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 about five o’clock. I had not seen him before for some days, and passed a delightful evening. I found him talking, during the twilight, with his son, and with Hofrath Rehbein, his physician. I seated myself at the table with them. We talked awhile in the dusk; then lights were brought, and I had the happiness to see Goethe looking perfectly fresh and cheerful.
As usual, he inquired with interest what had happened to me of late, and I replied that I had made the acquaintance of a poetess. At the same time, I praised her uncommon talents, and Goethe, who was acquainted with some of her productions, agreed with me. “One of her poems,” said he, “in which she describes the country near her home, is highly individual in its character. She has a good way of treating outward objects, and is not destitute of valuable inward qualities. Indeed, we might find much fault with her; but we will let her go, and not disturb her in the path to which her talent inclines her.”
The conversation turning on poetesses in general, Hofrath Rehbein remarked that the poetical talent of women often seemed to him as a sexual instinct of the intellect. “Hear him!” said Goethe, laughing, and looking at me; “that is truly the reason of a physician!”
“I know not,” said Rehbein, “whether I express myself aright; but what I mean is this:— Usually, these beings have not been fortunate in love, and they seek compensation in intellectual pursuits. Had they been married, and had the care of children, they would never have thought of poetical productions.”
“I will not inquire,” said Goethe, “how far you are right; but, as to the talents of women in other departments, I have always found that they were not active after marriage. I have known girls who drew finely; but, so soon as they became wives and mothers, you heard no more of it: they were too busy with the children to remember the pencil.
“But our poetesses,” continued he, in a lively manner, “might write as they pleased, if only our men would not write like women. That does, indeed, displease me. Look at our magazines and annuals; see how all becomes daily weaker and weaker. Were a leaf from Cellini printed in to-day’s newspaper, what a figure it would make!
“However, let us forget all that, and rejoice in the powerful maiden of Halle, who with manly spirit introduces us into the Servian world. These poems are excellent.” And he showed me the sheets of what he had written upon them for Kunst und Alterthum, saying, “I have given, in few words, the meaning of some of these poems, and think you will be pleased with them, Rehbein, too, is not ignorant of what belongs to poetry,—at least as to its bearing and material,—and he may like to hear you read aloud from this paper.”
I read it aloud, and very slowly. These descriptions were so marked and expressive, that each word seemed to present a whole poem to my eye. I was especially pleased with the following:—
1. Modesty of a Servian maiden, who never raises her beautiful eyelashes.
2. Conflict in the mind of a lover, who, as groomsman, is obliged to conduct his beloved to another.
3. Being distressed about her lover, the maiden will not sing, lest she should seem gay.
4. Complaints of the corruption of manners; how youths marry widows, and old men virgins.
5. Complaint of a youth that a mother gives her daughter too much liberty.
6. Confidingly joyous talk of a maiden with the steed who might betray to her his master’s inclinations and designs.
7. Distaste of the maiden for him she cannot love.
8. The fair bar-maid: her lover is not among the guests.
9. Finding, and tenderly awaking, the lover.
10. Of what calling shall my husband be?
11. Joys of love lost by babbling,
12. The lover comes back from a journey, watches her by day, surprises her with a visit at night.
I remarked that these mere sketches excited in me such lively emotions, that I felt as if I were in possession of the whole poem, and had no desire for the details.
“That shows,” said Goethe, “the great importance of situations. Our women have no conception of this. ‘That poem is beautiful,’ they say, and think of nothing but the feelings, the words, the verses. No one dreams that the true power of a poem consists in the choice of situation, of Motiven.1 Thus are thousands of poems written, where the Motiv is nothing at all, and which, merely through feeling and sounding verse, represent a sort of existence. Dilettanti, and especially women, have very weak ideas of poetry. They think, if they could but pass by the technical part, they should have the essential, and be made people; but they are quite mistaken.”
Rehbein took leave, and Professor Riemer was announced. The conversation still turned on the Servian love-lays. Riemer remarked that you need not go back to the Servians for some of these Motiven, which had already been used in Germany. We both remembered poem of his, and of Goethe’s, in which this was the case.
“The world,” said Goethe, “remains always the same; situations are constantly repeated; one people lives, loves, and feels like another;—why should not one poet write like another? The situations of life resemble one another;—why should not those of poems?”
“Did not,” said Riemer, “such resemblances exist, how could we understand the poems of other nations?”
“I am, therefore, surprised,” said I, “at those critics, who always seem to suppose that the poet goes, not from life to his poem, but from books to his poem. They are always saying, ‘He got this here; he got that there.’ For instance, do they meet with passages in Shakspeare which are to be found in some of the ancients, they say he must have taken them from the ancients. Because both Homer and Shakspea.re, on seeing a beautiful girl, have said the parents were happy who called her daughter, and the youth who should lead her home as his bride, shall we suppose Shakspeare took the thought from Homer? As if such things came not daily within the reach of any and every one!”
“Ah, yes,” said Goethe, “such criticisms are very ridiculous.”
“Lord Byron,” said I, “Was not wiser, when he pulled ‘Faust’ to pieces, and pretended to find some of the materials here, some there.”
“I never read,” said Goethe, “the greater part of those fine things collected by Lord Byron, much less thought of them, when I was writing ‘Faust.’ But Lord Byron is only great as a poet; when he would reflect, he is a child. He knows not how to help himself against the stupid attacks made upon him by his own countrymen. He ought to have put them down in a more determined manner. ‘What is there, is mine,’ he should have said, ‘Whether I got it from a book or from life, is of no consequence, if I do but use it aright.’ Walter Scott used a scene from my ‘Egmont,’ and he had a right to do so; I must praise him for the judicious manner in which he did it. He has also copied my Mignon, in one of his romances; but whether he was equally judicious there, is another question. Lord Byron has borrowed from Mephistophiles, and why not, if he had gone further in search after originality, be would have fared worse. My Mephistophiles sings a song from Shakspeare; why should I give myself the trouble to compose one of my own, when this was perfectly suited to express my meaning? For the same reason, there is no fault to be found with any resemblance which may exist between the prologue to my ‘Faust’ and that to the history of Job.”
Goethe was in the best humor. He sent for wine, and filled for Riemer and me; he himself drank Marienbad water. He had appointed this evening for looking over the manuscript of the continuation of his autobiography with Riemer, in order that they might see what amendment was needed, before sending it to press. “Let Eckermann stay and hear it too,” said Goethe; which words I was very glad to hear. And he then gave Riemer the manuscript, beginning with the year 1795.
I had already, in the course of the summer, had the pleasure of reading the as yet unpublished record of these years. I had read them repeatedly, and mused much upon them. But to hear them read, aloud in Goethe’s presence, afforded a quite new enjoyment. Riemer received many hints as to expression, and I had occasion to admire his dexterity, and his affluence of words and phrases. The epoch described in those pages became reanimate in Goethe’s mind; be revelled in recollections, and filled out the narration to the roundness of life, by the details he gave us. That was a precious evening! The most distinguished of his contemporaries were talked over, most of all, Schiller, who was so interwoven with this period, from 1795 to 1800. The theatre had given an object to the efforts of both, and Goethe’s best works belong to this time. Then Wilhelm Meister was completed; Hermann und Dorothea planned and written; Cellini translated for the Horen; Xenien written by both for Schiller’s Musen Almanach;—every day brought many points of contact. Of all this we talked this evening, and Goethe made the most interesting communications.
“Hermann und 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.”
