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
At dinner, we talked over Canning’s excellent speech upon Portuguese affairs, “Some people,” said Goethe, “call this speech a blunder; but these are people who know not what they want, unless it be to cabal against all greatness. They are like the Frondeurs; they must have something great, that they may hate it. In Napoleon’s time, they were never at a loss; after his fall, they assailed the Holy Alliance, than which nothing greater or more beneficial to mankind ever existed. Now it is Canning’s turn. His speech upon Portugal was dictated by a grand consciousness of the extent of his power and the dignity of his position; and he is in the right to speak as he feels. The Sans Culottes cannot understand this; and what to us seems sublime, is mere stupidity in their eyes. The grand disturbs them; they are not so constituted as to understand, and cannot endure it.”
Goethe praised highly the poems of Victor Hugo. “He is,” said be, “a man of decided genius, on whom German literature has had an influence. His poetic youth has, unfortunately, been disturbed by the pedantry of the classic school; but now be has the ‘Globe’ on his side, and has won the game: I am inclined to compare him with Manzoni. He has much objectivity, and seems to me quite as important a personage as De la Martine and De la Vigne. On close survey, I see the source of this and other fresh talent Chateaubriand, who is really distinguished for his rhetorical and poetical talents, was their founder. That you may see how Victor Hugo writes, read now this poem upon Napoleon—Les deuz Isles.”
He gave me the book, and went to the stove. I read the poem. “Has he not fine images,” said Goethe, “and has not he managed the subject with great freedom of spirit?” He came back to me. “Only see how fine is this passage.” He read that of the storm cloud, from which the lightning darts upward against the hero. “That is fine; the image is correct: among the mountains we often have the storm beneath us, and may be supposed to see the lightning dart upwards.”
“I praise the French,” said I, “for never deserting the firm ground of reality. We can translate their poems into prose, without losing any of the substance.”
“That,” said Goethe, “is because the French poets have real knowledge, while oar German simpletons fancy they shall injure their talent, if they labor for the knowledge which is, in fact, necessary nourishment to talent. But let them pass; we can do them no good, and real talent will find its way. Many young poets, who are now before the public, have no real talent, bat have been excited to vain attempts by the high state of literature in this country.
“That the French have passed from their former pedantry into this free manner, is not surprising. Diderot, and minds like his, sought to break open this path. The revolution and the reign of Napoleon both favored this; for, if those warlike days were refreshing to the interests of poetry, and allowed no fair play to the Muses, yet they fashioned a multitude of intellects to freedom, who now, in times of peace, can meditate and produce.”
The conversation turned upon painting, and on the mistakes of the school who so superstitiously worship antiquity, (alterthümelndeu Schule.) “‘You do not consider yourself a connoisseur,” said Goethe; “but I will show you a picture, painted, too, by one of the best living German artists, where you will perceive, at a glance, glaring offences against the primary rules of art. You will be pleased with parts, dissatisfied with the picture as a whole, and will not know what to make of it; not because he has not talent, but because his judgment, which should have directed that talent, is completely darkened, like that of all these bigots to antiquity; so that he ignores the perfect masters, and takes pattern from their imperfect predecessors.
“Raphael and his contemporaries broke through the limitations of mannerism, to nature and .freedom. And now, our artiste, instead of being thankful, and using these advantages to proceed on the good way, wish to return to the limitations.
“It is hard to understand this provoking obscuration of their intellects; and, since art will not sustain them in this course, they seek support from religion and party spirit; if they did not, they could not uphold themselves in such weakness.
“There is, through all art, a filiation. If you see a great master, you will find that he has built up his greatness upon the achievements of his predecessors. Men like Raphael grow not from the ground. They take root in the antique, and the best which has been done before them. Had they not used the advantages of their time, little would have been said of them in ours.”
Goethe had a small musica1 party. The performers were the Eberwein family, and some members of the orchestra. Among the few hearers were General Superintendent Röhr, Hofrath Vogel, and some ladies. At Goethe’s request, they performed a quartette, by a celebrated young composer. Karl Eberwein, a boy twelve years old, played the piano entirely to Goethe’s satisfaction,—indeed, admirably,—and all the parts were well performed.
“’Tis strange,” said Goethe, “this state to which the great improvements in the technical and mechanical part have brought our late composers. Their productions are no longer music; they go quite beyond the level of human feelings, and the mind and heart answer no more. How do you feel? For my part, I hear with my ears only.”
I replied that I fared no better.
“Yet that Allegro,” said he, “had character; that whirling and twirling brought before my mind the witches’ dance on the Blocksberg.”
After we had taken refreshments, Goethe asked Madame Eberwein for some songs. She sang, to Zelter’s music, the beautiful song, Um Mitternacht, which made the deepest impression.
“That song,” said Goethe, “remains beautiful, hear it as often as you will! There is something eternal, indestructible, in that melody!”
The Erl König obtained great applause, and the aria, Ich hab’s gesagt der guten Mutter, made every one say the music suited it so entirely, no one could even have wished it otherwise. Goethe himself was extremely pleased. Some songs from his Divan were sung with equal success.
After our friends had gone, I staid for a moment, and he said—“I observe that those songs from the Divan are quite gone by for me. The Oriental and impassioned elements have died out; or, rather, I have left them behind, as the snake leaves on his path the old skin he has cast by. Um Mitternacht, on the contrary, is a part of me, and will live with me while I live.
“Oftentimes, my old productions seem wholly strange to me. To-day, I read a passage in French, and thought,—‘This man speaks discreetly enough—thou mightst thyself have said the same’—when, lo, I find it is a passage translated from my own writings!”
After the completion of “Helena,” Goethe had employed the latter days of the summer upon the Wanderjahre, He often talked to me about the progress of this work.
“In order the better to make use of the materials I possess,” said he to me one day, “I have taken the first part entirely to pieces, and intend, by mingling the old with the new, to make two parts. I have had what is printed copied. The places where I have new matter to introduce are marked, and when my secretary comes to such a place, I dictate what is wanting, and thus oompel myself never to let my work stop.”
Another day he said to me, “All that was formerly printed of the Wanderjahre is now completely copied. I have had blue paper put where I am to introduce new matter, so that I always have before my eyes what is yet to do. As I go on at present, these blue spots vanish very fast, and I take great pleasure in seeing it.”
Some weeks since, I had heard from his secretary that he was at work on a new novel. I therefore abstained from evening visits, and satisfied myself with seeing him once a week at dinner. This evening, he showed me the first sheets of his novel. It was that of the death of the tiger, and the charming of the lion by a little boy.
While reading, I admired the extraordinary clearness with which all objects, even the very smallest locality, were brought before our eyes. Their going out to hunt, the old ruins of the castle, the fair, the way through the fields to the ruins, were all made manifest to the eye, in a style so distinct and masterly, that you could never look forward to what was coming, even by a single line.
