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
Towards evening, I met Goethe in the Park, returning from a ride. As he passed he beckoned to me to come and see him. I went immediately to his house, where I found Coudray; and the Chancellor came in presently. The conversation turned on political subjects—Wellington’s embassy to St. Petersburg, and its probable consequence, Capo d’Istria, &c.
We talked, too, of Napoleon’s times. Coudray showed us a drawing of the iron railing with which he intends to surround Wieland’s grave at Osmannstedt.
After the Chancellor and Coudray were gone, Goethe asked me to stay with him awhile. “For one who, like me, lived in two ages,” said he, “there is an oddity in this talk about statues and monuments. When one is erected in honor of any distinguished man, I seem already to see it cast down and trampled upon by the warriors of future days. Already I see Coudray’s iron railing about Wieland’s grave, shoeing the horses of future cavalry. Indeed, I may say that I have lived through a similar change in Frankfort. Wieland’s grave is much too near the Ilm; the stream in a hundred years will have so worn the shore by its sudden turn, that it will have reached the body.”
We had some good-humored jests about the terrible inconstancy of earthly things, and then, looking upon Coudray’s drawing, were led to praise the fine English pencil, so well adapted both to the delicate and strong strokes, that the thought is conveyed immediately to the paper, without the least loss. Goethe showed me a fine drawing, by an Italian master, of the boy Jesus with the doctors; then he showed me an engraving from a picture on this subject.
“I have lately been so fortunate,” said he, “as to buy many excellent drawings by celebrated masters, at a reasonable rate. Such drawings are invaluable; not only because they give, in its purity, the spiritual intention of the artist, but because they enable us to enter into the mood of his mind, in the hour of creation. From this drawing of the boy Jesus, and the temple, we perceive the great clearness, and still, serene resolution, in the mind of the artist. The arts of painting and sculpture have the great advantage that they are objective, and attract us, without violently exciting our feelings. Such a work either speaks to us not at all, or in a very decided manner; a poem makes a far more vague impression, exciting in each hearer different emotions, according to his age and capacity.”
“I have,” said I, “been reading, or late, the excellent romance of ‘Roderick Random,’ by Smollett. It gave me almost the same impression with a good drawing. It is a direct representation of the subject, with no touch of the sentimental; the reality of life stands before us as it is, often repulsive and detestable enough, yet, when made into a whole, giving a pleasant impression on account of the decided reality.”
“I have often heard the praises of ‘Roderick Random,’ and can well believe what you say of it, but have never read it. I should like to have you read Johnson’s ‘Rasselas,’ and tell me what you think of it.”
I promised to do so.
“In Lord Byron,” said I,” especially in ‘Don Juan,’ I find passages describing objects merely, and giving the same feeling with a good drawing.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “Lord Byron was great in that; his pictures have an air of careless reality, and are as lightly thrown off as if they were improvised, I know but little of ‘Don Juan,’ but I remember many such passages from his other poems, especially sea scenes, with a sail peeping out here and there, so full of life, that you seem to feel the sea-breeze blowing.”
“In his ‘Don Juan,’” said I, “I have particularly admired the representation of London, which his careless verses bring before your eyes. He is not very scrupulous whether his objects are poetical or not; but seizes and uses all just as they come before him; even the wigs in the hair-cutter’s window, and the men who take care of the street lamps.”
“Our German æsthetics,” said Goethe, “are always talking about poetical and unpoetical objects; nor are they from a certain point of view wrong; yet, at bottom, no object which the poet knows how to use is unpoetical.”
I remarked that Byron was very successful in his women.
“Yes,” said Goethe, “his women are good. Indeed, this is the only vase into which we moderns can pour our ideality; nothing can be done with the men. Homer has got it all away in Achilles and Ulysses, the bravest and most prudent of possible men.”
“I wonder,” said I, “that Lord Byron could dwell so long on bodily torture, as he must, to write the ‘Two Foscari.’”
“That,” said Goethe, “was Byron’s element; he was always a self-tormentor. Such subjects were his darling theme, as you see in all his works, scarce one of which has a cheerful subject. The management of this play (the ‘Foscari’) is worthy of great praise.”