In talking of Wilhelm Meister,—“Schiller blamed me for interweaving tragic elements which do not belong to romance. Yet he was wrong, as we all know. His letters to me contain very valuable criticisms upon Wilhelm Meister. But this work is most incalculable production; I myself can scarcely be said to have the key. The critic seeks a central point, which is, in truth, hard to find. I should think a rich manifold life, brought close to our eyes, might suffice, without any determined moral tendency which could be reasoned upon. But, if this is insisted upon, it will perhaps be found in what Frederic, at the end, aye to the hero—‘Thou seem’st to me like Saul, the son of Kish, who went out to seek his father’s asses, and found a kingdom.’ For what does the whole say, but that man, despite all his follies and errors, led by a higher hand, reaches some worthy aim 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. Goethe ascribed the merit of this not so much to Lessing as to Herder and Wieland. “Lessing,” said he, “had so superior an understanding, that only one of equal force could truly learn of him. It was dangerous to know him by halves.” He mentioned a journalist who had formed himself on Lessing, and, at the end of the last century, played a part indeed, but far from a desirable one, because so inferior to his great predecessor.
“All Upper Germany,” said he, “may thank Wieland for its style. It has learned many things from him; and facility of expression is not the least important.”
He praised highly the Xenien of Schiller for their force and sharpness, deeming his own insignificant and pointless in comparison. “Schillers Thierkreis,” said he, “I read with ever new admiration. The good effects which the Xenien had upon the German literature of their own time are beyond calculation.”
After much more conversation on these subjects, Goethe put aside the papers, and had a little supper placed on one end of the table by which we were sitting. We partook of it, but Goethe touched nothing; as, indeed, I have never seen him eat in the evening. He sat down with us, filled our glasses, took care of the lights, and entertained us with the most agreeable conversation. He was so full of Schiller this evening, that all this part of the conversation turned on him.
Riemer spoke of Schiller’s personal appearance, “His mien, his gait in the street, all his motions,” said be, “were proud; his eyes only were soft.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “every thing else about him was proud and majestic, only the eyes were soft. And his genius was like his outward form. He seized boldly on a great subject, turning it hither and thither, and looking at it on every side. But he saw, as I may say, only the outside of an object; he could not enter into it, and quietly unfold it from within. His talent was rather desultory. Thus he was never decided, could never he sure he had done. He often altered parts just before a rehearsal.
“And, as he went so boldly to work, he did not take sufficient pains to provide his actions with motives. I had trouble enough with him about a scene in his ‘William Tell,’ where he made Gessler abruptly break an apple from the tree, and bid Tell shoot it from his boy’s head. This was very uncongenial to me, and I urged him to give some motive to Gessler’s conduct, by at least 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’ distance. Schiller, at first, could see no need of this; but, in the end, he yielded. I, on the other hand, by too great attention to motives, injured my pieces for the theatre. My ‘Eugenie,’ being nothing but a chain, of motives, is not suited to the stage.
“Schiller’s genius was made for the theatre. He constantly grew more and more complete; but a love for the terrible lingered with him from the time of his ‘Robbers,’ which, in his prime, still tinged his thoughts. In the prison scene of my ‘Egmont,’ where the sentence is read to him, Schiller wished to have Alva in the background, muffled in a cloak, and enjoying the sight of Egmont’s emotion. Thus Alva was to appear a man of boundless malice, and insatiate in vengeance. I protested, and prevented the apparition. However, he was a great and admirable man.
“Every eight days became he other and greater than before; each time that I saw him, he seemed to me to have gone forward in knowledge and judgment. His letters are the fairest mementoes of him which I possess, as they are also among the most excellent of his writings. His last letter I preserve, as a consecrated thing, among my treasures.” He rose to get it. “See and read for yourself,” said he, giving it to me.
It was a very fair letter, yet written in a bold hand. It contained an opinion of Goethe’s notes to “Rameau’s Nephew,” which give an idea of the state of French literature at that time, and which he had lent Schiller to look over. I read the letter aloud to Riemer. “You see,” said Goethe, “how precise and to the point his judgment is, and that the handwriting has nowhere any trace of weakness. This magnificent (prächtig) man went from us in the fulness of his powers.”
This letter bears date of 24th April, 1805. Schiller died the 9th May. We examined the letter together, and admired the clear style, and the beautiful writing. Goethe said many more affectionate words of his departed friend. It was nearly eleven when we took our leave.
“If I were still superintendent of the theatre,” said Goethe, this evening, “I would bring Byron’s ‘Doge of Venice’ upon the stage. The piece is too long; but I would blot out nothing. I would only take the import of each scene, and try to express it more concisely. The piece would thus become more effective, without losing any of its peculiar beauties.”
I observed that Lord Byron, in his conversations with Medwin, had said, that to write for the theatre was a difficult task, and one which is not rewarded by gratitude. “That,” said Goethe, “depends on the tact of the poet. If he follow the direction which the taste and interest of the public has taken, he will have no cause to complain. Houwald did this with his Bilde, and won universal applause. But the tendency of Lord Byron’s mind did not coincide with that of the public. His greatness doth not here avail the poet; rather are those the greatest favorites who rise but little above the level of the public.
“No man ever possessed what I call inventive power in a higher degree than Lord Byron. His manner of loosing the dramatic knot always surpasses our expectations.”
“That,” said I, “is what I feel about Shakspeare, when Falstaff has entangled himself in such a net of falsehoods, and Shakspeare helps him out so much more dexterously than I had expected.”
Goethe laughed about Lord Byron’s slavery to the unities; that he who never could accommodate himself to the laws by which life is regulated, finally subjected himself to so stupid a law as that.
“He understood the meaning of this law,” said Goethe, “no better than the rest of the world. All such laws are intended to make a work more intelligible; the three unities are only good as they subserve this end. If the observance of them hinders, rather than assists the apprehension of a work, it is foolish to observe them. Even the Greeks, who invented the rule, were not invariably governed by it. In the ‘Phaeton’ of Euripides, and other pieces, the scene changes, and it is obvious that they were not blindly obedient to their law when it interfered with an advantageous representation of the subject. The pieces of Shakspeare are planned without any regard to the unities of time and place; but, as they produce a perfect illusion, none more than they, the Greeks would never have found fault with them. The French, by their superstitious adherence to the unities, have injured the illusion; loosing the dramatic knot, not in dramatic wise, but by narration.”
I called to mind the Feinde of Houwald. The author of this drama certainly stood in his own light, when he, to preserve the unity of place, injured the illusion in the very first act, and generally sacrificed effect for a whimsey. I thought, too, of Goetz von Berlichingen, where no regard is paid to unity of time or place, but every thing being unfolded at once, and brought before our eyes, nothing can be more dramatic in its effect, or more easy to apprehend, than the piece. I thought that the unities of time and place should be preserved according to the intentions of the Greeks only when the author chooses a subject of limited range, where it may be done naturally; but that a large subject asks more liberty, especially now that stage arrangements are so favorable to a change of scene.
Goethe continued to talk of Lord Byron. “Though his disposition,” said he, “was always leading him into the illimitable, yet the restraint of the three unities suited him very well. Had he known how to endure moral restraint as well! That he could not, was his ruin: he himself avows it.
“But he was much in the dark about himself. He lived impetuously for the day, and neither knew nor thought what he was doing. Permitting every thing to himself, and excusing nothing in others, how could he but ruin himself, and make the whole world his foe? At the very beginning, he offended the most distinguished literary men by his ‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.’ To be permitted to live after this, he was obliged to go back a step. In his succeeding works, he continued the system of opposition and fault-finding. Church and state were assailed. His reckless conduct, which drove him from England, would at last have driven him from Europe also. Every where it was too narrow for him. In the most perfect personal freedom, he felt himself confined. The world seemed to him a prison. His Grecian expedition was not made of free will; his false position in the world obliged him to do something of that sort.