“Your excellency,” said I, “must have had a very decided plan for this work.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Goethe, “I have had it in my head for about thirty years; but, at first, as in ‘Hermann and Dorothea,’ I meant to treat the subject in an epic form, and in hexameters; but, when I now wished to take up the subject again, I could not find my old plan, and was led to manage it is a wholly new manner. Since I finished, I find the old plan; but I am glad I did not earlier. It would only have confused me; the present is better.”
“That is a beautiful situation,” said I, “in which Honorio stands over the dead tiger, at the moment when the lamenting woman with her boy has just come up, and the prince too, with his retinue of huntsmen, is hastening to join this singular group; it would make a fine picture. I should like to see it painted.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “that would be a fine picture. Yet, perhaps,” continued he, after some reflection, “the subject is almost too rich, and the figures are too many; it would be difficult for the artist to group them, and distribute lights and shades to advantage. That earlier moment, in which Honorio kneels on the tiger, and the princess is opposite to him on horseback, has seemed a picture in my mind, and that might be done.”
I remarked that this novel was very unlike in character to those of the Wanderjahre, as all its merits lay in representation of the outward world.
“Yes,” said Goethe, “there is scarce any thing of the inward world here; in my other things there is almost too much.”
We talked of the second part of “Faust,” especially of the classical Walpurgis night, which existed as yet only in plan, and which Goethe had said to me that he meant to publish as a separate sketch. I now advised him not to do so; for I thought, if he did, he would always leave it in this unfinished state. He seemed to have thought better of it himself, and decided that he would not print it so.
“Now, then,” said I, “I shall hope to see it completed.”
“It might be done in three months,” said he, “could I but have peace for it. Each day has too many claims on me; it is very difficult to isolate myself sufficiently. This morning, the hereditary Grand Duke was here; to-morrow noon, the Grand Duchess proposes visiting me. Certainly, such visits are a high favor, and embellish my life; but they are a tax upon my mind. I am obliged to bethink myself what I have new, wherewith worthily to entertain such dignified personages.”
“Yet,” said I, “you finished ‘Helena,’ last winter, when you were no less disturbed than now.”
“Yes,” be replied, “affairs go on, and must go on; but the difficulties are great.”
“’Tis well,” said I, “that your plan is so completely made out.”
“The plan I have, indeed,” said Goethe, “but the most difficult part is yet to do; and the execution of parts depends only too much on the favor of circumstances. The classic Walpurgis night must be written in rhymes, and yet the whole must have the air of an antique. ’Tis not easy to find a suitable sort of verse; and then the dialogue!”
“Is not that also in the plan?” said I.
“The what is there,” he replied, “but not the how. Then, only think what is to be said on that mad night! Faust’s speech to Proserpine, when he would move her to give him Helena—what a speech should that be, which must move Proserpine herself to tears! All this is not easy to do, and depends almost solely on the mood and strength at the moment of writing.”
Lately, during Goethe’s indisposition, we have dined in the work-room, which looks out on the garden. To-day, I found the cloth laid in what is called the Urbino chamber, which I received as a good omen. I round there Goethe and his son: both welcomed me in their naïve, affectionate manner, and I observed, by the animation of Goethe’s face, that he was in his happiest mood.
Through the open door of the next room, I saw Chancellor von Müller, looking at a large engraving. Goethe said this was a work of the celebrated Parisian Gérard, just sent him by the artist as a present. “Go you in also,” added he; “and take a peep before our soup comes.”
I saw, written upon the engraving, that the artist sent it to Goethe as a mark of particular esteem. I could not look long, as Frau von Goethe came in, and I was called to table,
“Is not that noble?” said Goethe. “You may study it days and weeks before you can find out all its rich thoughts and various perfections.”
Frau von Goethe animated the conversation with her usual attractive liveliness. Young Goethe joking her about certain arrangements, she would not understand him.
“We must not spoil fair ladies,” said Goethe, “they are so ready to break all bounds. Even at Elba, Napoleon was persecuted by milliners’ bills; yet was he, in such matters, rather inclined to do too little than too much. One day, at the Tuilleries, a marchand de modes offered, in his presence, valuable goods to the Emprees. Napoleon showing no disposition to buy any thing, the man gave him to understand that he was not sufficiently complaisant to his wife. Napoleon answered never a word, but measured him with such a look, that the man hastily packed up his things, and was seen no more.”
“Was he consul then?” asked Frau von Goethe.
“More probably Emperor,” replied Goethe; “else his look would not have been so formidable. I cannot but laugh when I think how that look pierced through the poor man, who saw himself already beheaded or shot down.”
“I wish,” said young Goethe, “that I had pictures or engravings of all Napoleon’s great deeds, to fill a gallery.”
“You could not make a gallery large enough to put the pictures in, of his great deeds.”
The Chancellor turned the conversation on Luden’s “History of the Germans,” and I had reason to admire the dexterity and penetration which young Goethe displayed in excusing all which the reviewers had found to blame in the book by the influence of the national views and feelings of the writer’s age. It was granted that the wars of Napoleon had explained to us those of Cæsar. “For before,” said Goethe, “Cæsar’s book was really not much better than an exercise for the schools.”
From the old German time, the conversation turned upon the Gothic. We spoke of a bookcase which had a Gothic character, and from this were led to discuss the late fashion of arranging entire apartments in the old German or Gothic style, and thus living under the influences of early days.
“In a house,” said Goethe, “large enough to allow of some apartments being thus furnished and used only three or four times a year, such a fancy might be in place. I would no more object to its owner’s having a Gothic, than to Madame Pankoucke at Paris having a Chinese apartment. But I cannot praise the man who dresses out the rooms in which he lives in this strange, old-fashioned garniture. It is a sort of, masquerade, which can, in the long run, have no favorable influence on the man who adopts it. Such a fashion is in contradiction to the day in which we live, and can only serve to confirm the empty and hollow way of thinking and feeling in which it originated. It is well enough, on a merry winter’s evening, to go to a masquerade in the dress of a Turk; but what should we think of the man who wore such a one all the year round? Either that he was crazy, or in a fair way to become so.”
We found Goethe’s words very convincing, and as, the reproof touched none of us, received the truth with the pleasantest feelings.
The conversation now turning upon the theatre, Goethe rallied me for having, last Monday evening, sacrificed it to him. “Three years he has lived here,” said he, turning to the others, “and this is the first evening he has given up the theatre for love of me. 1 ought to think a great deal of it. 1 had invited him, and he had promised to come, yet I doubted whether he would keep his word, especially as it struck half past seven before I saw any thing of him. Indeed, I should have rejoiced if he had not come at all; for then I could have said he is a wholly perverse, wrong-headed man, who loves the theatre better than his dearest friend, and whom nothing can turn aside from his obstinate partiality. But did I not make it up to you? have I not shown you fine things?” These words alluded to the new novel.
