon, (Duke of Leuchtenberg,) which seemed to grieve him much. “He was one of those great characters,” said Goethe, “which are becoming more and more rare; and the world is the poorer for his loss. I knew him personally; we were at Marienbad together last summer. He was a handsome man, about forty-two; he looked much older, as you might expect, when you called to mind all he has gone through, and how all his life was crowded with campaigns and great deeds. He talked with me at Marienbad of a plan which he was bent on executing, the union of the Rhine with the Danube, by means of a canal—a stupendous enterprise, when you consider the obstacles offered by the locality. But a man who had served under Napoleon, and with him shaken the world, finds impossibilities nowhere. The Emperor Charles had the same plan, and even began the work, but soon came to a still stand. They could do nothing because of the sand; the banks were always falling together again after the course had been dug out.”
This morning I went with Goethe into his garden.
The situation of this garden, on the farther side of the Ilm, near the park, and on the western declivity of a hill, gives it a very inviting aspect. It is protected from the north and east winds, but open to the cheering influences of the south and west; which makes it delightful, especially in spring and autumn.
Towards the north-west lies the town. It is in fact so near, that you can be there in a few minutes, and yet you see not the top of a building, or even a spire, which could remind you of the neighborhood of men; the tall and thickly-planted frees of the park shut out every other object on that side.
Towards the west and south-west you have a free lookout over the wide meadows, through which, at about the distance of a bow-shot, the Ilm winds silently. The opposite bank swells into a hill, whose summit and sides are clothed with the ash-trees, alders, poplars, and birches of the far-extended park, and give a beautiful limit to the view on the southern and western sides.
This view of the park over the meadows gives a feeling, especially in summer, as if you were near a wood which extended leagues round about. You look to see deer bounding out upon the meadows. You enjoy the peace of the deepest natural solitude, for the silence is often uninterrupted, except by the notes of some lonely blackbird, or the song of the wood-thrush.
Out of this dream of profound solitude we were now awakened by the striking of the tower clock, the screaming of the peacocks from the park, and the drums and horns of the military in the barracks. And it was not unpleasant to be thus reminded of the neighborhood of the friendly city, from which we seemed distant so many miles.
At certain seasons, these meadows are far enough from being lonely. You see sometimes country people going to, or returning from, the Weimar market; sometimes people walking along the windings of the Ilm towards Upper Weimar, which is much visited at times. Haying-time also animates the scene very agreeably. In the back-ground, you see flocks of sheep, and sometimes the stately Swiss cow, feeding.
To-day, however, there were none of those summer sights and sounds which are so refreshing to the mind. Only on the meadows were visible some streaks of green; the trees as yet could boast nothing but brown twigs and buds; yet the stroke of the finch, with occasional notes from the blackbird and thrush, announced the approach of spring.
The air was pleasant and summerlike; a mild southwest wind was blowing. Certain appearances in the heavens drew Goethe’s thoughts to the barometer; he spoke of its rise and fall, which he called the affirmative and negative of water. He spoke of the eternal laws which regulate the inhaling and exhaling processes throughout the earth; of a possible deluge; that, though each place has its proper atmosphere, there is great uniformity in the state of the barometer throughout Europe; that nature is incommensurable, and her laws often detected with great difficulty.
While he instructed me on such high subjects, we were walking up and down the broad gravel-walk. We came near the garden-house, and, he bid the servant unlock it, that he might show me the interior. Without, the whitewashed walls were covered with rose-bushes, trained over it on espaliers. I saw, with pleasure, on these rose-bushes many birds’ nests, which had been there since the preceding summer, and, now that the bushes were bare of leaves, were exposed to the eye. There were many nests of the linnet and hedge-sparrow, built high or low, according to the different habits of those birds.
In the lower story, I found only one room. The walls were hung with some charts and engravings, and with a portrait of Goethe, as large as life, taken by Meyer just after the return of both friends from Italy. Goethe here appears in-the prime of his powers and his manhood, brown, and rather stout. His expression is composed and earnest,—that of a man on whose mind has the weight of great designs.
Up stairs, I found three rooms, and one little cabinet; but all very small, and not very convenient. Goethe said that, in earlier years, he had passed a great deal of his time, and worked here, in much tranquillity.
The rooms were rather cold, and we returned into the open air.
We talked a little on literary topics; but our attention Willi soon attracted by the natural objects in our path. The crown-imperials and lilies were sprouting, the mallows already green.