“His renunciation of what was hereditary or patriotic not only injured his fortunes, though so distinguished a person, but his revolutionary tum, and the constant mental agitation with which it was combined, never permitted his genius a fair development. And the perpetual negation and fault-finding of these otherwise excellent works is pernicious. Not only does the discontent of the writer infect the reader, but the end of all is negation; that is to say, nothing. If I call bad bad, what do I win? But if I call good bad, I lose much. He who would work aright must never rail,—must not trouble himself about what is already ill done,—but do well himself. Humanity finds its true joy, not in tearing to pieces, but in building anew.
“Lord Byron is to be regarded as a man, as an Englishman, and as a great genius. His good qualities belong to the man, his bad to the Englishman and the peer; his genius is incommensurable.
“All Englishmen are, as such, without reflection; distractions and party spirit will not permit them to unfold themselves in quiet. But they are great as practical men.”
“But when he would create, he always succeeds; inspiration supplies the place of reflection. He never fails when he speaks out his own feelings as a man.
“His genius is great; he was born great; none has greater poetic power. But Shakspeare’s individuality is superior. Byron felt this so much, that he talks but little of Shakspeare, though he knew great part of his works by heart. He would willingly have set him aside; for Shakspeare’s cheerfulness was in his way, and gave him a feeling of inferiority, He can talk of Pope, because he does not fear him. He praises him as much as he can, for he knows that Pope is a mere wall to him.
“His high rank, as an English peer, was very injurious to Byron, for all genius is oppressed by the outer world;—how much more by high rank and great possessions! The middle station is most favorable to genius; you find the great artists and poets there. Byron’s wild love of freedom would not have been half so dangerous to him in a lower station. But he could do what he pleased, and thus was led to entangle himself a thousand ways. No rank or name could awe him into respect. He spoke out whatever he felt, and so began the war with the world which ended not during his life.
It is astonishing how large a portion of his life an English noble passes in elopements and duels. Lord Byron says his father carried off three women. His practice of shooting at a mark shows his own daily expectation of duels.
“He could not live alone. Therefore, notwithstanding all his caprices, he was very indulgent to his associates. He read aloud one evening. His beautiful poem on the death of Sir John Moore, and his noble friends could not tell what to make of it. He cared not, but quietly put it away again. Surely, as a poet, be showed himself a very lamb. Some men could not have refrained from an oath or two.”
Goethe showed me to-night a letter from a young student, who begs the plan for the second part of “Faust,” with the design of completing it himself. Without circumlocution, and in the most perfect good faith, this youth manifests his conviction that all other literary efforts of later years have been naught, and that only in his own can it be expected that literature shall bloom again.
If I should meet young men who long to carry out Napoleon’s plans of conquest, or one of those young Dilettanti in architecture who think they could complete the Cathedral of Cologne, I should not be more surprised and amused, than by this poetical amateur, who fancies he could write the second part of “Faust” because he admires the first.
Indeed, I think the completion of the Cathedral of Cologne a more practicable enterprise than that of continuing “Faust” on Goethe’s plan. For the one is tangible, and capable of mathematical measurement; but what line or measure could avail for a work in which the plan depends on spiritual discernment, the materials must be furnished from so long and rich a life, and the execution requires the tact and practice of a master?
He who esteems such a work easy, shows thereby the ordinary texture of an intellect which cannot divine the difficulties which attend every noble achievement, and probably would be unequal to supply the gap of a few lines, if Goethe had left one which required them. I will not in this place inquire why it is that the young men of our day suppose themselves endowed at their birth with powers which have hitherto required the experiences and labor of many years to bring them to light, but shall content myself with observing, that this presumptuousness, now so common in Germany, which would stride so hastily over the steps of needful culture, affords little hope of our being enriched with new masterpieces.
“Our misfortune is,” said Goethe, “that in the state, nobody can enjoy life in peace, because every body must needs govern; and in art, that nobody is willing to enjoy what has been produced without immediately trying to reproduce. No poet can be permitted to help himself in a way of his own, unless others can do the same as he does. There is, besides, no one earnest mind which can remember the All, no willingness to be subordinate to a grand design; but each one tries to play his own part, so that he individually may be observed. We see this at our concerts, where the modern virtuosos, instead of selecting their pieces with a view to giving the audience the highest musical enjoyment, bring forward only those in which they can exact most admiration. Every where you find these people striving who care more for the thing they are doing than for their own celebrity.
“Hence, it is that these men become such pitiful botchers, without knowing it. As children, as youths, they keep scribbling, and, when manhood has brought some insight of the true nature of excellence, they look back in despair on the years they have wasted.
“But many never do get such insight, and keep on doing things by halves, content, through life, with this mutilated offspring.
“Certainly, if they could early enough be made to feel how full the world is already of excellent productions, and how much must be done to produce any thing worthy of being placed beside what has already been produced,—of a hundred youths who are now pouring forth their poems to the public, scarce one would have felt courage to look up to such an aim.
“Many young painters would have dropped their pencils at once, if they could have felt what an assemblage of rare qualifications is required to constitute a Raphael.”
The conversation turned upon false tendencies in general, and Goethe continued—
“My tendency to practise painting was a false one, for there was in me no talent for the art worth developing. A delicate sensibility to the landscape which surrounded me I did possess by nature, and, consequently, my first attempts looked promising. The journey to Italy took away all my pleasure in practice; the appearance of talent, which sympathy with the object had given, disappeared; a wider comprehension took its place; but, as neither technical nor esthetic talents were unfolded, my efforts melted away into nothing at last.
“It is justly felt, and said, that the complete unfolding of all human powers is the proper aim of man. But the individual is not born for this; he must content himself with perfecting such powers as he is peculiarly endowed with, only seeking to obtain the Idea which would result from the aggregate of all these individual forces.”
I thought of that passage in Wihelm Meister, in which it is said that humanity is the sum of all men taken together, and each is only so far worthy of esteem as he knows how to appreciate all.
I thought, too, of Jarno’s words, in the Wanderjahre, where he advises each man to learn some mechanic art, and styles that man the fortunate who understands that this is the time proper to one-sidedness, and, in that knowledge, keeps at work for himself and others.
Then comes the question, What occupation shall a man choose, in which he may neither overstep his proper limits, nor do too little?
He whose business it is to overlook many departments, to judge, to guide others, has the best opportunity for an insight into many. Thus a prince, or he who would be a statesman, cannot aim too much at such insight; for many-sidedness is indispensable to him.
The poet, too, should have manifold knowledge, for his subject is the world.
But, as the poet need be neither a painter nor an actor, though he partly does in words what they do in their different vocations, so should we every way separate insight into a thing from practical power to use it. Each art for its practice requires a life.
Thus Goethe, while striving for insight to many things, has contented himself with doing well one thing, i. e. writing the German language, (Deutsch zu schreiben.) That his materials are of various nature, affects not his rule as to practice,
General culture of the tastes is not to be confounded with practical ability in details. The poet must use every means to cultivate his eye. And, if Goethe’s attempts at drawing and painting failed of their object, they were of use in cultivating him as a poet.
“The objectivity of my poetry,” said he, “may be attributed to this discipline of eye; and I highly prize the knowledge which I have attained in this way.
“But we must take care not to place too far off even the limits of our culture.
“The natural philosopher is, perhaps, in most danger of this, because general harmonious culture of the faculties is so necessary to the adequate observation of nature.
“But, on the other hand, let each man, as soon as be distinctly ascertains what he must know and do in his own department, guard himself against one-sidedness and narrow views.
“A poet, who writes for the stage, must understand its capabilities. The opera-composers must have some understanding of poetry, lest they waste their time and strength in attempting what, from the nature of things, cannot be accomplished.