We talked of Schiller’s “Fiesco,” which was acted last Saturday. “I saw it for the first time,” said I, “and have been thinking whether those extremely rough scenes could not be softened; but I find very little could be done without spoiling the character of the whole.”
“Yes, that can never be done,” replied Goethe. “Schiller often talked with me about the possibility of doing it; for he himself could not endure his first plays, and would never have them brought on the stage while we had the direction; but we were in want of pieces, and would willingly have fitted those three powerful firstlings for our purpose. But we found it impossible; all the parts were too closely inwrought one with another; so that Schiller himself despaired of accomplishing it.”
“’Tis pity,” said I; “for, notwithstanding all their roughness, I love them a thousand times better than the soft, weak, forced, and unnatural pieces of later writers. A sublime intellect and character is felt in every thing of Schiller’s.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “Schiller might do what he would, he could not make any thing which would not come out far greater than the best of these playwrights. If he only cut his nails, he showed his superiority to these gentlemen.” We laughed at this remark.
“But I have known persons,” continued he, “who could not be at peace about those first dramas of Schiller.
“One summer, at a bathing place, I was walking through a very secluded, narrow path, which led to a mill. There Prince —— met me, and, as, at the same moment, some mules, laden with meal sacks, came up to us, we were obliged to step into a small house that stood by the way. Here, as is the fashion of this prince, we were immediately plunged into discourse about all divine and human things, and, Schiller’s ‘Robbers’ being mentioned, the prince expressed himself thus:—
“‘Had I been God,’ said he, ‘on the point of making this world, and could have foreseen at that moment that Schiller’s” Robbers” would be written in it, I would not have made the world.’ What say you to that? Here was a distaste which went pretty far, and could hardly be explained.”
“The younger people,” said I, “and especially the students, would scarcely sympathize with him. The most excellent, ripest pieces of Schiller and others may be acted, and draw few young people, or none, at the theatre; hut let them give Schiller’s Robbers,’ or ‘Fiesco,’ and’ the house would be filled by students alone.
“That,” said Goethe, “was so fifty years ago, as it is now, and probably will be fifty years hence. Young people will best enjoy what a man has written in his youth; nor need we think that the world makes such progress in culture or good taste that youth itself has get beyond that era of rudeness. If the world does improve on the whole, yet youth must always begin anew, and go through the stages of culture from the beginning. This no longer irritates me.”
After some conversation about a novel which Goethe had lately been writing, he said, “I am glad you like it. Schiller and Humboldt, to whom I detailed the plan, could see no promise in it, as indeed they could not appreciate the capabilities of such a subject. The poet alone knows what charms he is capable of giving to his subject. It is best never to ask any body if you wish to write any thing. If Schiller had asked me about his ‘Wallenstein,’ I should surely have advised him against it; for I could never have dreamed that, from such a subject, so admirable a drama could be made. Schiller was equally opposed to my using hexameters. He advised me to take eight-line stanza for my ‘Hermann and Dorothea;’ yet he was wrong, for such rhymes would have constrained me in that careful delineation of the localities on which so much depends.”
Other single tales and novels of the Wanderjahre were talked of; and it was observed that each had distinct character and tone. “That,” said Goethe, “is because I went to work like a painter who for certain subjects shuns certain colors, and puts upon his palette such as he is likely to want. If he has in hand a morning landscape, he rubs a great deal of blue, and but little yellow. But, if he is to paint an evening scene, he has a great deal of yellow, and scarce any blue. I prepared in the same way for my different productions.”
I expressed admiration at the fidelity in details of scenery.
“I have,” said Goethe, “never observed Nature with a view to my poetical productions; but, because my early drawing of landscapes, and my studies in after years led me to constant, close observation of natural objects, I have gradually learned Nature by heart eyes in the minutest details, so that, when I, as a poet, need any thing, it is at my command; and I cannot easily sin against truth in my descriptions. Schiller had no such knowledge of Nature. The localities of Switzerland, which he used in ‘William Tell,’ were all related to him by me; but his wonderful intellect could make such second-hand views look like reality.”
“But his proper productive talent lay in the ideal; and there it may be said he has scarcely his equal in German or other literatures. He has almost every thing that Lord Byron had; but Lord Byron was superior in knowledge of the world. I wish Schiller had known Lord Byron’s works, I wonder what he would have said to so congenial a mind.”
“Did Byron publish any thing during Schiller’s life?”
I could not say with certainty. Goethe took down the “Conversations Lexicon.,” and read the article on Byron, making many hasty remarks as he did so. He found that Byron had published nothing before 1807, and thus that Schiller could have seen nothing of his.
“Through all Schiller’s works,” continued Goethe, “goes the idea of freedom, though this idea assumed a new shape as Schiller advanced in his culture and became another man.
“In his youth it was physical, in his later life it was ideal freedom, that engaged his thoughts. Now, every man has freedom enough, if he could only satisfy himself, and knew what he is fit for. What avail us a superfluity of freedom which we cannot use? You see this chamber, and the next, in which you, through the open door, see my bed. Neither of them is large; and they are by necessary furniture, books, manuscripts, and works of art, made narrower; but they are enough for me. I have lived in them all winter, scarce entering my other rooms. Of what use has been my spacious house, and the liberty of going from one room to another?”
“If a man has freedom enough to live healthy, and work at his craft, he has enough; and each man can, easily obtain this amount of freedom. Then none of us are free, except under certain conditions, which we must fulfil. The citizen is as free as the nobleman, if he will but restrain himself within the limits which God appointed by placing him in that rank. The nobleman is as free as the prince; for, if he will but observe a few ceremonies at court, he may feel himself his equal Freedom consists not in refusing to recognize any thing above us, but in knowing how to respect what is above us; for, by respecting it, we raise ourselves to it, and make manifest that we bear within ourselves the idea of what is higher, and are worthy to be on a level with it.
“I have on my journeys met merchants from the north of Germany, who fancied they showed themselves my equals by rudely seating themselves next me at table. That was not the way; but they might have become so, if they had known how to value and treat me properly.
“The eager interest of Schiller’s youthful years in physical freedom was caused partly by the structure of his mind, but still more from the stern control which he endured at the military school. In later days, when he had enough of this kind of freedom, he passed over to the ideal; and I might almost say that this was the cause of his death, since it led him to make demands on his physical nature which were too much for his strength.