The upper part of the garden, on the declivity of the hills, is covered with grass, and here and there a few fruit-trees. Pa1hs wind up to the summit, and then return to the foot. I wished to ascend. Goethe walked swiftly before me, and I was rejoiced to see how active he is.
On the hedge we saw a peahen, which seemed to have come from the park; and Goethe remarked that he had, in summer time, been wont to allure the peacocks into his garden, by giving them such food as they loved.
Descending on the other side of the hill, I found a stone; surrounded by shrubs, on which was carved this line from the well-known poem—
“Here in silence the lover thought of her he loved;”
and I felt as if I were on classic ground.
Near this was a thicket of half-grown oaks, firs, birches, and beech-trees., Beneath a fir, I found the feather of a bird of prey; and Goethe said he had often seen them in this place. I think it probable that owls resort to these firs.
Passing this thicket, we found ourselves once more on the principal path near the house. In this place, the trees are planted in a semicircle, and overarch a space, in which we sat down on benches, which are placed about a round table. The sun was so powerful, that the shade, even of these leafless trees, was agreeable. “I know,” said Goethe, “no pleasanter place, in the heats of summer, than this. I planted the trees forty years ago, with my own hand; have had the pleasure of watching their growth; and have already enjoyed their refreshing shade for some years. The foliage of these oaks and beeches is absolutely impervious to the sun. In hot summer days, I sit here after dinner; and often over the meadows and the park such stillness reigns, that the ancients would say, ‘Pan sleeps.’”
We now heard the tower-clock striking two, and returned to the house.
This evening, I was with Goethe. We talked of the French and German drama. Goethe spoke highly of Iffland and Kotzebue. “They have fine talents in their own way,” said he, “and have been treated with such severity, only because men are not willing to criticise each production after its kind.”
He spoke of Platen’s new dramas. “Here,” said he, “you see the influence of Calderon. They are full of thought, and, in a certain sense, complete; but they want depth, want specific gravity. They will not excite in the mind of the reader a deep and abiding interest; the strings of the soul are touched but lightly and hastily. They are like cork, which makes no impression on the element which so readily sustains it.
“The German asks earnestness, a grandeur of thought, and fulness of sentiment; these are the qualities which have made Schiller so admired by our people. I doubt not the abilities of Platen; and, if he does not manifest the qualities I have mentioned, I think his failure proceeds from mistaken views of art, He shows distinguished culture, intellect, sparkling wit, and much adroitness as an artist; yet these, especially in Germany, are not all that the drama demands.
“Generally, the personal character of the writer influences the public, rather than his talents as an artist. Napoleon said of Corneille, ‘If he were living now, l would make him n prince;’ yet he never read him. Racine he read, but spoke not so of him. Lafontaine is looked upon with so high a degree of esteem among his countrymen,—not on the score of his poetic merits, but of the dignified character which he manifests in his writings.”
We then talked of the “Elective Affinities,” (Wahlverwandtschaften.) He spoke of divorces. “The late Reinhard of Dresden,” said he, “wondered that I should be so severe on the subject of marriage, while I entertain such free opinions on other subjects.”
I treasured up this remark of Goethe’s, because it showed so clearly what had been his own intention in that much misinterpreted romance. (Die Wahlverwandtschaften.)
The conversation turned upon Tieck, and his personal relation to Goethe.
“I entertain the greatest kindness for Tieck,” said Goethe, “and I think he is well disposed towards me; yet is the relation between us not exactly what it should be. This is neither his fault nor mine, but occasioned by circumstances which I will tell you.
“When the Schlegels began to be of note in the world, they found me too important for their views, and looked about for some man of genius, whom they might set up in opposition to me, and thus maintain the balance of power. They pitched upon Tieck; and, wishing to make him a fit rival in the eyes of the public, they exaggerated his pretensions, and placed him in an awkward position with regard to me.
“Tieck is a man of great talents, and nobody can be more sensible than myself to his really extraordinary merit; only, when they tried to raise him above his proper place, and speak of him as my equal, they made a great mistake. I do not hesitate to speak of myself as I am; I did not make myself what I am. But I might, with as much propriety, compare myself with Shakspeare, who also is, as he was made, a being of a higher order than myself, to whom I must look up and pay due reverence.”
Goethe was this evening full of energy and gayety. He read aloud some of his unpublished poems. I enjoyed hearing him exceedingly; for, not only did I feel the original beauty of the poems, but Goethe’s manner of reading them opened to me new views. What variety and force in his voice! What life and expression in the noble countenance amid the wrinkles of so many years of thought! And what eyes!