“Von Weber, for instance, must see at once, that the Euryanthe is not a fit subject for him. The painter must know what subjects are fit for him, and what transcend the limits of Art.
“But, when all is said, the great art is judiciously to limit and isolate one’s self.”
Accordingly, he has, ever since I have been with him, been constantly seeking to guard me against distractions, even those which had valuable objects. If I showed an inclination to penetrate the secrets of science, he would advise me to let it alone, and confine myself to poetry for the present. If I wished to read a book which he thought had no bearing on my present pursuits, be would advise me to let it alone, and concentrate my attention as much as possible on my own vocation.
“I myself,” said he, one day, “have spent too much time on things which had no relation to my proper department. When I remember what Lopez de Vega accomplished, the list of my poetical productions seems very scanty. I should have followed my own vocation with more earnestness and constancy.”
“If I had not busied myself so much with stones,” said he, another time, “but spent my time on something better, I might have won the finest ornament of diamonds.”
And he highly esteems and praises his friend Meyer for having devoted his life exclusively to the study of Art, and thus having obtained the finest insight into his own department.
“Though I have spent,” said he, “half my life in the contemplation and study of works of art, I am not on a par with Meyer. I never venture to show him a new picture, till I think I have got all I can from it. When I have studied it till I think I am fully acquainted both with its beauties and defects, I show it to Meyer, who fails, not to look more sharply into the matter, and give me many new lights. I am ever anew convinced how much is needed to be great in any department. In Meyer lies an insight into art, such as thousands of years may ripen.”
Why, then, it may be asked, if Goethe be persuaded that one man can only do one thing well, has he, beyond all men, turned his activity into various directions?
I answer, that, if Goethe were now coming upon the stage, and found the literary and scientific culture of this country at the point which it has now, and in good measure through him, attained, be certainly would not tum his attention into such various directions, but concentrate it in one.
Not only his nature, but the needs of his time, led him to seek and speak on so many subjects.
A large inheritance of error and incompleteness fell to his share, and called for good management on many sides.
If the Newtonian theory had not seemed to him highly pernicious to the human mind, he would surely never have devoted so many years’ labor to such a work as his Farbenlehre. It was his love of truth, and hatred of error, which forced him to make his pure light shine into this darkness.
The same may be said of that model tor the scientific treatment of a subject, for which we are so greatly indebted to him—the “Metamorphosis of Plants.” It is an effort he would never have made, 1if he had seen any of his contemporaries on the way to make it unnecessary. And I doubt whether he would have written “Wilhelm Meister,” if his country had been possessed of any such work. In that case he might probably have devoted himself to the drama. What he might then have accomplished, we cannot know; but, I think, no intelligent man, who looks at all sides of the question, will regret that he went the way his Creator was pleased to call him.
Goethe spoke with great enthusiasm of Menander. “I love him,” said he, “next to Sophocles. He is every where noble, genuine, sublime, and cheerful;. his grace and sweetness are unequalled. It is greatly to be lamented that we have so little of his; but that little is invaluable, gifted men may learn so much from it.
“The great point is, that he from whom we would learn should be congenial with our nature. Now, Calderon, great as tie is, and much as I admire him, could exert no influence over me for good or for ill. But he would have been dangerous to Schiller; be would have led him astray; it is fortunate for Schiller that Calderon was not generally known in Germany till after his time. Calderon is infinitely great ill whatever is technical or theatrical; Schiller, on the contrary, far more manly, profound, and dignified, in his design. It would have been a pity if he had lost something of his peculiar greatness, without attaining what belonged to Calderon.”
We spoke of Molière. “Molière,” said Goethe, “is so great, that he astonishes me anew every time I read him. He is a man by himself—his pieces border on tragedy—they are apprehensive—no one dares to imitate them. His ‘Miser,’ where all the piety of natural relations is outraged by father and son, is grand, and in a high sense tragic. But when, in the German paraphrase, the son is changed into a relation, the whole is weakened, and loses its significance. They feared to show the vice as hideous as he did; but what is there, or any where, tragic, except what is intolerable?
“I read some pieces of Molière’s every year, just as I look often at engravings after the works of the great Italian masters. For we little men are not able to retain in the mind the idea of such greatness; we must return from time to time, and renew the impression from the work.
“People are always talking about originality; but what do they mean? As soon as we are born, the world begins to work upon us, and keeps on to the end. What can we call ours, except energy, strength, will? If I could give an account of what I owe to great predecessors and contemporaries, there would be but a small remainder.
“However, the time of life in which we are subjected to a new and important influence, makes great difference in our reception of it. That Lessing, Winckelmann, and Kant, were born before me, so that the two first acted upon my youth, and the latter on my riper years,—this circumstance had a great deal to do with my progress. That Schiller was so much younger than I, and engaged in his most earnest strivings, just as I began to be weary of the world, at the same time that the brothers von Humboldt and Schlegel were beginning their career under my eye,—these circumstances also have great significance, and from them I have derived innumerable advantages.”
The conversation then turned on the influence which he had exerted over others. I mentioned Bürger, inquiring whether his strong natural tendency had been at all modified by the influence of Goethe. “Bürger,” said Goethe, “had affinity with me in the nature of his genius; but the tree of his moral culture had its root in a wholly different soil, and sprang up in a wholly different direction. Each man proceeds as he began, in the ascending line of his culture. A man who, in his thirtieth year, could write such a poem as Frau Schnips, had obviously taken a path which must lead him far from mine. Also had he, by his really fine talents, won for himself a public which he perfectly satisfied; and he had no need of troubling himself about a contemporary who was at work in quite another region.
“Every where, men learn only from men and things which they love. However the growing minds of the present day may be disposed towards me, scarce one man, of any weight, was, for a long while, perfectly satisfied with me. Even with Werther, people found so much fault, that, if I had erased every passage with which some one had been displeased, there would not have been a single line left. But I never have troubled myself about that; such subjective judgments of individuals are at last rectified by the majority, He who does not expect a million readers had best never write a line.
“The public have been quarrelling these twenty years, as to which is the greatest—Schiller or I; they ought to rejoice that they know two men worth quarrelling about.”
Goethe talked much at diaper of Major Parry’s book upon Lord Byron. He gave it unqualified praise, and remarked that Lord Byron here appears far more complete a character, and more clear in his account of himself and his plans, than in any book which has been written about him.
“Major Parry,” said he, “must be a noble and intelligent man, so fully to have conceived, and so clearly to have represented, the character of his friend. One passage in his book pleases me particularly; it is worthy of an old Greek—of a Plutarch. ‘This noble lord,’ says Parry, ‘was destitute of all the virtues which adorn civil life; neither birth, education, nor mode of life, assisted him in their attainment, while a large portion of his judges are from the middle class, and blame him for wanting such virtues as they most value in themselves. The good people do not feel that he possessed, for his high station, qualities of whose nature and value they can form no idea.’ How do you like that? Do you think any thing so good is to be heard every day?”
I replied that I was rejoiced to see expressed a view which must discomfit all little men, who are busied in blaming and pulling down one whose place is above them.
We then spoke of subjects of national history in relation to poetry, inquiring how far the history of one nation may be more favorable to the poet than another.
“Let the poet,” said Goethe, “seize the Particular, and, if he uses it well, he cannot fail therein to represent the Universal. The English history is excellent for poetry; it has so healthy, and, therefore, so universal an expression, in its details, and always ideas that must be repeated. The French history, on the other hand, affords no material for poetry, as it represents an era that cannot come again. Thus the literature of the French, in so far as it is founded on their history, stands as something of no universal interest, and which must grow old with its time.
“The present era of French literature cannot be judged fairly. The German influence causes such a fermentation there, that we probably shall not know the result these twenty years.”