“The Grand Duke destined for Schiller, when he was established here, an income of one thousand dollars yearly, and offered to give him twice as much in case he should be hindered by sickness from working, Schiller declined this last offer, and never availed himself of it. ‘I have talents,’ said he, ‘and must help myself.’ As his family enlarged of late years, he was obliged, for a livelihood, to write two dramas yearly; and to accomplish this, he forced himself to write days and weeks when he was unwell. He would have his talents obedient at all times and seasons. He never drank much; he was very temperate; but, in such hours of bodily weakness, he was obliged to sustain himself by the use of spirituous liquors. This habit not only injured his health, but also his productions: the faults which some wise heads find in his works proceed, I think, from this source. All the passages which they blame may be styled pathological passages; for they were written on those days when he had not strength to do his best. I have great respect for the categorical imperative. I know how much good may proceed from it; nevertheless, this ideal freedom, if carried too far, leads to no good.”
I went, at half past eight this evening, to Goethe, and staid with him an hour. He showed me some new poems in French, by Mademoiselle Gay, which he highly praised.
“The French,” said he, “make out their case so clearly, that it is well worth while to look after them. I have lately been trying to become acquainted with the present state of French literature; and, if I succeed, shall express the result. It is very interesting to observe how the same elements are now at work with them, which we went through with long ago.”
“What says your excellency to Beranger, and the author of ‘Clara Gazul?’”
“Those,” he replied, “are great geniuses; who have their foundation in themselves, and keep free from the conventional modes of thinking of their time.”
“I am glad to hear you say this,” said I, “for I have had a similar feeling about them.”
The conversation turned from French to German literature. “I will show you something,” said Goethe, “that will be interesting to you. Give me one of those two volumes which lie before you. Solger is no doubt known to you.”
“Surely,” said I, “his translation of Sophocles, no less than his preface, gave me long since high opinion of him.”
“You know he has been dead some years,” said Goethe; “and this is a collection of the writings and letters he left. He does not shine in his philosophical inquiries, which he has given us in the form of Platonic dialogues; but his letters are admirable. In one of them, he writes to Tieck upon the Wahlverwandtschaften, and I wish to read it to you; for it would not be easy to say any thing better about that romance.”
He read me these excellent remarks, and we talked them over point by point, admiring the dignified character of his views, and the logical sequence of his reasoning. Although Solger confessed that the facts of the “Elective Affinities” had their germ in the nature of all characters, yet he blamed that of Edward.
“No wonder,” said Goethe, “he cannot endure Edward. I myself cannot endure him, but was obliged to make him such a man in order to bring out my facts. He is, besides, true to nature; you find many such people in the higher ranks, who, like him, substitute selfish obstinacy for character.
“High above all, Solger placed the Architect; because, while all the other persons of the romance show themselves loving and weak, he alone remains strong and free; and the beauty of his character appears in this, that he not only does not share the errors of the other characters, but the poet has made him so noble, that he could not even understand them.”
We were much pleased with this remark.
“That is really fine,” said Goethe.
“I have,” said I, “felt the importance and loveliness of the Architect’s character; but I had never remarked that he was by nature incapable of those bewilderments of passion.”
.
“No wonder that you have not remarked it,” said Goethe, “for I myself never remarked it while I was creating him; yet Solger is right—such is the basis of his character.
“These remarks,” continued he, “were written in the year 1809. I should have been much cheered to have heard so kind a word about the ‘Elective Affinities,’ for, at that time, and later, not many pleasant remarks have been vouchsafed me about that romance.
“I see from these letters, that Solger was much attached to me; and, in one of them, he complains that I return no answer about the ‘Sophocles’ which be sent me. Good Heavens! if they could but know my situation, they would not wonder at that. I have known great lords, to whom many presents were sent, and who had certain formulas and phrases prepared, in which they wrote letters to hundreds, all alike throughout; but I never could do so. If I could not say to each man something distinct and appropriate to the occasion, I preferred not writing to him at all. I esteemed superficial phrases unworthy of my use, and thus have failed to answer many excellent men to whom I would willingly have written. You see yourself, bow it is with me; how messages and despatches are constantly flowing in upon me from every side; and you must confess it would occupy more than one man’s life to answer all these, in ever so careless a way. But I am sorry about Solger; he was an admirable being, and deserved, better than most, a friendly response.”
Goethe told me of a foreigner, who had been writing to him, and talks of translating several of his works.
“’Tis a good man,” said Goethe, “but, as to literature, I must rank him with the tribe of mere Dilettanti. He does not yet know German at all, and is already talking of the translations he will make, and of the portraits which he will prefix to them.
“That is always the way with the Dilettanti; they have no idea of the difficulties which lie in an undertaking, and are always full of some plan for which they have no faculty.”
At seven o’clock I carried the manuscript of the novel and a copy of Beranger to Goethe. I found him engaged with M. Soret in conversation upon modern French literature. It was observed how much these modern writers had learned of versification from De Lille. Soret, being born a Genevese, does not speak German fluently; and, as Goethe talks French very well, the conversation was carried on in that language, except when I said, now and then, something in German. I gave my “Beranger” to Goethe, who wished to read his admirable chansons again. Sorel thought that the portrait, which was prefixed to the poems, was not a good likeness. Goethe was much pleased to have this beautiful copy in his hands.
“These songs,” said he, “are perfect, especially when you look at the burden, without which they would be almost too earnest, too intellectual and epigrammatic, for songs. Beranger reminds me ever of Horace and Hafiz, who stood in the same way above their times, satirizing and playing with vices and follies; but; because Beranger himself was born in a low station, the licentious and common are not very hateful to him; indeed, he shows a sort of partiality for them.”
Many similar reamarks were made upon Beranger, and other French writers of the time, till M. Soret went to Court. I remained alone with Goethe.
A sealed packet lay upon the table. Goethe laid his hand upon it. “This,” said he, “is ‘Helena,’ which I am about to send to Cotta.”
I felt, at these words, more than I could say. I felt the importance of the moment; for, as when a newlybuilt vessel puts to sea, and we feel that we know not what revolutions of destiny it must encounter—so with the creation of a great master, thus going forth into the world to do its work through many times, to produce and to undergo manifold destinies.
“I have,” said Goethe, “till now, been always finding little things, which I wished to add or alter; but I must finish now; and I am glad it is going to press, and that I shall be left at liberty to turn my mind to some other object. Let it live out its proper destiny. My comfort is, that the general culture of Germany stands at an incredibly high point; so that I need not fear that such a production should long remain misunderstood and ineffectual.”
“There is a whole antiquity in it,” said I.
“Yes,” said Goethe, “the philologists will find matter for their handling.”
“I have no fear,” said I, “about the antique part; the detail, the unfolding of individuals, is so thorough; each personage saying just what ‘he should. But the modern romantic part is very difficult; half the history of the world is there; your material is so rich that you can only indicate what is to be said upon it, and the reader’s powers are severely taxed.”