“Admirable!” said I; “every word is strong, significant, and subservient to the aim. Indeed, generally speaking, I find no weak lines in Byron. I think ever I see him issuing from the sea, fresh, and full of creative power. The more I read him, the more I admire the greatness of his genius, and think you were quite right to present him with that immortal monument of love in ‘Helena.’”
“I could not,” said Goethe, “make any man the representative of the modern poetical era except him, who undoubtedly is to be regarded as the greatest genius of our century. He is neither classic nor romantic, but the reflection of our own day. He suited me in every respect, with his unsatisfied nature and his warlike tendency, which led to his death at Missolonghi. It were neither convenient nor advisable to write a treatise upon Byron; but I shall not omit to pay him honor at proper times.”
Goethe spoke further of ‘Helena.’ “I thought of a very different close,” said he, “at one time; but, afterwards, this of Lord Byron pleased me better. You observe the character of the chorus is quite destroyed by this song; until this time, in the antique fashion, it has never belied its girlish nature, but now of a sudden becomes nobly reflecting, and says things such as it never did nor could think.”
“Certainly,” said I, “I remarked it; but, since I have seen the double shadows of Rubens’s landscapes, and got a better insight into the idea of fiction, such things do not disturb me. These little inconsistencies are of no consequence, if they are stepping-stones to a higher beauty; since the song is to be sung, and there is no other chorus to sing it, let the girls do so.”
“I wonder,” said Goethe, laughing, “what the German critics will say! Will they have freedom and boldness enough to get over this? Understanding comes in the way of the French; they cannot believe that fancy has its own laws, to which the understanding does not and can not penetrate.
“Fancy has not much power where it does not originate things which must ever be problems to the understanding. It is this which separates poetry from prose, in which understanding always is, and always should be, at home.”
I now took leave, for it was ten o’clock. We had been sitting without a light; the clear summer evening shining from the north over Ettersberg.
I found Goethe alone, looking at the casts which had been taken from the Stosch cabinet, “My Berlin friends,” said he, “ have had the kindness to send me this whole collection to examine: I am already acquainted with most of these fine things; but now l see them in the instructive arrangement of Winckelmann. I use his description, and consult him in cases where I myself am doubtful.”
The Chancellor came in. He told us a piece of news from the Gazette about the keeper of a menagerie, who had killed a lion out of desire to taste his flesh.
“I wonder,” said Goethe, “he did not rather try an ape; that would be a tender, relishing morsel.”
We talked of the hatefulness of these beasts, remarking that they were so much the more unpleasant, as they were more like men.
‘“I do not understand,” said the Chancellor, “how princes can keep these animals near them, and, indeed, take pleasure in them.”
“Princes,” said Goethe, “are so much tormented by disagreeable men, that they regard these more disagreeable animals as a means of balancing the other impressions. We common people naturally dislike apes and the screaming of paroquets, because we see them in circumstances in which they were not made. If we could ride upon elephants among palm trees, we should there find apes and paroquets quite in their place, perhaps pleasant; but, as I said, princes naturally must drive away one unpleasant thing with something still more unpleasant.”
The Chancellor turned the conversation on the present state of the opposition, and the ministerial party, at Paris, repeating, almost word for word, a speech, which an extremely bold democrat had made against the minister, in defending himself before a court of justice. We have reason once again to marvel at the memory of the Chancellor. There was much conversation upon this subject, and upon the censure of the press, Goethe showing himself, as usual, a mild aristocrat, and his friend taking his usual ground on the side of the people.
“I have no fears for the French,” said Goethe; “they stand upon such a height that intellect cannot be repressed. This law can have only a beneficent effect, as its limitations are directed only against personalities. An opposition which has no limits is a flat affair; but its limits oblige it to become intellectual, and this is a great advantage. To speak out an opinion directly and harshly is only excusable when that opinion is perfectly right; but a party, if only because it is a party, cannot be wholly in the right; therefore those indirect means in which the French have been such models are the best. I say to my servant, ‘John, pull off my boots,’ and he understands; but, if I wish the service from a friend, I must not speak so bluntly, but find some pleasant, friendly way to ask for this kind office. This necessity excites my mind; and, for the same reason, I like some restraint upon the press.