We then talked of the æsthetic school, who labor so hard to express the nature of poetry and the poet in abstract definitions, without ever arriving at any clear result.
“What need of these laborious definitions?” said Goethe. “Lively feeling of a situation, and power to express it, constitute the poet.”
I found Goethe in a very elevated mood this evening, and had the pleasure of hearing from him many significant remarks. We talked over the state of the newest literature, and he said—
“Deficiency of character in individual writers and seekers is the source of all the evils of our newest literature.
“Especially in Criticism, the world suffers from this, while either falsehoods circulate as verities, or a petty and pitiful truth robs us of something great, which would be far 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. Bu t now comes your historical critic, and says no such persons ever lived,—all this is mere fiction—the result of the great thoughts of .the Romans. And if it be so, what care we for so pitiful a truth? If the Romans had the greatness to invent such stories, shall we not, at least, have the greatness to believe them?
“Till lately, I had pleased myself with a noble passage in the thirteenth century, when the Emperor Frederic the Second was at variance with the Pope, and the north of Germany was open to attacks from every side. Asiatic hordes had pressed as far as Silesia, when the Duke von Liegnitz met and terrified them by one great defeat. They turned to Moravia, and were again defeated by Count Sternberg. These valiant men had long been living in my heart as the saviors of Germany. But now comes your historical critic, and says these heroes sacrificed themselves quite uselessly—the barbarians were already recalled; and must have returned if they had done nothing. So is the narrative robbed of all its noble patriotic beauty, and become wholly detestable to my thoughts.”
He then spoke of another class of seekers and literary men.
“I could never,” said he, “have fully comprehended how paltry men are, and how little they care for high aims, if l had not had such opportunity to test them in the course of my scientific researches. Now, I saw that most men only care for science in so far as they can get a living by it, and that they are ready to worship any error which they find profitable for this object.
“In belles lettres, it is no better. There, high aims, genuine love for the true and fair, and desire for diffusing it, are equally wanting. 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 shape the world so that only such as they could find a place in it. Such are the masses; and prominent individuals are little better.
“———’s great talents and extensive learning might have conferred the greatest benefits on his country. But his want of character has .prevented his effecting such objects, or winning our esteem.
“We want a man like Lessing. For how was he great, except in character, in his firmness, which could not be moved? There are many men as wise, of as extensive culture; but where shall we find another such character?
“Many are full of intellect and knowledge, but they are also full of vanity; end, in their desire to shine before the short-sighted multitude, they forget all shame, all delicacy—nothing is sacred to them.
“Madame de Genlis was perfectly right to declaim as she did against the bold irreverence of Voltaire. What has the world been profited by all his intellect, since it affords a foundation for nothing? Indeed, what has it not lost, by what has confused men, and robbed them of their foothold?
“What know we at last, and how far can we go with all our fine wit?
“Man is not born to solve the problem of the universe, but to find out with what it has to do, and then restrain himself within the limits of his power of comprehension.
“He cannot measure the transactions of the universe; neither his powers nor his point of view justify him in such an ambition. The reason of man and the reason of God are very different things.
“If you grant God omniscience, man cannot be free; if the Divinity knows how I shall act, I must act so. I touch upon this merely as an illustration of how little we can know, and how foolish it is to meddle with divine mysteries.
“Also, we are not obliged to utter our higher maxims, except when they can benefit the world. Let us keep them within ourselves, when they are not likely to do good without; they will not fail to diffuse over our actions the mild radiance of a hidden sun.”
I found Goethe alone this evening, and passed with him some delightful hours.
“My mind,” said he, “has, of late, been burdened by many things. So much good has been flowing in to me on all sides, that the mere ceremony of returning thanks has occupied all my time, and pre vented me from having any real life. The privileges for the publication of my works have been gradually coming from the Court; and as the favors came from different individuals, I was obliged to express my sense of them to each separately. Then came the proposals of innumerable booksellers, all of which must be considered, acted upon, and answered. Then my Jubilee has brought me such thousand-fold attentions and benefits, that I have not yet got through with my letters of acknowledgment. And I cannot be content with hollow generalities, but am desirous to say some thing distinct and appropriate to each one. But now I am almost free, and begin to be again disposed for conversation.
“I have, of late, made an observation, which I will impart to you.
“Every thing we do has its results. But the right and prudent does not always lead to good, or contrary measures to bad; frequently the reverse takes place. Some time since, I made a mistake in one of these transactions with booksellers, and was disturbed that I had done so. But, as circumstances have turned out, it would have been very unfortunate if I had not made that very mistake. Such instances occur frequently in life, and it is the observation of them which enables men of the world to go to work with such freedom and boldness.”
I was struck by this remark, which was new to me. I then turned the conversation on his own works, and we came upon the elegy “Alexis and Dora.”
“Men blame,” said Goethe, “the strong, passionate close of this poem, and would rather, the elegy should end gently and peacefully, without that outbreak of jealousy; but I cannot agree with such an opinion. 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 youth who, in the midst of his most impassioned love for an easily-won maiden, cried out, ‘But would she not receive another man as readily as me?’”
I agreed entirely with Goethe; and mentioned the skill with which, in this poem, all is so painted, though with but few strokes, and in little room, that we think we see the life and domestic environment of the persons. “I should think it must be a page from actual experience,” said I.
“I am glad it seems so to you,” said Goethe. “Few men have my taste for faithful painting of reality; they much prefer strange countries and circumstances, in which the fancy may exercise itself unrestrained.
“There are others, however, who cling too closely to reality, and, wholly wanting the poetic spirit, are severe indeed in their requisitions. For instance, in this very poem, some would have had me give Alexia a servant to carry his bundle, and never dreamt that all that was poetic and idyllic in the situation would have been destroyed by such an arrangement.”
We talked then of “Wilhelm Meister.” “There are odd critics in this world,” said Goethe; “they blamed me for letting the hero of this romance live so much in bad company; but I considered this so called bad company, as a vase, in which I could put every thing good I had to say, and I won thereby a poetical and manifold body for my work. Had I delineated the so called good society by means of the same, nobody would have read my book.
“In the seemingly mean details of ‘Wilhelm Meister,’ lies always at bottom a high meaning, which he who has eye, knowledge of the world, and power of comprehension to infer the great from the little, will detect; to others, let it suffice to receive the picture of life as real life.”
Goethe then showed me a very interesting English work, which illustrated all Shakspeare, by engravings. Each leaf embraced, in six small designs, one piece. Verses were written beneath, which recalled the leading ideas and most interesting situations of each work. Thus all these immortal dramas were brought before the eye, as if by processions of marks.
“It is even terrifying,” said Goethe, to look through this book. It makes me feel the infinite wealth and grandeur of Shakspeare. There.is nothing in human life to which he has not given form and voice; and all with what ease and freedom!
“But it is in vain to talk about Shakspeare; we can never say any thing adequate. I have touched upon the subject in my ‘Wilheim Meister,’ but could do little. He is not a theatre poet; he never thought of the stage; it was far too narrow for his great intellect; truly, the whole visible world was too narrow.
He is even too rich and powerful. Let no mind, which would produce any thing, venture on reading more than one of his dramas yearly. I did well to set him wholly aside when writing ‘Goetz’ and ‘Egmont,’ and Byron did well in cherishing no admiration for him, and keeping in another way. Calderon and he have been the ruin of many an excellent German.
“Shakspeare offers us golden apples in silver dishes. We get the silver dishes by studying his works; but, unfortunately, we have nothing better than potatoes to put into them.”
I laughed, and was delighted with this admirable illustration.