“Yet,” maid Goethe, “all has sensuous life, and, on the stage, would satisfy the eye. More I did not wish. If only the crowd of spectators take pleasure in what is obvious, the initiated will detect the higher meaning. Such has been the cue with the Magic Flute,’ and other things of that sort.”
“There is no precedent,” said I, “in the records of the stage, for beginning a piece as a tragedy, and ending it as an opera.”
“The part of Helena,” said Goethe, “ought to be played by two great female artists; for we seldom find that a fine vocalist has also the talents of a tragic, actress.”
“Would we could find a great composer for it!” said I.
“We want one,” said Goethe, “who, like Meyerbeer, has lived so long in Italy, that he combines the Italian art and manner with his German nature. Such a one would be hard to find, but I do not trouble myself; I rejoice only that I am rid of it. I congratulate myself that I did not permit the Chorus again to descend into the lower world, but rather dispersed them to the elements on the cheerful surface of the earth.”
“That is a new sort of immortality,” said I.
We talked over the title which should be given to his late novel. Many were proposed, but none seemed exactly suitable.
“We will call it ‘The Novel,’” said Goethe; “for what is a novel but a peculiar, and as yet unheard of, adventure? This is the proper meaning of this name; and many which in Germany have assumed the title of novels, are narratives merely. The title is used in its proper sense in the Wahlverwandtschaften.”
“If one thinks rightly,” said I, “a poem always rises in the mind without a title, and is what it is without a title; so that the name does not belong to the thing.”
“It does not belong to it,” said Goethe; “the ancient poems bad no title; this is a custom of modern times, which also have given titles to ancient poems. Indeed, since the diffusion of knowledge, it has become necessary to give name to every thing, in order to keep literature distinct in the mind.”
He showed me a translation of a Servian poem, by M. Gerhard. I read it with great pleasure. The poem was very beautiful, and the translation so simple and clear that the reader was never disturbed in his contemplation of the subject. The poem was called “The Prison Key.” I will say nothing here of the narrative, except that the close seemed to me abrupt, and rather dissatisfying.
“That is the best part of it,” said Goethe, “since, thereby, a sting is left in the heart, and the reader is excited to image to himself all the possibilities that might follow from what he has heard. The close leaves behind material for a whole tragedy, but of a sort of which we have many. What is represented in the poem, on the contrary, is equally new and beautiful; and the poet is very wise to finish only this part, and leave the rest to the reader. I would willingly insert the poem in Kunst und Alterthum. but it is too long; therefore, I have begged these others from Gerhard, which I shall put into the next number.”
Goethe read first the song of the old man who loves a young maiden, then the woman’s drinking song, and finally that animated one beginning “Dance for us, Theodore.” He read them admirably, and each in a peculiar lone and manner. It would not be easy to hear any thing more perfect. “Gerhard,” said I, “ought to be praised for having in each instance chosen the most appropriate versification and burden, and has done each in so graceful and masterly a manner that we can conceive of nothing finer.” “How much,” said Goethe, “has technical practice done for- such a genius as Gerhard’s; and ii is fortunate for him that he has no properly literary profession, but one that daily instructed him in practical life. He has travelled much in England and other countries; and his tendency to observe what is actual has given him, from this circumstance, many advantages over our book-learned young poets.
“If he would confine himself to making good translations, his success would be invariable; but original inventions make much greater demands.”
Some reflections being made upon the productions of our young poets, it was remarked that scarce one of them had given us an example of good prose. “That is very natural,” said Goethe; “he who would write prose must have something to say; but he who has nothing to say can make verses and rhymes; for one word gives the other, till at last you have before you what in fact is nothing, yet looks as if it were something.”
I dined with Goethe. “Since I saw you,” said he, “I have read many and various things; among which I a Chinese romance has occupied and interested me most of all.”
“Chinese romance!” said I; “that is indeed something quite out of the way.”
“Not so much as you think,” said Goethe; “the Chinamen think, act, and feel almost exactly like us; and we should feel perfect congenial/ty with them, if all they do were not more clear, more pure and decorous than with us.
“With them all is well contrived, citizen-like, with out great passion or poetic flight; in these respects, much resembling my ‘Hermann and Dorothea,’ as well as the English romances of Richardson, They differ from us in another way. Among them, external nature 1s always associated with the human figures. You always hear the goldfishes plashing in the pond, and the birds singing on the bough; the day is always serene and sunny, the night always clear. There is much talk about the moon, but its light does not alter the landscape; because it is as clear as that of day itself; and the interior of the houses is as neat and elegant as their pictures. For instance, ‘I heard the lovely maidens laughing, and, when I came where they were, I found them sitting on cane chairs.’ There a single touch gives you the prettiest situation. Ideas of great elegance and lightness are associated with cane chairs. Then you find an infinite number of legends turned almost like proverbs; as, for instance, of a maiden who was so light and graceful, and her feet so delicate, that she could balance herself on a flower without bending it; and then one of the young men so excellent and brave, that, in his thirtieth year, he had the honor to talk with the Emperor; then of two-lovers who showed great purity during a long acquaintance, and, being on one occasion obliged to pass the night in the same chamber, conversed till morning without ever once approaching one another.
“And innumerable other legends, all turning upon what is moral and proper. ’Tis this severe habit of regulation in every thing which has sustained the Chinese Empire for thousands of years past, and will for thousands to come.
“I find a remarkable contrast to this Chinese romance in the ‘Chansons de Beranger,’ which have, almost every one, some immoral or licentious subject, and which would be extremely odious to me, if managed by a genius inferior to Beranger. He, however, has made them not only tolerable, but pleasing. Is it not remarkable, that the subjects of the Chinese poets should be so thoroughly moral, and those of the most distinguished French poet of the present day be exactly the contrary?”
“Such a talent as Beranger’s,” said I, “would find no room in moral subjects.”
“You are right,” said Goethe; “the very perversions of his time have revealed and developed his better nature.”
I asked whether the Chinese romance of which he spoke were one of their best.
“By no means,” said ‘Goethe; “the Chinese have thousands of them, and had already, when our forefathers were still living in the woods.
“I am more and more convinced that poetry is the universal possession of mankind, revealing itself in every place, and at all times, in hundreds of men. One makes it a little better than another, and swims upon the tide a little longer than another,—that is all. Matthisson must not think he is all, nor must I think that I am all; but each must say to himself that the gift of poetry is by no means rare, and that nobody need give himself airs because he has written a good poem.