I went to walk with Goethe about one. We discussed the styles of various writers.
“On the whole,” said Goethe, “the tum for philosophical speculation is an injury to the Germans, as it tends to make style vague and obscure. The stronger their attachment to certain philosophical schools, the worse do they write. Those among us who deal chiefly with practical affairs write the best. Schiller’s style is noble and impressive whenever he leaves off philosophizing. I observe this in his very interesting letters, with which I am now busy.
“There are women in Germany, of genial temperament, who write a really excellent style, and, indeed, in that respect, surpass many of our celebrated writers.
“Englishmen almost always write well; for they are born orators, and the practical tendency of their pursuits is very favorable to the formation of a good style.
“The French, in this respect also, remain true to their general character. They are born for society, and therefore never forget the public in writing or speaking; they strive to be clear, that they may convince,—agreeable, that they may attract the reader.
“Indeed, the style of a writer is almost always the faithful representative of his mind; therefore, if any man wish to write a clear style, let him begin by making his thoughts clear; and if any would write in a noble style, let him first possess a noble soul.”
Goethe then spoke of his antagonists, as a race which would never become extinct. “Their number,” said he, “is Legion; yet they may be classified with some precision. First, there are my stupid antagonists,—those who find fault with me, because they do not understand me. This is a large company, who have wearied me extremely in the course of my life; yet shall they be forgiven, for they know not what they do.
“The second class is composed of those who envy and hate me, because I have attained, through my talents, fame, fortune, and a dignified station. Should I become poor and miserable, they would assail me no more.
“There are many who hate me because they have failed. In this class are men of fine powers, but who cannot forgive me, because I cast them into the shade.
“Fourthly, there are my antagonists who have good reasons. For, as I am a human being, with human faults and weaknesses, it is not to be expected that my writings should, be free from them. Yet, as I was constantly bent on my own improvement, and always striving to ennoble myself, I have often, as I advanced in my culture, been blamed for faults which I had long since left behind. These critics have injured me least of any, as their darts were aimed at a place from which I was already miles distant. When a work is finished, it becomes uninteresting to me; I think of it no more, but busy myself with some new plan.
“Another huge class comprises those who differ from me in their views and modes of thought. It is said, that on the same tree you will scarce find two leaves perfectly alike. Just so you will, among a thousand men, scarce find two, who harmonize entirely in their views and ways of thinking. This being allowed, I find less cause to marvel at my having so many opponents, than at my having so many friends and adherents. My tendencies were wholly opposed to those of my time, which were subjective; so that my objective efforts left me in solitude, and kept me at disadvantage.
“Schiller had, in this respect, great advantage over me. Indeed, a certain well-meaning General once gave me to understand, that I ought to write like Schiller. I replied by analyzing Schiller’s merits, which I understood better than he. And I went quietly on in my own way, not troubling myself about outward success, and taking as little notice as possible of my opponents.”
We returned, and had a very pleasant time at dinner. Frau von Goethe talked much of Berlin, where she has lately been. She spoke with especial warmth of the Duchess of Cumberland, who had paid her many friendly attentions. Goethe remembered this princess, who, when very young, had passed some time with his mother, with particular interest.
In the evening, I partook of a musical entertainment of a high order. At the house of Goethe, some fine singers performed parts of Handel’s Messiah, under the superintendence of Eberwein. Also, the Gräfin Caroline von Eglotfstein, Fraulein von Froriep, with Frau von Pogwisch and Frau von Goethe, joined the choir of female singers, and thus gratified a wish which Goethe had entertained long since.
Goethe, sitting at some distance, wholly absorbed in hearing, passed a happy evening in admiring a noble work.
The greatest philologist of our time, Friedrich August Wolf, from Berlin, is here, on his way towards the south of France. Goethe gave, to-day, on his account, a dinner-party of his Weimar friends. General Superintendent Röhr, Chancellor von Muller, Oberbau-Director Coudray, Professor Riemer, and Hofrath Rehbein, were the guests, beside Wolf and myself. The conversation was very pleasant. Wolf was full of witty sallies,—Goethe constantly opposing him, but in the pleasantest way. “I cannot,” said Goethe to me afterwards,” converse with Wolf at all, without assuming the character of Mephistophiles. Besides, nothing less can induce him to display his hidden treasures.”