Goethe showed me a letter from Zelter, describing a representation of Macbeth at the theatre in Berlin, where the music did not correspond with the grand spirit and character of the piece. Goethe’s reading give full effect to Zelter’s varied expression, and he often paused, to admire, with me, some striking passage.
“‘Macbeth,’ said he, “is Shakspeare’s best acting, play, the one in which he shows most understanding of stage effect. But would you see his intellect unfettered, read ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ and see how he uses the materials of the Iliad in his fashion.”
We talked of Byron, of the disadvantage to which he appears, when placed beside the innocent cheerfulness of Shakspeare, and of the lavish and generally not unjust blame, which his manifold works of negation had attracted. “Could be,” said Goethe, “ have got rid, in Parliament, of all the opposition that was in him, he would have stood much higher as a poet; but, as he scarcely had a chance to speak in Parliament, all which he had in his heart against his nation was repressed, and he had no outlet for it except his poems. Great part of his works of negation might, I think, be fitly designated as suppressed parliamentary speeches.”
We talked of a poet who has lately risen up in Germany, who has become celebrated in a short time, but whose tendency to negation is indefensible “Undoubtedly,” said Goethe, “he possesses many shining qualities, but then he is wanting in—Love. He 1oves his readers and his fellow-poets no better than himself, so that we are constantly tempted to address him in the words of the apostle—‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.’
“I have lately read one of his poems, and his genius is not to be denied; but without Love he can never make himself all be might be. He will be feared, and be the idol of those who would gladly distinguish themselves by denying as much as he does, if they had but his genius.”
The most celebrated, German improvisatore, Dr. Wolff, of Hamburg, has been here several days, and has given public exhibitions of his rare talent. On Friday evening, he gave us a very brilliant exhibition before the Court of Weimar, and a numerous audience; that same day he received an invitation to dine with Goethe.
I talked with him after he had improvised before Goethe. He was much delighted, and declared that this hour would make an epoch in his life; for Goethe, in a few words, had opened to him a wholly new path, and had, in his criticisms, hit the right nail on the head.
This evening, as I was at Goethe’s, the conversation turned immediately on Wolff. “He congratulates himself greatly,” said I, “on the good advice your excellency has given him.”
“I was perfectly free with him,” said Goethe, “and if my words have made such an impression on him, that is a very good sign. His talents are indubitable; but he has the general sickness of the day—subjectivity—and I would fain heal him. I gave him this task to try him:—‘Paint for me,’ said I, ‘your return to Hamburg.’ He began immediately to pour out melodious verses. I could not but admire his facility, yet I could not praise him; for he painted no return to Hamburg, but merely those emotions which any one might experience on returning to his parents, relations, and friends; and his poem no more deserved the name of return to Hamburg, than to Merseburg or Jena. Yet, what an individual, peculiar city is Hamburg! and what a rich field it would have offered him for striking pictures, if he had known or ventured to take hold of the subject properly!”
I remarked that this subjective tendency was the fault of the public, which applauds nothing so much as sentimentality.
“Perhaps so,” said Goethe; “yet is the public well pleased if you offer something better. I am certain, if a man of such genius as Wolff could improvise faithful sketches of real life in great cities, such as Rome, Naples, Vienna, Hamburg, or London, so that they might believe they saw with their own eyes, his hearers would be enchanted. I am sure he might break through to the objective, for he is not without imagination; but, if he does not soon take the right path, it will be too late.”
“That,” said I, “will not be easy, since it demands entire regeneration of his modes of thought. Even if he succeeds, he must, for some time, stop producing, and will require long practice to make the objective style as natural as the present.”
“Yet,” said Goethe, “let him take courage, and venture. It is in such matters as in going to bathe—disregard the first chill, and a new element is yours. Must not the singer find new tones, not natural to his throat, if he would do justice to his art? Just so with the poet;—he deserves not the name when he only speaks out those few subjective feelings which are his as an individual. Only when he can appropriate and tell the story of the world is he a poet; and there he is inexhaustible, and can be always new, while your subjective writer has soon talked out his, limited knowledge, and is ruined by mannerism. We are bid to study the ancients; yet what does that avail us if it does not teach us to study the real world, and reproduce that?—for there was the source of the power of the ancients.”
He walked to and fro a few minutes, while I remained seated at the table, as he likes to have me. Then, after standing a moment at the stove, he came to me, his finger on his lips, and said,
“I will now tell you something, of which I think you will find frequent confirmation in your experience. When eras are on the decline, all tendencies are subjective; but, on the other hand, when matters are ripening for a new epoch, all tendencies are objective. Our present time is retrograde, therefore subjective; we see this not more clearly in poetry than in painting, and other ways. Each manly effort, on the contrary, turns its force from the inward to the outward world. In important era, those who have striven and acted most manfully were all objective in their nature.”
These remarks led to a most interesting conversation upon the great deeds of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
The conversation now turned upon the theatre, and the weak, sentimental, gloomy productions which now disgrace it.
“Molière is my strength and consolation at present,” said I; “I have been translating his Avare, and am now busy with his Médicin malgré lui. Moliere is indeed a great, a genuine man.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “a genuine man; that is indeed his proper praise. There is nothing borrowed or factitious in him. He ruled the manners of his day, while our Iffland and Kotzebue are ruled by theirs, and every way limited and confined. Molière chastised men by painting them just as they were.”
“What would I not give,” said I, “to see his dramas properly acted! Yet are such things much too strong and natural for our public. Is not this over-refinement to be attributed to the so called ideal literature of certain authors?”
“No,” said Goethe, “it has its source in society itself. Now, we have young girls at the theatre; when Molière wrote, nobody came to see his pieces but men and women, who know: things as they are. In his day, young girls were in their proper place, the cloister; but, since they have once got the entrée, we must needs be discreet for their sake; and one who, like me, does not like such weak dramas, had best stay away, as I do. I ceased to feel really interested in the theatre when I ceased to be able to improve their acting. It was my delight to bring dramatic arrangements to their perfection among us, and when a piece was given, I sympathized, less with it than with the actors. I noted the faults of each; I sent a written account of them to the manager, and was sure I should not see them again. Now, if I were present, I must endure faults and defects without any hope of reforming them. And so about the reading of pieces. Why must the young German poets be eternally sending me tragedies? Formerly, I consented to read them; to see whether they were fit to play. What have I to do now with the works of these young people? I get nothing by reading things so badly done, and I can do no good when they have already finished. If they would send one, instead of printed plays, plans for plays, it might be worth my while to say, ‘Do this,’ or ‘Don’t do that,’ and then my trouble might not be wholly vain. The chief difficulty is in this,—that poetic culture is so general in Germany that nobody now ever makes a bad verse. These young poets who send me their works, are not inferior to their predecessors, and, since you can praise them so highly, they cannot understand why you will not praise them more. Yet how can we praise them, when there is so much talent just of that degree in the market, and they bring us what we do not need, while so many useful things remain undone? Were there so much as one who towered above the rest, it would be well, for the world can be served only by what is extraordinary.
I went, at seven this evening, to Goethe. I sat down by the table, and told him that yesterday I had seen, at the Inn, the Duke of Wellington, who was passing through, on his way to St. Petersburg. “Indeed!” said Goethe; “tell me all about it. Does he look like his portrait?”
“Yes,” said I; “but his face is better. It is very distinguished, and when you have once looked at himself, all the portraits are nought. It is one of those faces, which, once seen, are never forgotten. His brown eyes are very clear and brilliant; his look is impressive; his mouth speaks, even when it is shut; he looks as man who has had many thoughts, and who has lived through the greatest deeds, who now can look upon the world with serene satisfaction, for he has vanquished all hostile powers. He seemed to me hard and keen as a Damascus blade. He looks near fifty, upright, of a good mien, but rather thin. I saw him get into his carriage: his manner; as he passed through the crowd assembled at the door, and slightly touched his hat in reply to their salutations, was unusually cordial.” Goethe listened with visible interest. “You are a gainer,” said he; “you have seen a hero.” I lamented that I had never seen Napoleon.