“But, really, we Germans are very likely to make this pedantic mistake, if we do not take heed to look beyond the narrow circle which surrounds us. I therefore gladly make excursions to other countries, and advise every one to do the same. National literature is now rather an unmeaning term; the epoch of World literature is at hand, and each one must strive to hasten its approach. But, while we know how to value what is foreign, we must not fix our attention on any thing in particular, as the only pattern and model. We must not think the Chinese are a model, or the Servian, or Calderon, or the Nibelungen. If we want examples, we had best return to the ancient Greeks, in whose works the beauty of manhood is constantly represented. All the rest we must look at historically, appropriating what is good in them, so far as we can use it.”
The bells of passing sledges here allured us to the window, as we expected that the long procession, which went out to Belvidere this morning, would return about this time.
Goethe, meanwhile, continued his instructive conversation. We talked of Alexander Manzoni; and he told me that Count Reinhard, not long since, saw Manzoni at Paris, where he, as a young author of celebrity, has been well received in society, and that he was now living pleasantly on his estate in the neighborhood of Milan, with a young family and his mother.
“Manzoni,” continued he, as wants nothing except to know what a good poet he is, and what rights belong to him as such. He has quite too much respect for history, and is always adding to his pieces notes, to show how faithful he has been to its details; yet, though his facts may be historical, his characters are no more so than my Thomas and Iphigenia. No poet has ever known those historical characters which he has painted; if he bad, he could scarcely have made use of them. He knows what effects he wishes to produce, and models his characters accordingly. If I had made Egmont, as in history, the father of a dozen children, his light-minded proceedings would be altogether absurd. I needed an Egmont more in harmony with his own actions and my poetic views; and this is, as Clara says, my Egmont.
“‘Why should there be poets, if they only repeated the record of the historian. The poet must go further, and give us, if possible, something higher and better. All the characters of Sophocles bear the stamp of that great poet’s lofty soul. ’Tis the same in Shakspeare’s characters, and right with both. Shakspeare, indeed, makes his Romans Englishmen; and there too he was right; for otherwise his nation would not have understood him.
“Therefore were the Greeks so great, because they looked less to fidelity to historic facts than to the management of them by the poet. We have a fine example in Philoctetes, which subject has been taken up by all three of the great tragedians, and by Sophocles, the last and best. His drama has, fortunately, come down to us entire, while of those of Eschylus and Euripides, we have only fragments, although sufficient to show how they have managed the subject. If I had but time, I would restore these pieces, as I did the Phaeton of Euripides; it would be to me no unpleasant or useless task.
“The problem of this subject at first seems easy to solve, namely, to bring Philoctetes, with his bow, from the island of Lemnos. In the manner of doing this, the power of poetical invention is to be displayed. Ulysses must fetch him; but shall he be known by Philoctetes or not? and if not, bow shall he be disguised? Shall Ulysses go alone, or have companions, and who shall they be? Eschylus gave him no companion; in Euripides, it is Diomed; in Sophocles, the son of Achilles. Then, in what situation are they to find Philoctetes? Shall the island be inhabited or not? and, if inhabited, shall any sympathetic soul have received him or not? And so with a hundred other things, which are all at the discretion of the poet, giving him an opportunity to show superior tact and taste. Let the poet look to this, and be will not need a subject which has never been used before; neither to look to South and North for unheard-of adventures, which are often barbarou11 enough, and merely impress as adventures. To give dignity lo a simple subject, by a masterly way of treating it, demands intellect and genius, such as we rarely find.”
The conversation now turning upon other subjects, Goethe made this remark:—“To purify and to improve, by filling out an invention, is often right md profitable; but to be remarking and carrying further what has once been well made, as Sir Walter Scott, for instance, has done about my Mignon, whom he, besides her other peculiarities, makes deaf and dumb,—this sort of alteration I cannot praise.”
Goethe told me about a visit, which the Crown Prince of Prussia had been making him, in company with the Grand Duke. “Also,” said he, “the Princes Charles and William of Prussia were with me this morning. The Crown Prince and Grand Duke staid nearly three hours; and we talked about many things, which gave me opportunity to see the intellect, taste, knowledge, and superior way of thinking, of these young princes.”
Speaking of Wolf’s theory about Homer, he said—
“Wolf has destroyed Homer, but could not injure the poem, which has the miraculous power of the Valhalla heroes, who, if hewn to pieces in the morning, came, sound in body and limb, to the noon-day banquet.”
Goethe scolded about the critics who cannot be satisfied with Lessing, but make unjust demands upon him. “When people,” said he, “compare the pieces of Lessing with those of the ancients, and call them paltry and -miserable, what do they mean? Let them rather pity the extraordinary man who lived in a time too poor to afford him better materials; pity .him, because he found nothing better to do than to meddle wi.th Saxon and Prussian transactions in his ‘Minna.’ His polemical turn, too, was the fault of his time. In ‘Emilia Galeotti,’ he vents his pique against princes; in ‘Nathan,’ against priests.”
I told Goethe that I lately had been reading Winckelmann upon the imitation of Greek works of art, and I confessed that it often 11eemed to me that Winckelmann was not perfectly clear about his subject.
“You are quite right,” said Goethe; “we often find him merely groping, yet he never fails to have a valuable object in view. He is like Columbus, when he had not yet discovered the new world, yet bore in his mind a presentiment of its existence. We learn nothing by reading him, but he helps to become something.
“Meyer has gone further, and has carried the knowledge of art to its highest point. His history of art is an immortal work; but he would not have become what he is, if, as a youth, he bad not formed himself on Winckelmann, and walked in the path which Winckelmann pointed out.
“Thus you see once again the advantage of having a great predecessor, and the profit of knowing how to avail yourself of his labors.”
I went this morning to Goethe about one o’clock, as he had invited me to take a drive with him before dinner. We took the road to Erfurt: the weather was beautiful; the corn-fields on both sides of the way refreshed the eye with the liveliest green. Goethe seemed in his feelings gay and young as the early spring, but in his words old in wisdom.
“I must ever repeat it,” he began, “the world could not exist, if it were not so simple. This ground has been tilled a thousand years, yet its powers remain ever the same; a little rain, a little sun, and each spring it grows green again.”
He looked some time over the meadows, then, turning again to me, continued thus on other subjects:—
“I have been reading something singular,—the letters of Jacobi and his friends. It is a remarkable book, and you must read it, not to learn any thing from it, but to take a glance into a state of education and literature of which people now have no idea. We see interesting men, but they do not act in the same direction and for common interests; each one takes his own way, without sympathizing at all in the exertions of others; they are like billiard balls, which run blindly by one another on the green cover, and, if they come in contact, it is only to recede so much the farther from one another.”
I smiled at this excellent simile. I asked about the persons in question, and Goethe named them to me, with some distinctive remark about each.
“Jacobi was a born diplomatist, a handsome man of slender figure, elegant and noble mien, who, as an ambassador, would have been perfectly in his place; as a poet, a philosopher, he had great deficiencies.