The bon mots at table were of too evanescent a nature to bear repetition. Wolf was rich in witty sayings end striking remarks; yet, to me, Goethe seemed always to maintain a certain superiority over him.
The hours flew by, and six o’clock came before we were aware. I went with young Goethe to the theatre, where the “Magic Flute” was given that night. Wolf came in the latter part of the evening, with the Grand Duke Karl August.
Wolf remained in Weimar till the 25th, when he set out for the south of France. His health was in such a state, that Goethe expressed the greatest anxiety about him.
Goethe reproved me for not having visited a certain family of distinction, “You might,” said he, “have passed there, during the winter, many delightful evenings, and made the acquaintance of many interesting strangers; all which you have lost from God knows what whim.”
“My disposition,” I replied, “is so excitable, my sympathies are so strong and ready, that too great a multiplicity of new impressions is burdensome and hurtful to me. I am neither by education nor habit fitted for general society. My situation in earlier days was such, that I feel as if I had never lived till I came near you. All is new to me. Every evening at the theatre, every conversation with you, makes an era in my existence. Things perfectly indifferent lo those who are accustomed to them, make a deep impression on me. I seize on every thing with energy, and draw from every thing nourishment. I have had all I desired this winter, from the theatre and your society; other connections and engagements would only have disturbed my mind.”
“You are an odd Christian,” said Goethe, laughing. “Well, do as you please; I will let you alone for the future.”
“And then,” continued I, “I carry always my feelings into society; I like or dislike; I feel the need of loving and being beloved; I seek a nature which may harmonize with my own; I wish to give myself up to such a one, and to have nothing to do with the others.”
“This tendency of yours,” replied Goethe, “is indeed likely to unfit you for society; for what would be the use of culture, if it did not teach us to modify and control our natural tendencies. ‘Tis mere folly to hope that other men will harmonize with us; I have never been guided by such motives; I have regarded each man as an independent individual, whom I might study, and whose characteristics I might learn to understand, but from whom I must not expect further sympathy. Only in this way have I been enabled to converse with every man, to obtain the knowledge of various characters, and the dexterity necessary for the conduct of life. For it is by conflict with natures opposed to his own that a man learns to show himself a man. Thus only can the various sides of the character be brought out, till it attains a certain completeness, and the man feels sure of himself in opposition to any and every man. This is what you need. You can do so, if you please; and, indeed, there is no evading the great world; you must find your place in it, whether you will or no.”
I took due heed of these good words, and shall be guided by them as far as I can.
Towards evening, Goethe invited me to take a drive with him. Our road lay over hills through Upper Weimar, by which we had a view of the park towards the west. The trees were in blossom, the birches already in full leaf. The setting sun cast a broad glow over the wide green meadows. We busied ourselves with seeking out picturesque groups, and could not look enough. We remarked that these trees, full of white blossoms, are not adapted for pictures, as the leafy birches are unfit for the foreground of a picture; because the delicate leaf does not sufficiently contrast with the white trunk;—there were no masses large enough for fine effects of light and shade. “Ruysdael,” said Goethe, “never introduced the birch with its foliage into his foregrounds, but only birch trunks broken off at top, without any leaves. Such a trunk is very effective in a foreground, its shape has such natural prominence.”
After some slight discussion of other topics, we came upon the mistake of those artists who make religion the object of art, while art itself should be their religion, “Religion,” said Goethe, “stands in the same relation to art as any other great interest of life. It is merely to be looked upon as affording material for the artist. Faith is not the faculty by which you are to comprehend a work of art; that is calculated to call into action wholly different faculties. And art must address itself to those parts of our being which are intended for the appreciation of her achievements. A religious subject may be a good one for art, but only in so far as it possesses general human interest. The Virgin with the Child is an excellent subject, and one that we may see treated a hundred times, yet not be weary.”
Returning homeward; we had the setting sun in full view. Goethe was lost awhile in thought. He then said to me, in the words of one of the ancients,
“Even while sinking it remains the same sun.”
“At the age of seventy-five,” continued he, with animation, “one must, of course, think frequently of death. But this thought never gives me the least uneasiness,—I am so fully convinced that the soul is indestructible, and that its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the sun, which seems to our earthly eyes to set in night, but is in reality gone to diffuse its light elsewhere.”