“The French have always had the reputation of being the most spiritual of nations, and they ought to keep it. We Germans tumble out our opinions without ceremony, and, have not acquired much skill in going round about.
“The parties at Paris would be still greater than they are, if they were more liberal and free, and understood each other better than they do. They stand upon a higher step, in the view of general history, than the English; the opposing powers of whose Parliament paralyze one another, and where the deeper insight of any individual can scarcely have fair play, as we see by Canning, and the many troubles which beset that great statesman.”
We rose to go, but Goethe was so full of life that the conversation was continued awhile standing. At last he bid us an affectionate farewell, and I walked home with the Chancellor. It was a beautiful evening, and we talked much of Goethe as we went; but, especially, we repeated his remark that an unlimited opposition soon becomes a flat affair.
I went, at eight o’clock this evening, to see Goethe, whom I found just returned from his garden.
“Do you see what lies there?” said he; “a romance, in three volumes; and from whom, think you? from Manzoni.”
I looked at the books, which were very handsomely bound, and inscribed to Goethe.
“I know nothing of him,” said I, “except his ode to Napoleon, which I lately read again in your translation, and have admired extremely. Each stanza is a picture.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “the ode is excellent; but who speaks of it in Germany? It might as well not have been translated, although it is the best poem which has been made upon the subject.”
Goethe continued reading the English newspapers, with which I had found him engaged when I came in. I took up that volume of Carlyle’s translation of “German Romance” which contains Musæus and Fouqué. This Englishman, who is so intimately acquainted with our literature, had prefixed to every translation a memoir and a criticism of the author. I read that upon Fouqué, and remarked with pleasure that the memoir showed much intellect and depth of thought, and the critical view was distinguished by great understanding, and tranquil, mild insight for poetic merits. At one time, the intellectual Englishman compares Fouqué to the voice of a singer, which has no great compass, and but few tones, but those few good and finely harmonized. To illustrate his meaning further, he says that Fouqué does not take, in the poetic church, the place of a bishop or dignitary of the first rank, but rather satisfies himself with performing well the duties of a chaplain.
While I had been reading, Goethe had gone into the back chamber. He sent for me to come to him there.
“Sit down,” said he, “and let us talk awhile. A new translation of Sophocles has just arrived. It reads well, and seems to be excellent; I will compare it with Solger. Now, what say you to Carlyle?”
I told him what I had been reading upon Fouqué.
“Is not that very good?” said Goethe. “Over the sea, also, there are discreet people, who can understand and treat us worthily.
“The Germans,” continued Goethe, “have good heads in other departments. I have been reading, in the Berlin Register, the criticism of an historian upon Schlosser, which is very great. The signature is Heinrich Leo, a person of whom I never heard, but about whom I must inquire. He stands higher than the French, which is much to say in an historical point of view. They stick too much by the real, and cannot get at the ideal, of which the German is in full possession. He has admirable views upon the castes of India. Much is said of aristocracy and democracy; but the whole affair is simply this: in youth, when we either possess nothing, or know not how to value the tranquil possession of any thing, we are democrats; but, when we, in a long life, have come to possess something of our own, we wish not only ourselves to be secure of it, but that our children and grandchildren should be secure of inheriting it. Therefore, we always Jean to aristocracy in our old age, whatever were our opinions in youth. Leo speaks with great discrimination upon this point.
“We are weakest in the æsthetic department, and may look long before we meet such a man as Carlyle. It is pleasant to see that the intercourse is now so close between the French, English, and Germans, that they one correct one another. This is the greatest use of a world-literature, which will show itself more and more.
“Carlyle has written a life of Schiller, and judged him throughout as it would be difficult for a German to judge. On the other hand, we perhaps appreciate Shakspeare and Byron better than the English themselves.”