“His relation to me was peculiar, He loved me personally, without sympathizing with, or even approving my efforts; only the sentiment of friendship bound us together. ‘But the beauty of my connection with Schiller was, that we found the strongest bond of union in our exertions to reach a common aim, and had no need of what is commonly called friendship.”
I asked whether Lessing took part in this correspondence.
“No,” said he, “but Herder and Wieland did. Herder, however, did not enjoy such connections; he was too high-minded not to detect their hollowness in the long run. Hamann, too, had a tone of superiority with these people.
“Wieland, as usual, appears in these letters cheerful and at home; caring for no opinion in particular, he was adroit enough to take a part in all. He was like a reed, moved hither and thither by the wind of opinion, yet always adhering firmly to its root.
“My personal relation to Wieland was always very pleasant, especially in those earlier days when he belonged to me alone. His little tales were written at my suggestion; but, when Herder came to Weimar, Wieland was false to me. Herder, whose powers of personal attraction were very great, took him away from me.”
We now, turning homeward, saw towards the ea.st many rain-clouds shading one into another.
“These clouds,” said I, “threaten to descend as rain each moment. Do you think they would dissipate if the barometer rose?”
“Yes,” said he, “they would be rent and shriveled at once. So strong is my faith in the barometer, that I maintained, even in the night of the great inundation of Petersburg, had the barometer risen, the waves must have receded.
“You, perhaps, like my son, believe that the moon influences the weather, and I do not blame you; the moon is so important an orb, that we must ascribe to it great influences on our earth; but the change of the weather, the rise and fall of the barometer, are not affected by the changes of the moon; they are purely telluric.
“I think of the earth and her atmosphere as, a great living being, always engaged in inspiration and expiration. If she draws in her breath, then draws she the atmosphere to her, so that, coming near her surfaces, it is condensed to clouds and rain. I call this state the affirmation of water, (Wasser-bejahung.) Should it continue an unusual length of time, the earth would be drowned; but she expires her breath again, and the watery vapors are pushed up, and so dissipated in the higher atmosphere, that not only the sun can pass through them, but the eternal darkness of infinite space seems a fresh blue. This state of the atmosphere I call the negation of water (Wasser-verneinung.) For, as under the contrary influences not only water comes profusely from above, but also the moisture of the earth cannot be dried and dissipated,—so under these not only no moisture comes from above, but that of the earth flies upwards; so that, if this should continue an unusual length of time, the earth, even if the sun did not shine, would be in danger of completely drying up.
“The thing is very simple, and I abide by what is simple and prevalent, without being disturbed by occasional deviations from the general rule. High barometer, dry weather, east wind; low barometer, wet weather, and west wind; this is the general rule by which I abide. Should wet clouds blow hither, when the barometer is high, and the wind east, or, if we have a clear sky, with a west wind, I do not disturb myself, nor lose my faith in the general rule; but merely observe how many collateral influences are to be allowed for, whose nature we do not yet understand.
“I will tell you something which will be of value to your future life. There is, in nature, an accessible and inaccessible. Be careful to discriminate, with due reverence, betwixt the two. He who cannot make this distinction torments himself, perhaps his life long, about the inaccessible, without ever coming near the truth. It is, indeed, hard to say where the one ends and the other begins. But he who is prudent will labor only on what he considers the accessible; and, while he traverses every part, and confirms himself on all sides of this region, he will win somewhat even from the inaccessible, while he must confess, that only a limited insight is possible1 in certain matters, and that nature has ever in-reserve, problems, which man has not the faculties capable of solving.”
We had returned before the dinner hour, and Goethe had time to show me a landscape, by Rubens. It represented a summer’s evening. On the left of the foreground, you saw field laborers going homewards; in the midst of the picture, a flock of sheep, following their shepherd to the hamlet; a little farther back, on the right, a hay-cart, which people were busy in loading; the horses, not yet put in, were grazing near; afar off, in the meadow and thickets, mares were grazing with their foals, and appearances indicated that they would remain there all night. Several villages and a town bordered the bright horizon of this picture, in which the ideas of activity and repose were combined in the most graceful manner.
The whole seemed to me put together with such truth, and the details painted with such fidelity, that I said, Rubens must have copied the picture from nature.
“By no means,” said Goethe, “so perfect a picture is never seen in nature. We are indebted, for its composition, to the poetic mind of the painter; but the great Rubens had such an extraordinary memory, that be carried all nature in his head, and she was always at his command, in the minutest particulars. Thence comes such truth in the whole, and in parts, that we think it must be copy from nature. No such landscapes are painted now-a-days. That way of feeling and seeing nature no longer exists. Our painters are wanting in poetry.
“Then our young geniuses are left to themselves; they want living masters, to initiate them into the mysteries of art. Much may be learned from the dead; but scarcely an insight into the secrets of their design and mode of execution.”
Frau and Herr Von Goethe came in, and we sat down to dinner. We chatted awhile on topics of the day, such as the theatre, balls, and the court; but soon we were led to subjects of more importance, and became deeply engaged in conversation on the religious doctrines of England.
“You ought, like me,” said Goethe, “to have been studying church history for filly years, to have any just notion of this. Observe bow the Mohammedans educate a votary. They give their young people, as religious foundation, this doctrine, that nothing can happen to man, except what was long since decreed by an overruling divinity.
“With this they are prepared and satisfied for a whole life, and scarce need any thing further.
“I will not inquire whether this doctrine is true or false, useful or pernicious, only observing that we all, without being taught, share this faith to some degree. ‘The ball on which my name is not written, cannot hit me,’ says the soldier in the battle-field; and how, without such a belief, could he maintain such courage and gayety, in the most imminent peril? What we are taught in our Christian law, ‘No sparrow falls to the ground without the consent of our Father,’ comes from the same source, intimating that there is a Providence, which keeps in its eye the smallest things, and without whose will and permission nothing can happen.
“Then the Mahommedans begin their instruction in philosophy, by affirming that nothing exists, which does not suppose its contrary. Thus they practise the minds of youth in detecting and evolving the opposite of every proposition; from which arises great adroitness in thinking and speaking.
“Truly, from such habits, doubt may arise as to what is truth; but this doubt will only incite the mind’ to those closer inquiries and experiments, in which alone man can find satisfaction.
“You see that nothing is wanting in this doctrine, and that we, with all our systems, have got no further; and that, generally speaking, no one can get further.”
“That the Greeks,” said I, made use of similar modes of instruction in philosophy, is obvious from their tragedy, which rests upon contradiction; as not one of the speakers ever maintains any opinion, without some other arguing, with equal dexterity, for the opposite side.”
“You are perfectly right,” said Goethe; “and there too is doubt, like that which is awakened in the observer or reader; and destiny alone, connecting itself with the moral side, leads to certainty at last.”