While he said this, the sun had sunk behind the Ettersberge, and the chill of the evening warned us to hasten homeward. Goethe urged me to go in with him for a while, and I did so. He was in an extremely engaging, amiable mood. He talked of his Farbenlehre, and of his obstinate opponents; remarking that he was sure that he had done something for the cause of science.
“That a man should be able to make an epoch in the world’s history,” said he, “two conditions are essential,—that he should have a good head, and a great inheritance. Napoleon inherited the French Revolution; Frederic the Great, the Silesian War; Luther, the errors of the Popes; and I, those of the Newtonian theory. My own time has no conception of what I have accomplished; but posterity will know.”
We spoke of notes which I had found among his papers, written at the time when he was training Wolf and Grüner for the stage. I thought these might be so instructive to young actors, that I proposed to put them together, and make from them a sort of theatre catechism. Goethe consented.
We spoke of some distinguished actors, who had been formed in his school; and I asked some questions about Frau von Heigendorf. “I may,” said Goethe, “have influenced her, but I cannot speak of her as my pupil. She seemed born for the stage, and was, in all she undertook, as decided, ready, and adroit, as a duck in the water. She needed not instruction, but did what was right instinctively and unconsciously.”
We then talked of his superintendence of the theatre; and it was remarked how much time he had lavished there which might have been devoted to literature. “Yes,” said he, “I have by this means missed, no doubt, writing many a good thing; yet do I not repent. I have always regarded all I have done solely as symbolical; and, at bottom, it does not signify whether I made pots or dishes.”
When I came to Weimar, last summer, I did not intend to remain, but, after having become acquainted with Goethe, to visit the Rhine, and live there some time, if I could find a place which suited me.
I had been detained at Weimar by Goethe’s kindness, and the various services I had been able to render him, but had never forgotten my original project; and Goethe himself, unwilling that I should carry within me the sting of an unsatisfied desire, advised me to devote some months of this summer to the fulfilment of my project
It was, however, decidedly his wish, that I should return to Weimar. He observed that it was not well to break ties as soon as they have been made, and that nothing which has not sequence is of any value in life. And be intimated that he wished to join me with Riemer, not only to aid him in preparing a new and complete edition of his works, but to take charge of it in case he should be suddenly called away, as might naturally happen at his age.
He showed me immense package of letters, laid out in what is called the Chamber of Busts, (Büsten-Zimmer.) “These,” said he, “are letters which I have been receiving since 1780, from the most distinguished men of our country. There lies hoarded a rich treasure of thoughts, which it shall some time be your office to impart to the public. A chest is now making, in which I shall put these letters, with the rest of my literary legacies. I wish you, before you leave me, to put all these papers in order, that I may feel tranquil about them, and have a care the less.”
He then told me that he should probably visit Marienbad again this summer, and disclosed to me, in confidence, his reasons. He wishes me to return from my journey, if possible, before his departure; that he may have an opportunity to converse with me.
A few weeks after, I went to see my betrothed at Hanover, and passed June and July in the neighborhood of the Rhine; making, especially at Bonn, Frankfort, and Heidelberg, many valuable acquaintances among the friends of Goethe.
I returned to Weimar about eight days since. Goethe expressed lively joy at seeing me, and I was not less happy to be once more with him. He had so much to tell me, that I scarcely left his side for several days. He has decided not to go to Marienbad, or take any journey, this summer. “And now that you have come,” said he; yesterday, “I shall pass a pleasant August here.”
[Here follow some remarks on the first part of the continuation of Dichtung und Wahrheit, which Goethe communicated to Eckermann at this time. This fragment has since been published among Goethe’s posthumous works, but has never been translated into English, and the remarks would not be intelligible to those who are not acquainted with it.
I have also omitted some detached sayings of Goethe as not being set down in a form sufficiently precise to do him justice.—TRANSL.]
I passed this evening with Goethe. We talked of Klopstock and Herder. “Without such founders,” said Goethe, “our literature could not have become what it now is. In their own day they were beforehand with the age which they were obliged to drag, along in their track; but now the age has far outrun them, and they are no longer necessary or influential. A young man would be left in the rear, who should take Klopstock and Herder for his teachers now-a-days.”
We talked over the faults and merits both of Klopstock’s “Messiah” and of his Odes. We agreed that he had no faculty for observing and painting the external world, or for drawing characters; and that he wanted the qualities most essential to the epic and dramatic poet, or, perhaps it might be said, more generally, to the poet.