“Let me announce to you,” was Goethe’s first salutation at dinner, “that Manzoni’s romance soars far above all which we possess of the kind. I need say to you nothing wore, except that the inmost, all which comes from the soul of the poet, is absolutely perfect; and that the outward, the drawing of localities, and ‘the like, is no way inferior. While reading, we are always passing from tenderness to admiration, and again from admiration to tenderness; you are always full of one of these powerful emotions. One can scarce do any thing finer. Not till this romance has Manzoni rightly shown what he is. In this we see his inmost being, which he had no opportunity to display in his dramatic works. I intend now to take up the best romances of Walter Scott,—perhaps Waverley, which I have never yet read,—and see how Manzoni compares with this great writer.
“Manzoni’s soul appears so elevated, that scarcely any thing can approach it. The fruit is perfectly ripe. In the management of details, he is as clear as the Italian heaven itself.”
“Has many marks of sentimentality?” said I. “Nowhere,” replied Goethe; “he has sentiment, but is perfectly free from sentimentality; his feeling of every situation is manly and genuine; but I will say no more to-day. I have not yet finished the first volume; by and by you shall hear more.”
When I came into Goethe’s room this evening. I found him reading Manzoni’s romance. I am in the third volume already,” said he, as he laid aside the book, as and am receiving many new thoughts. You know Aristotle says of tragedy, If good, it will excite fear.’ this is true, not only of tragedy, but of many other sorts of invention. You find it in my Gott und die Bayadere. You find it in good comedies also.”
“This fear may be of two sorts; it may exist in the shape of anxiety, (Bangigkeit,) or in that of alarm, (Angst.) The first feeling is awakened, when we see a moral evil threatening, and gradually overshadowing, the persons about whom we are interested, as in the Elective Affinities;’ but alarm, when we see them threatened with physical danger, as in Der Freyschutz. Manzoni is remarkably successful in making use of alarm, which he softens, at last, into emotion, and thus leads us to admiration. The feeling of alarm is necessarily caused by the circumstances, and will be excited in every reader; but that of admiration, being excited by the writer’s skill, belongs only to the connoisseur. What say you to my æsthetics? If I were younger, I would write somewhat upon this theory, though perhaps not so comprehensive a work as this of Manzoni.
“I am curious to know what the gentlemen of the ‘Globe’ will say to this romance. They have discrimination enough to perceive its excellences; and the whole tendency of the work would bring water to the mill of these liberals, although Manzoni has shown himself very moderate; but the French seldom give themselves up to a work with such simplicity as we; they cannot adapt themselves to the author’s point of view, but always find, even in the best, something which is not to their mind, and which the author ought to have done differently.”
Goethe then described to me some parts of the romance, in order to show me in what spirit it was written.
“Four things,” said he, “contribute especially to the excellence of Manzoni’s works. First, that he is so fine a historian, and, consequently, gives his inventions a depth and dignity which are not usually found in romances. Secondly, the Catholic religion is favorable to him, giving him many poetical relations, which he could not have had as a Protestant. Then, his day, being one of revolutionary ferment, is favorable to his writings; for, if he himself has not shared the troubles of such a period, he has seen his friends overtaken, often ruined by them. Fourthly, it is in favor of this romance, that the scene is laid in the charming country near Lake Como, which has been stamped on the poet’s mind, from youth upwards, till he knows it by heart. Thence arises also that distinguishing merit of the work its distinctness and wonderful accuracy in describing localities.”
When I asked for Goethe, about eight o’clock this evening, they said he had not yet returned from the garden. I found him in the Park, sitting on a bench in the shade of the lindens; his grandson, Wolfgang, at his side. He seemed glad to see me, and desired me to sit down by him. We had no sooner exchanged mutations, than the conversation again turned upon Manzoni.
“I told you lately,” Goethe began, “that the historian had been of great use to the romance-writer; but I find in the third volume, that the historical minuteness hurts the poetry. For. Signor Manzoni throws off, sometimes, his poetic drapery, and stands there in historic bareness. This happens in his descriptions of famine, war\ and pestilence; in themselves so repulsive, and now made insufferable by the circumstantial details of a dry chronicle.