We rose from table, and Goethe took me with him into the garden, to continue our conversation.
“It is remarkable,” said I, “of Lessing, that he, in his theoretical writings, in the ‘Laocoon,’ for instance, never leads us directly to a result, but always takes us by the philosophical way of affirmation, counter affirmation, and doubt, before he will let us arrive at a sort of certainty. We are father occupied by the operation of thinking and seeking, than benefited by great views and great truths, suitable to excite our own powers of thought, and make our own powers productive.”
“Yes,” said Goethe; “Lessing himself said, that if God would give him truth, he would decline the gift, and prefer the labor of seeking it for himself.
“That philosophic system of the Mohammedans is a good measure, which we can apply to ourselves and others, lo ascertain the degree of spiritual progress which we have attained.
“Lessing, from his polemical nature, loved best the region of doubt and contradiction. Analysis is his province, as there his fine understanding could most aid him.
“You will find me wholly the reverse. I have always avoided contradiction, striven to dispel doubt by inward efforts, and uttered only the results of my mental processes.”
I asked Goethe which of the new philosophers he admired most.
“Kant,” said he, “stands undoubtedly highest; his doctrines .still continue to work, and have penetrated most deeply into our German education. He has done his work on you, although you have never read him; now you need him no longer, for you already possess what he could give yon; but if you wish, by and by, to read something of his, I recommend to you his ‘Critique on the Power of Judgment,’ in which he has written admirably upon rhetoric, tolerably upon poetry, but unsatisfactorily on the plastic arts.”
“Has your Excellency ever had any personal connection with Kant?”
“No,” he replied; “Kant has never taken notice of me; while my nature led me a way not unlike his. I wrote my ‘Metamorphoses of Plants,’ before I knew any thing about Kant; and yet is it wholly in his spirit. The separation of subject from object, the faith that each creature exists for its own sake, and that cork-trees do not grow, merely that we may have stoppers for our bottles,—this I share with Kant, and I rejoice to meet him on such ground. Afterwards I wrote Lehre von Versuch, which is to be regarded as criticism upon subject and object, and medium for both.
“Schiller was wont to advise me against the study of Kant’s philosophy. He said Kant could give me nothing; but he himself studied Kant with great zeal; and I, also, studied him, -and not without profit.”
While talking thus, we had been walking up and down the garden; the clouds had been darkening; it began to rain; and we were obliged to return to the house, where we continued our conversation for some time.
The family table was covered for five; the room was vacant and cool, which was very pleasant in this extreme heat. I went into the spacious room next the dining-ball, where are the worked carpet, and the colossal bust of Juno.
Goethe soon came in, and greeted me in his affectionate and cordial manner: he took a chair, and sat down by the window. “Do you also take a chair,” said he, “and let us have a little chat before the others come in.
“I am glad you have had an opportunity of bcoming acquainted here with Count Sternberg. He is now gone, and I have resumed my usual habits of activity and peace.”
“The appearance and manners of the Count,” said I, “were very imposing, and not less so the extent of his knowledge. Turn the conversation where you would, he was every where at home; always profound, masterly, and comprehensive. He is a remarkable man.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “he is a very remarkable man; and his influence and his connections are very extensive in this country. His Flora Subterranea has made him known as a botanist through all Europe; and he is not less distinguished as a mineralogist. Do you know his history?”
“No,” said I, “but I should be glad to hear any thing about him. I saw in him the nobleman; a man of the world, and, at the same time, of knowledge so various and profound, that I should like to understand how so much was effected.”
Then Goethe told me how the count, destined as a youth to the clerical station, began his studies at Rome; but, after Austria had taken back certain favorable promises, went to Naples, and so on. Goethe told me the circumstances of a life sufficiently interesting and important to adorn the Wanderjahre, but which I do not feel myself at liberty to repeat here. I greatly enjoyed the narrative, and thanked him with my whole soul.
The conversation now turned upon the Bohemian schools, and their great advantages, especially for a thorough æsthetic culture.
The ladies and young Goethe now came in, and we sat down to table. The conversation was gay and varied, but often turned upon the evangelical people of some cities in Northern Germany. It was remarked that these pietistical separations had destroyed the harmony of whole families.
I said that I could sympathize with such ills, having lost an excellent friend, because he could not convert me to his opinions. He was thoroughly convinced that good works are of no avail, and that man can win favor with the divinity only by the grace of Christ.
“According to the present course of the world, in conversing on such topics,” said Goethe, “all is one puddle; and perhaps none of you know whence it comes—but I will tell you.
“The doctrine of good works, namely, that man, by good actions, and founding beneficent institutions, can avoid the penalty of sin, and win the favor of God, is Catholic. But the reformers, out of opposition, rejected such a doctrine, and declared that man must seek solely to recognize the merits of Christ, and share in his grace, which really must lead to good works. But, now-a-days, all this is mingled together, and nobody knows whence a thing comes.”
I was thinking, though I did not freely express it, that various opinions in religious matters had always sown dissension among men, and that, indeed, the first murder had been introduced by a difference in the mode of worshipping God.
I said that I had just ‘been reading Byron’s “Cain,” and bad been particularly struck by the third act, and the manner in which the catastrophe was produced.
“Is it not admirable?” said Goethe. ‘“Its beauty is such as we shall not see a second time in the world.”
“Cain,” said I, “was at first under ban in England; put now every body reads it, and young English travellers carry usually a complete Byron with them.”
“It was folly,” said Goethe, “for, in fact, there is nothing in Cain, which is not taught by the English bishops themselves.”
The Chancellor was announced. He sat down with us at table. Goethe’s grandchildren, Walter and Wolfgang, came jumping. Wolf pressed close to the Chancellor.
“Bring,” said Goethe, “your Album, and show the Chancellor your Princess, and what Count Sternberg wrote for you.”
Wolf sprang up and brought the book. The Chancellor looked at the portrait of the Princess, and the verses which had been annexed by Goethe. He looked further in the book, and seeing Zelter’s handwriting, read aloud, Lerne gehorchen, (“Learn to obey.”)
“Those are the only reasonable words in the whole book,” said Goethe, laughing; “as, indeed, Zelter is always wise and dignified. I am now looking over his letters with Riemer; and they contain invaluable matter. Especially are the letters which he has written me on his journeys, of great worth; for he has, as a skilful architect and musician, the advantage, that he can never want interesting subjects for criticism. So soon as he enters a city, the buildings stand before him, and tell him all their merits and all their faults.
“The musical societies receive him at once, and show to the master’s practised eye their virtues and defects. If a short-hand writer could but have recorded his conversations with his musical scholars, we should possess something truly unique in its way. In such matters is Zelter great, and hits always the nail on the head.”
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