“In the ode, for instance,” said Goethe, “where he makes the German Muse run a race with the British,—only consider, what a picture!—two maidens running, throwing out their feet, and kicking up a dust! If the good Klopstock had ever been in the habit of really imagining, making pictures to himself of what he wrote, he could not 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 natural to me. I looked upon him as an uncle. I never once thought of criticism, but reverenced whatever he had done. I let his fine qualities work upon me; for the rest, I went my own way.”
I asked Goethe which of Herder’s works he thought the best. “The ‘Ideas for the History of the Human Race,’” (Ideen zur Geschichte der Menschheit,) replied Goethe, “are undoubtedly the best. In after days, he leaned to the negative side, and was not so edifying.”
“Herder,” said I, “is a person of such weight, that I cannot understand his want of judgment on some subjects. 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 taunts upon its faults. He must want organs to perceive some objects.”
“Yes, Herder was unfortunate in those respects,” replied Goethe; “and, indeed,” added he, with vivacity, “if his spirit could be present at this conversation, it would not be able to conjecture what we mean.”
“On the other hand,” said I, “I must praise Merck, who urged you to publish Goetz.”
“He was indeed a strongman,” said Goethe. “He urged me to publish, saying that, though imperfect, it was worth publishing. He did not wish me to labor any more on it, and he was right. I should have altered, but not improved it.”
I went to see Goethe this evening, before going to the theatre, and found him well and cheerful. He inquired about the young Englishmen who are here. I told him that I proposed reading with Mr. Doolan the German translation of Plutarch. This led us to speak of Roman and Grecian history. Goethe said,—
“The Roman history does not suit our present turn of mind. We take a more general interest in humanity, and cannot sympathize with the triumphs of Cæsar. Neither are we much edified by the history of Greece. When the whole people united against a foreign foe, then, indeed, is their history 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 so full of important events, the battles of Leipsic and Waterloo so grand, that Marathon and other such days are entirely eclipsed. Neither are our great men inferior to theirs. Wellington, Blucher, and the French Marshals, vie with any of the heroes of antiquity.”
We talked of the late French literature, and the increasing interest manifested by the French in German works.
“The French,” said Goethe, “do well to study and translate our writers; for, limited as they are, both in form and principles of action, they must turn elsewhere for aid. We Germans may be reproached for the shapelessness of what we make; but in materials we have the superiority. The theatrical productions of Kotzebue and Iffland are so rich in suggestions that they may pluck a long time, before they strip the tree. But especially is our philosophical Ideality welcome to them; for every Ideal is serviceable to revolutionary aims.
“The French have understanding and esprit, but neither a solid basis nor piety.1 What serves the moment, what helps his party, seems right to the Frenchman. And they praise us, not according to our merits, but to the degree in which our views may assist this or that party.”
To-day, a proposal reached me from an English periodical. I was offered very favorable terms, if I would send to this journal monthly notices of the latest publications in our own country. I was much inclined to accept the proposal, but thought I would first consult Goethe.
I went to him this evening. He was seated before a table, on which burned two lights, which illuminated at once his own face and a colossal bust at which he was looking. “Now,” said Goethe, after greeting me in a friendly manner, “who is this?” “Apparently, a poet, and an Italian,” I replied. “‘’Tis Dante,” said he. “It is well done; a fine head, yet not perfectly satisfactory. He seems bowed down with years and sorrows; the features are lax, and drawn downwards, as if he had just come from hell. I have a medal, which was struck during his life, and which is much better.”
He rose and brought the medal. “Do you see how full of strength the profile is? Look at the nose,—at the upper lip,—see how finely the chin is marked and united with the cheek! The lines about the eyes, the forehead, are the same in this bust; but all the rest is weaker and older. Yet I will not find fault with this new work; truly, it has great merit, and deserves praise.”
He then inquired what I had been doing and thinking of late. I mentioned the proposal from England, and my inclination to accept it. His face, which had worn before so pleasant and friendly an expression, clouded over instantly, and I saw in every feature how far he was from favoring this project.
“I wish,” said he, “your friends would leave you in peace. What have you to do with such a plan? It lies quite out of your way, and is contrary to the tendencies of your nature. Gold, silver, paper money, all are good; but, to do justice to each, you must understand its law of exchange. And so in literature. You understand the metallic, but not the paper currency. You are not accustomed to such a task; your criticisms will be worthless, and do hurt. If you wish to be just, and give each author his proper place, you must first become acquainted with our preceding literature—no light task for you. You must look back on what the Schlegels proposed and performed, and then read our later authors, Franz Horn, Hoffmann, &c. You must also read all the journals of the day, in order that nothing which comes out may escape you; and thus misspend your best days and hours. Then all new books, which you would criticise properly, you must not only skim over, but study. How shall you relish that? And, finally, if you venture to say that what is bad is bad, you will find yourself at war with all the world.