“The German translator must seek to shun this fault; he must get rid of a large part of the war and famine, and two thirds of the plague; only leaving what is necessary to carry on the action. If Manzoni had had at his aide a friendly adviser, he might easily have shunned this fault; but he had, as an historian, too great a respect for reality. This is the reason of his putting what is left of the historical material in notes to his dramas. Here he could not get rid of his historical furniture in the same manner, and a part of his work is encumbered by it; but so soon as the persona of the romance come forward again, the poet reappears in all his glory, and compels us to our accustomed admiration.”
We rose and turned our steps to the house.
“You will hardly understand,” said Goethe, “how a poet like Manzoni, capable of so admirable compositions, could sin for a moment against the spirit of poetry. Yet the cause is simple, and it is this: Manzoni, like Schiller, was born a poet. Out times are so bad, that the poet can find no nature fit for his use, in the human life which surrounds him. To build himself up, Schiller seized on the two great subjects, philosophy and history; Manzoni, on history alone. Schiller’s ‘Wallenstein’ is so great, that there will be nothing like it of the same sort; yet you will find that his powerful helpers, history and philosophy, have injured various parts of the work, and prevented its being purely poetical. And so suffers Manzoni, from a too great load of history.”
“Your excellency,” said I, “speaks great things, and I am happy in hearing you.”
“Manzoni,” said Goethe, “helps us to good thoughts.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the Chancellor, who met us at the garden door. This welcome friend joined us, and we accompanied Goethe up the little stair, through the chamber of busts, into the long saloon, where the curtains were let down, and two lights burning on the table near the window. We sat down by the table, and Goethe and the Chancellor talked upon subjects of another nature.
I went with Goethe to Berka. We drove off soon after eight o’clock. It was a very beautiful morning. The road is up hill at first, and, as there was nothing in the scenery worth looking at, we talked on literary subjects. A well-known German poet had lately passed through Weimar, and shown Goethe his album.
“You would scarcely believe what weak stuff I found in it.” said Goethe; “all the poets write as if they were sick, and the whole world a lazaretto. All speak of the miseries of this life, and the joys of the other; and each malecontent excites still greater dissatisfaction in his neighbors. This is a sad abuse of poetry, which was given us to smooth away the rough places of life, and make man satisfied with the world and his situation. The present generation fears all genuine power, and is only at home and poetical amid weakness. I have found a good word to plague these gentlemen; I will call theirs the lazaretto poetry. The genuine Tyrtæus vein endows man with courage to endure the conflicts of life.”
Goethe’s words received my full assent. My attention was excited by an osier basket, with two handles, which lay at our feet in the carriage.
“I brought it,” said Goethe, “from Marienbad, where they have such baskets of all sizes, and am so accustomed to it that I cannot travel without it. You see when it is empty it can be folded close together, and takes up little room. It will, however, hold more than you would think. It is pliable, and yet so strong that you can carry the heaviest things in it.”
“It looks very picturesque, and even antique,” said I.
“You are right,” said Goethe; “it is like the antique, not only because so well adapted to its end, but because it has so simple and pleasing a form. We may indeed say that it is complete in its kind. It has been particularly useful to me in my excursions over the Bohemian Mountains. At present it contains our breakfast. If I had a hammer, I might have an opportunity to-day to knock oft’ a piece here and there, and bring it home full of stones.”
We had now reached the heights, and had a free lookout towards the hills behind which Berka lies. A little to the left we saw into the valley, in the direction of Hetschburg, where, on the other side of the Ilm, is a hill, which now turned towards us its shadowy side, and, on account of the vapors of the Ilm, which hovered before it, seemed blue to my eye. I looked at the same spot through my glass, and the blue was obviously diminished. I observed this to Goethe, “Thus you see,” said I, “what a part the subject plays with these objective colors; a weak eye asserts the gloom; a sharpened one drives the vapors away, or makes them fade.”
“Your remark is perfectly just,” said Goethe; a good spy-glass dispels the blue tint of the most distant mountains. The subject has, in all phenomena, far more importance than is supposed. Wieland knew this well when he was wont to say, ‘One could easily amuse people, if they were only amusable.’”