“Truly,” said Goethe, “that also was worth the trouble. He looked, as he was, the compendium of a world.”
I had brought with me for Goethe a poem, or which I had spoken to him some evenings before—one of his own, written so long since that he has quite forgotten it. It was printed in a Frankfort periodical, of the year 1776. An old servant of Goethe brought it to Weimar, and by this means it had fallen into my hands. Undoubtedly it is the earliest known poem of his. The subject was the “Descent of Christ into Hell;” and it was remarkable to observe the readiness of the young composer with his religious images. The design of the poem might have suited Klopstock; but its execution was wholly unlike any thing of his. It was stronger, freer, more graceful, had greater energy and better arrangement. The glowing style recalled his youth, full of impetuosity and power. It was longer than the material warranted.
As soon as Goethe saw the yellow, worn-out paper, be remembered his poem. “Perhaps,” said be, “Fraulein von Klettenberg induced me to write it, for I see by the heading that it was written by request, and I know not any other friend likely to have given me such a subject. I was very poor in materials then, and was rejoiced when I could get any thing fit to sing. A day or two ago, a poem of that period came before my eye, which I wrote in the English language, in which I complained of the dearth of poetic subjects. We Germans are ill off in that respect; our old national poems lie too remote, and the later want general interest, because we have no general government. Klopstock tried Arminius, but all that lies too far off; nobody feels any connection with it, or knows what he shall do with it. Accordingly, Klopstock’s work has never been popular, or produced any valuable results. I made a happy hit with my Goetz von Berlichingen; that was bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and writing it was delightful.
“For Werther and Faust I was obliged to draw upon my own bosom; I found but a small part ready to my hand. I made but once devils and witches, and I was glad when I had consumed my northern inheritance and turned to the tables of the Greeks. Had I earlier known how many excellent things have been in existence; for hundreds and thousands of years, I should have written no line; I should have had enough else to do.”
Goethe was in one of his pleasantest moods. He had received something he highly valued, Lord Byron’s manuscript of the dedication to his “Serdanapalus.” He showed it to us after dinner, at the same time teasing his daughter to give him back Byron’s letter from Genoa. “You see, my dear child,” said he, “ I have now every thing collected which relates to my connection with Byron; and now I am enriched with this valuable paper, nothing is wanting but that letter.” But the lovely admirer of Byron would not be persuaded to restore the letter. “You gave it to me once, my father,” said she, “and I shall not part with it; and if you wish, as is fit, that like should be with like, you had better give me the other manuscripts, and I will keep them together.” This Goethe positively refused, and they continued the playful contention for some time.
After he had risen from table, and the ladies had gone out, Goethe brought from his work-room a red portfolio, which he took to the window, and showed me its contents. “Here,” .said he, “I have every thing together which relates to my connection with Lord Byron. Here is his letter from Leghorn; here a copy of his dedication, my own poem, and what I wrote for ‘Medwin’s Conversations;’ now, I only need the letter from Genoa, and she will not let me have it.”
Goethe had been interested to-day more particularly about Byron by a letter from England. His mind was just now full of him, and he said a thousand interesting things about his works, and the character of his genius.
“The English,” said he, among other things, “may think of Byron as they please; they certainly have no poet like him. He is different from the others, and, in many respects, greater.”
He talked about St. Schutze, and he spoke of him with much partiality. “When I was ill a few weeks since,” said he, “I took great pleasure in reading his Heiteren Stunden. If Schutze had lived in England, he would have made an epoch; his gift both of observing and depicting was so distinguished, that he needed nothing but the sight of life on a larger scale.”
Goethe spoke of the “Globe.” “The contributors,” said he, “are men of the world, cheerful, clear in their views, bold to the last degree. They find fault in the most polished manner;—very unlike our German literati, who always think they must hate those who differ from them in opinion. I consider the ‘Globe’ as one of our most interesting periodicals, and, indeed, could not do without it.”
This evening, I had the pleasure of hearing Goethe talk at length about the theatre.
I told him that one of my friends intended to prepare for the stage Lord Byron’s “Two Foscari.” Goethe doubted his success.
“He makes a common mistake,” he said. “When a piece produces a deep impression on us in reading, we think it will do the same on the stage; but, in reality, no piece that is not originally, by the intent and discretion of the poet, written for acting, ever succeeds on the stage. I have given myself infinite trouble with my Goetz von Berlichingen, yet it never will be fit for acting. In fact, it is too long, and I ought to divide it into two parts, regarding the first as an introduction merely. The first part should be given once only, as an introduction to the other, and then the second could be played repeatedly. ’Tis the same with Wallenstein; ‘The Picolomini’ does not bear repetition, but ‘Wallenstein’s Death’ was always seen with delight.”
I asked what was most requisite to make a piece fit for the theatre.
“It must be symbolical,” replied Goethe; “that is to say, that each incident must be significant by itself, and yet lead naturally to something more important. The Tartuffe of Molière is, in this respect, a great example. What an admirable exposition the first scene gives at the very beginning! and every thing is significant, yet leads us to expect something still more important which is to come. The beginning of Leasing’s Minna von Barhelm is also admirable; but there is nothing like the Tartuffe.
“You find the same perfect adaptation to the theatre in Calderon. His pieces are throughout fit for the boards. Calderon combined with his genius the finest understanding.”
“’Tis singular,” said I, “that the dramas of Shakspeare are not better adapted to the theatre, since he wrote them all for the stage.”
“Shakspeare,” replied Goethe, “wrote those pieces direct from his own nature. In his time, there was nothing in stage arrangements to constrain him. Do what he chose, he need not fear to displease; but, if Shakspeare had written for the Court of Madrid, or for that of Louis XIV., he would probably have adapted himself to a severer theatrical form. We need not regret that he did not, for what he has lost as a dramatist, he has gained as a poet; he is a great pschychologist; from him we learn the mind of man.”
We then talked of the difficulties in managing a theatre. Goethe said the chief was to keep the repertory full of good tragedies, operas, and comedies, in proper acting order, and at the same time to make proper use of occasions to introduce novelties. He observed that we are now so rich in good pieces, that the connoisseur may easily make an excellent selection; but it is very difficult to keep them in a state of readiness for the stage;
“When Schiller and I had the care of the theatre, we had the great advantage of keeping it open during summer in Lauchstedt. Here we had a select audience, who lilted nothing, that was not good; so we returned in autumn, well versed in the best plays, and used again, in the winter, the preparations we had made in the summer; and the Weimar public had such confidence in our judgment that, even if they did not fully appreciate what they saw, they had confidence there was something valuable in it, or we should not have presented it to them.
“In the, year ninety,” continued Goethe, “the period of my interest in the theatre was already gone by; my mind was entirely turned from the drama to epic poetry; but Schiller revived my interest, and for love of him I again paid some attention to the theatre. At the time when I wrote ‘Clavigo,’ I could easily have followed it up with a dozen such pieces. I had plenty of subjects, and production was easy to me. I might have written a piece every eight days, and I am sorry I did not.”
Goethe spoke again of Lord Byron. “I have,” said he, “just read once more his ‘Deformed Transformed,’ and admire his genius more than ever. His demon was suggested by Mephistophiles. It is, however, no imitation, but a new and original creation of great merit. There are no weak passages, not a place where you could put the head of a pin, where you do not find invention and thought. But for his hypochondriacal negative turn, he would have been as great as Shakspeare—as the ancients.” I expressed surprise at such an assertion.