“No! decline the proposal; and, generally, let me say to you, beware of dissipating your powers; strive constantly to concentrate them. Had I known, thirty years ago, what I do now on this subject. I would have done very differently. How much time I lost with Schiller on his Horen and Musen Almanachs! Now, when I have just been looking over our correspondence, I feel this most forcibly, and cannot think without chagrin on those undertakings which made the world abuse us, and led to no good in any way. Genius thinks it can do whatever it sees others doing; but it will be sure to repent some time of every ill-judged outlay. What good does it do to curl up your hair for a single night? You have paper in your hair, that is all; next night it is straight again.
“Make to yourself a capital that will be permanently valuable. This you may do by the study of the English language and literature, which you have already begun. Keep to that, and make use of the advantages you now possess in the acquaintance of the young Englishmen. You have not been able greatly to avail yourself of the ancient languages during your youth; seek now a strong-hold in the literature of so able a nation as the English. And, besides, how large a portion of our literature is the offspring of theirs! Whence have we our romances, our tragedies, but from Goldsmith, Fielding, and Shakspeare? In our own day, can we find in Germany three literary heroes, who can be placed on a level with Lord Byron, Moore, and Walter Scott? Once more1 confirm yourself in your acquaintance with the English literature, concentrate your powers for some suitable work, and let all go which can lead to nothing of value to you, and is not adapted to your nature.”
I rejoiced that Goethe had said so much. I was perfectly satisfied in my mind, and determined to comply with his advice.
Chancellor von Muller was now announced, and sat down with us. The conversation turned once more on the bust of Dante, and on his life and works. The obscurity of this author was mentioned,—how few of his countrymen, much less foreigners, could fully understand him. “To you,” said Goethe, turning towards me, with a friendly air, “the study of this poet is absolutely forbidden by your father confessor.”
Goethe also remarked that the difficult rhyme is, in a great measure, the cause of his obscurity. For the rest, he spoke of Dante with extreme reverence; and I observed that he was not satisfied with the words talent or genius, but called him a nature, wishing thus to express something more comprehensive, more full of prescience, of deeper insight, and wider scope.
I went this evening to Goethe. He cordially held out his hand, and greeted me with praises of my poem on Schellhorn’s Jubilee.
I told him that I had written to refuse the proposal from England. “Thank Heaven!” said he; “then you are free and at peace once more. And let me give you a warning. The composers will be coming to you for an opera,—be sure you refuse that also; it is work which leads to nothing, and only wastes the time of him who undertakes it.”
Goethe added, that he bad, through Nees von Esenbeck, let the author of the “Paria,” who is now at Bonn, know that his piece has been performed here. “Life,” said he, “is short; we must miss no opportunity of giving pleasure to one another.”
The Berlin Gazette lay before him, and he showed me the account of the great inundation at Petersburg. He talked of the bad situation of Petersburg, and mentioned, with a smile, the remark of Rousseau, “that none need expect to prevent earthquakes by building cities in the neighborhood of volcanic mountains.” “Nature,” said he, “goes steadily her own way, and what to us appears the exception, is in reality done according to the rule.”
We spoke of the tempests which have raged on every shore, and the other phenomena mentioned in the journals of the day, and I asked whether he could trace the connection of all these. “No one can do that;” said he; “one can scarcely have an inward feeling of the law which regulates such mysteries, much less express it.”
Condray and Professor Riemer were now announced. We continued to talk of the inundation, and Condray, by drawings, made clear to us the plan of Petersburg, the course of the Neva, and other particulars of the locality.
Goethe is much interested always in the English, and has desired me to introduce to him the young Englishmen who are here at present. He appointed five o’clock this afternoon for the reception of Mr. H., the English engineer officer, of whom I had previously been able to say much good to him. We were conducted to the pleasant, well-warmed apartment, where Goethe usually passes his afternoons and evenings. Three lights were burning on the table, but he was not there; we heard him talking in the adjoining saloon.
While we waited, Mr. H. was looking about him, and observed, besides the pictures and a large chart of the hills which adorned the walls, a bookcase full of portfolios. I told him these portfolios contained drawings from the hands of many celebrated masters, and engravings after the best pictures of all schools, which Goethe bad, during a long life, been gradually collecting, and which now were to him a fertile source of entertainment.