We laughed at the pleasant meaning of this saying. We had been descending the little valley, where the road passes over a wooden bridge with a roof, under which the rain torrents, which flow down from Hetschburg, had made a channel, which was at present dry. Highway laborers were using, about the bridge, some reddish sand-stones, which attracted Goethe’s attention. Perhaps a bow-shot over the bridge, where the road goes up the hill, which separates the traveller from Berka. Goethe bade the coachman stop.
“We will get out here,” said he, “and see whether our breakfast will not relish well in the open air.”
We got out, and looked about us. The servant spread a napkin upon a four-cornered pile of stones, such as usually lie by the road-side, and brought the osier basket from the carriage, out of which they took roast partridge, new wheaten rolls, and fresh cucumbers. Goethe cut a partridge, and gave me half; I ate, standing up and walking about. Goethe had seated himself on the corner of the heap of stones. The coldness of the stones, on which the night dew was still resting, must hurt him, thought I, and expressed my anxiety. Goethe, however, assured me it would not hurt him, and then I felt myself quite tranquil, regarding it as a new token of the inward strength he must feel. Meanwhile, the servants had brought a bottle of wine-from-the carriage, and filled for us.
“Our friend Schütze,” said Goethe, “is quite right to fly to the country every week; we will take pattern by him, and, if this fine weather continues, this shall not be our last excursion.”
I was rejoiced by this assurance.
I passed, afterwards, with Goethe, a most interesting day, partly in Berka, partly in Tonndorf. His communications, in which he was inexhaustible, were full of the finest thought; especially be talked much of the second part of “Faust,” on which he was just beginning to work in earnest; and I lament so much the more, that I find in my journal no further notes upon the day.
While we were still at table, Herr Seidel was announced, accompanied by the Tyrolese. The singers remained in the next room; we could see them perfectly through the open door, and their song was heard to advantage from that distance. Seidel sat down with us. These songs of the cheerful Tyrolese, with their peculiar burden, delighted us young people. Fraulein Ulrica and I were particularly pleased with the Strauss and Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen, and asked for a copy of them. Goethe was by no means as much delighted as we.
“Ask children and birds,” said he, “how cherries and strawberries taste.”
Between the songs they played national dances, on a sort of cithern, which was laid down on a rest, accompanied by a clear-toned German flute.
Young Goethe was called out. He returned and dismissed the Tyrolese. He sat down with us again. We talked of the great concourse of people who had come together from all quarters to see Oberon; so that at noon it was impossible to get a ticket. Young Goethe proposed that we should leave the table.
“Dear father,” said he, “our friends will wish to go early to the theatre this evening.”
Goethe thought such haste very unnecessary, as it was but just four o’clock; however, he made no opposition, and we scattered ourselves through the apartments. Seidel came to me and some others, and said softly, and with a troubled brow,
“You need expect no pleasure at the theatre; there will be no play; the Grand Duke is dead; he died on his journey hither from Berlin.”
A general shock went through the company. Goethe comes in; we dissemble, and talk of indifferent things. Goethe called me to the window, to talk about the Tyrolese, and the theatre, “You have my box,” said he, “and need not go to the theatre till six: stay after the others, that we may have a little chat.”
Young Goethe, meanwhile, was sending the guests away, that he might have time to break the news to his father before the return of the Chancellor, who had brought it to him. Goethe could not understand his son’s conduct, and seemed annoyed.
“Will you not stay for coffee?” said he; “it is only four o’clock.”
But they all declined; and I, too, took my hat.
“What, are you too going?” said he.
His son excused me, by saying I had something to do before going to the theatre. We went up stairs with Fraulein Ulrica, while young Goethe communicated the sad tidings to his father.
I saw Goethe late in the evening. As I opened the door of his chamber, I heard him sighing and talking to himself: be seemed to feel that an irreparable rent had been torn in his existence: he would lend an ear to no sort of consolation.
“I thought,” said be, “that I should depart before him; but God disposes as he thinks best; and all that we poor mortals have to do, is to endure, and hold ourselves upright, as we best may, and as long as we can.”
The Grand Duchess Mother received the melancholy news at her summer residence of Wilhelmsthal. The younger members of the family were in Russia. Goethe went soon to Dornburg, in order to withdraw himself from daily saddening impressions, and renew his activity amid other associations.