“You may believe me,” said Goethe, “the more I study him, the more I think so.”
Some time ago, Goethe had remarked that Byron had too much empiricism. I did not understand exactly what he meant; but I forbore to ask, and thought of it in silence. However, I got nothing by thinking of it, and found that I must wait till my improved culture, or some happy circumstance, should unlock the secret for me. Such a one I found to-day, when I had seen at the theatre an excellent representation of “Macbeth,” and afterwards took up Byron to read his “Beppo.” By comparing the impression received from this poem with that which Macbeth had left upon my mind, I learned to conjecture. In “Macbeth,” a spirit had impressed me, whose-grandeur and sublimity could have been created only by a Shakspeare. You saw there the natural dower of a high and deep nature. Whatever this piece has of knowledge of the world or experience, is quite subordinate to its poetic spirit, and. serves only to assist interpretation. The great poet rules and raises us, even to his own point of view.
In “Beppo,” on the contrary, I found the empiric uppermost, too powerful even over the mind which introduces it to us. I found not here, as in “Macbeth,” the great and genuine thoughts of a highly-gifted poet. The influence of the world was every where apparent. He seemed to be on the same level with all intellectual men of the world, who have the advantage of high rank, and is in no way distinguished above them, except by the superiority of talent, which makes him their mouth-piece.
So I felt, in reading “Beppo,” that Lord Byron had too much empiricism, not because he brought real life too much before us, but because his higher poetic nature is often subordinated or even silenced.
I had just been reading Lord Byron’s “Deformed Transformed,” and talked with Goethe about it after dinner. “The first scenes,” said he, “are full of poetry; the remainder, about the siege of Rome, and the rest, are not poetical, yet full of significance.” “It is not difficult,” said I, “to be so epigrammatic when one, like him, respects nothing.”
He smiled. “You are not wrong,” said he. “We must confess the poet oversteps the limits of decorum. He tells us truths, but truths so disagreeable, that we should love him better if he held his peace. There are things in this world, which the true poet rather conceals than discloses; but as to Byron, you might as well wish to annihilate him as wish him other than he is; so decided is his character.”
“Do you remember,” said I, “the passage,
He hath an ignorant audience?’
“That is as good as one of Mephistophiles’ sayings.”
“Since we are talking of Mephistophiles,” continued Goethe, “I will show you something which Coudray brought me from Paris.” And he brought in an engraving, representing the scene where Faust and Mephistophiles, on their way to free Margaret from her imprisonment, are rushing by the gallows on two horses. Faust rides a black horse, which gallops wildly on, and seems as much afraid of the ghost beneath the gallows as his rider. They ride so fast that Faust can scarcely keep his seat. The current of air which he raises has blown off his hat, which, fastened by straps about his neck, flies behind him. His fearful, inquiring face is turned to Mephietophiles, to whose words he is listening. Mephistophiles, on the contrary, rides on in tranquillity, untroubled and unassailed, like a being of a higher nature. He rides no living horse, for he loves not what is living; indeed, he does not need it, for his will is sufficient to move him wherever he pleases. He has a horse merely to save appearances; he seems to have snatched up the first skeleton he could find. It is white, and shines in the darkness of night with phosphoric brilliancy; it is neither bridled nor saddled, yet rune fleetly. The supernatural rider sits negligently, his face turned towards Faust, as if in conversation. The opposing element of air is for him as if it were not; neither he nor his horse shows any trace of it.”
I expressed much pleasure in this composition. “Indeed,” said Goethe, “I myself did not think it out so perfectly. Now look at this other.”
The wild scene of Auerbach’s cellar is represented in the other, at the moment when the wine sparkles up into flames, and those present show their intoxication in various ways. All is passion and motion; Mephistophiles alone maintains his usual composure, He cares not for the wild cursing and screaming, and the drawn knife of the man who stands next him moves him not a whit. He sits on the corner of the table, dangling his legs. His upraised finger is enough to subdue flame and passion.
The more you looked at this fine design, the more admirable seemed the art; for no figure resembled another, and each one expressed some essential part or the action.
“Delacroix,” said Goethe, “is a man of distinguished genius, who found in ‘Faust’ the very aliment his mind needed. The wildness for which his countrymen blame him stands him instead here. I hope he will illustrate all ‘Faust,’ and I anticipate a special pleasure from the scenes in the witches’ kitchen and on the Brocken. You see here the extensive experience of life, for which a city like Paris, but given hims1uch opportunity.”
I observed that these designs greatly assist the comprehension of a poem.
“Undoubtedly,” said Goethe; “for the more perfect conception of such an artist constrains us to find as many beauties in the subject as he, did. And, if I must confess, Delacroix has, in many instances, surpassed my own idea of the scenes which I myself originated. Surely, then, the mere reader may find his imagination quickened by their aid.”
I found Goethe in an animated and happy mood. “Alexander von Humboldt has passed some hours with me this morning,” said he, coming to meet me with great vivacity; “what a man he is! Long as I have known him, he is continually astonishing me anew. I may say he has not his equal in knowledge, in living wisdom; and such many-sidedness I have found no where else. Wherever you call upon him, you find him at home, every where ready to lavish upon you the intellectual treasures he has amassed. He is like a fountain with many pipes; you need only to get a vessel to hold under it, on any side refreshing streams flow at a mere touch. He is to stay some days; and I shall feel, when he goes away, as if I had lived years during his visit.”
At table, the ladies praised a portrait by a young painter. “What is most surprising,” said they, “he has learned every thing by himself.” You could see I that, indeed, by the hands, which are not in correct drawing. “This young man,” said Goethe, “has talent; but you should not praise, but rather scold him, for learning every thing by himself. Let no man or talent rely on his natural resources, but devote himself to art, and seek out good masters, who will show him what to do with what he has. I have, to-day, rend a letter from Mozart, where he, in reply to a Baron who had sent him his composition, wrote as follows:—
“‘I must scold you Dilettanti for two faults, which I usually find among you; either you have no thoughts of your own, and take up with those of others, or, if you have thoughts of your own, you never find out what to do with them.’
“Is not this admirable (himmlisch)? and does not this fine remark, which Mozart makes about music, apply to all the other arts?
“Leonardo da Vinci said, ‘If your son knows not how to bring out his drawings by deep shades, so round that one can take hold of the forms with his hands, he has no talent;’ and further says Leonardo, ‘After your son has become perfectly acquainted with perspective and anatomy, put him to a good master.’ And now-a-days our young artists, scarce understand either when they leave their masters, so are times changed.
“But, indeed, our young painters are every way deficient. Their creations say nothing and do nothing. They paint swords that cannot pierce, and darts that cannot hit; and I often feel as if the soul of things were quite vanished out of the world.”
“And yet,” said I, “we might expect that the great events of the late wars would have called forth talent.”
“They called forth,” replied Goethe, “more eagerness than talent, and more talent for politics than for art, and all naïveté and fulness of meaning is more than ever wanting; yet how will a painter, destitute of these attributes, produce any thing which can bestow a genuine joy?”
“I have now,” continued Goethe; “been observing painting in Germany for fifty years or more, and not merely observed, but lent a: hand also, so that I am not rash in saying that little is to be expected in that quarter, unless, indeed, a great genius should come, which can appropriate all which has been done so far, and make it the means of far higher excellence. The means ate all here, and the way marked out. Have we not even the works of Phidias before our eyes?—a piece of good fortune, of which, in youth, I could not so much as dream. Perhaps the great genius that we need so much, is now in the cradle, and you may live to see its glory.”
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1 [For this frequently recurring word I cannot always find any in English which suits its position.—TRANSL.]
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