After a few minutes, Goethe came in, and greeted us very 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 very politely, though in few words, and. Goethe, requested us to be seated.
Mr. H.’s manners and appearance must have made a very favorable impression on Goethe; for his sweetness and mild serenity were manifested towards the stranger in their natural beauty. “You did well,” said he, “to come hither to learn German; for you will carry away, not only a knowledge of the language, which you will here learn easily and quickly, but of the elements on which it rests, our soil, climate, modes of life, manners, social habits, and constitution.”
Mr. H. replied, “The interest taken, in England, in the study of the German language, increases daily, and has become, indeed, so general, that few young Englishmen of good families omit to learn German.”
“We Germans,” said Goethe, good-humoredly, “were, however, half a century beforehand with you in this matter. These fifty years, I have been busy with the English language and literature; so that I now am well acquainted with your writers, your ways of living, and the administration of your country. If I should visit England, I should not feel myself a stranger there.
“But, as I said before, you young Englishmen do well to come to us and learn our language; for, not only does our own literature merit attention, but no one can deny that he who knows German can dispense with many other languages. French, indeed, cannot be dispensed with; for it is the language of conversation, and essential to comfort in travelling, as every body understands it, and in all countries it serves you instead of an interpreter. But, as for Greek, Latin, Italian, and Spanish, we can read the beat works of those nations in such excellent German translations, that, unless we have some particular object in view, we may well dispense with spending much time upon the toilsome study of their languages. It is the German nature duly to honor every thing produced by other nations, and to sympathize fully with what is foreign. This, with the great flexibility of our language, makes German translations both faithful and complete. And you get a great deal from a good translation. Frederic the Great read Cicero in French only, but with no Jess profit than others who read him in Latin.”
Then, turning the conversation on the theatre, he asked Mr. B. whether he went frequently thither. “Every evening,” he replied, “and find that I derive from this custom great advantage in learning the language.”
“It is remarkable,” said Goethe, “how the power of understanding gets the start of that of expressing; so that a man may comprehend all he hears, when, as yet, he can express but a very small part of it.”
“I experience daily,” said Mr. H., “the truth of that remark. I understand very well whatever I hear or read; I feel it when a bad 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, chat at balls, and the like, I already succeed pretty well. But, if I try to express opinions on any important topic, to say any thing characteristic or of much thought, I fail utterly; the proper words will not come.”
“Be not discouraged by that,” said Goethe, “since fit expression of such is hard enough in one’s mother tongue.”
He asked what books Mr. H. had read in German. “I have read Egmont,’” he replied, “and found so much pleasure in the perusal, that I have repeated it three times. ‘Torquato Tasso,’ too, has afforded me high enjoyment. Now, I am reading ‘Faust,’ which I find 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 quite beyond the customary range of feeling. But, since you have begun without asking my advice, we shall see how you will get through. Faust is so peculiar an individual1 that few men can sympathize with the situation of his mind. And the character of Mephistophiles is; on account of the irony and extensive acquaintance with the world which it displays, not easily to be comprehended. But you will see what lights open upon you. ‘Tasso’ lies far nearer the common feelings of men, and all there is told with a minuteness and detail very favorable to an easy comprehension of it.”
“Yet,” said Mr. H., “‘Tasso’ is thought difficult in Germany, and people have wondered to hear that I was reading it.”
“What is needed for ‘Tasso,’” replied Goethe, “is, that one should be no longer a child, and have been in good society. A young man of good family and capacity, with that delicacy and outward culture, which intercourse with accomplisbed men of the higher class will naturally produce, could find no difficulties in ‘Tasso.’”
He afterwards said, “I wrote ‘Egmont’ in 1776,—fifty years ago. I adhered closely to history, and was very sedulous after accuracy. Ten years after, I read in the newspapers that the revolutionary scenes there described were repeating, à la lettre, in the Netherlands. I saw from this that the world remains ever the same, and that my picture must be true to life.”
Amid this and other conversation, the hour for the theatre had come. We rose, 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 combined such attractive gentleness with such native dignity. However he may condescend, he always seems the great man.”
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1 [Our word “piety” does not answer to the German Pietat, which expresses the natural desire of the mind to reverence something, and is not used in our sense of a conscious love of the Deity, known as such.—TRANSL.]
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