From France he had received new instigation lo continue his botanical researches; and this rural abode, where he was constantly surrounded by vines and flowers, was very favorable to such studies.
I visited him there, in company with his daughterin-law and grandchildren. He seemed very happy, and repeatedly expressed his delight at the beautiful situation of the Castle and gardens.
In fact, he had, from windows at such a height, an enchanting prospect. Beneath was the variegated valley, with the Saale meandering through the meadows. On the opposite side, toward the east, were wooded hills, over which the eye could pursue, into the distance, the retreating showers; and observe, to equal advantage, the eastern constellations and the rising sun.
“I enjoy here,” said Goethe, “day and night equally. Often before dawn I awake, and lie down by the open window, to enjoy the splendor of the three planets, which are at present to be seen together, and the gradual irradiation of the clouds. I pass almost the whole day in the open air, and hold spiritual communion with the tendrils of the vine, which say many good things to me, and of which l could tell you wonders. Also, I write once more poems which are not bad. Could it be permitted me, I would fain continue to live as I do now.”
Goethe returned to-day from Dornburg. He looked very well, and quite browned by the sun. He sat down almost immediately to dinner, in the chamber next the garden, whose doors stood open. Be told us of many visits and presents which he had received; and seemed to please himself with frequent light jests. Yet one who could look deeply into his feelings, could not but perceive a certain embarrassment, like one who returns into a situation girt about by manifold relationships, views, and requisitions.
During the first course, a message came from the Grand Duchess Mother, expressing her pleasure at Goethe’s return, and announcing that she should make him a visit the following Tuesday.
Since the death of the Grand Duke, Goethe had seen no member of the reigning family. He had, indeed, corresponded constantly with the Grand Duchess Mother, so that they had expressed their feelings upon their common loss; yet the personal interview could not but awake painful emotions. Neither had Goethe yet seen the young Duke and Duchess, nor paid his homage to the new rulers of the land. All this was before him now, which, if it could not disturb the accomplished man of the world, yet must hinder his genius from living on in its natural direction and full activity. Visits, too, threatened him from all countries. The meeting at Berlin of celebrated natural philosophers had set in motion many important personages, most of whom would take Weimar in their way. This must occasion whole weeks of disturbance, such as was always caused as Weimar, by visits in many ways so valuable; and all this Goethe foresaw, as he reëntered his own house. What made this worse was, that the fifth section of his works, which was to contain the Wanderjahre, had been promised for the press at Christmas. Goethe bad begun to work over this romance, which originally came out in one volume, melting so much new into the old, that it might appear in a new edition, as a work in three volumes.
Much is done, but also much to do. The manuscript has every where gaps in white paper, which are to be filled out. Here something is wanting to the exposition; here is to be found a suitable link to prevent the reader from perceiving that this is a collective work; here are fragments of great interest, some of which want a beginning, others an end; so that, altogether, there is much to do to the three volumes, to give the work attraction and gracefulness proportioned to its value.
Goethe had shown me this manuscript in the spring, and I had advised him to set aside all his other labors, and devote the summer to its completion. He had intended to do so; but the death of the Grand Duke had taken from him the tranquillity and cheerfulness necessary to such a composition, and he needed all his strength merely to sustain such a blow. Now, on his return, remembering how little time was left him for his work, he naturally felt much embarrassed by the disturbances which he foresaw.
Professor Abeken, of Osnabrück, had sent me, before the 28th of August, an enclosure, requesting me to give it to Goethe on his birth-day, and saying it related to Schiller, and would certainly give him pleasure. When he was speaking to-day of his birth-day presents, I asked him what that package contained.
“Something very interesting,” said Goethe, “and which really gave me great pleasure. An amiable lady, who once received Schiller at tea, conceived the happy idea of writing down all he said. She comprehended it well, and related it with accuracy, so that, on reading it after so long an interval, one is translated immediately into a situation which is now passed by with a thousand others as interesting, while the living spirit of this one only was caught and transferred to paper.
“Schiller appears here, as always, in perfect possession of his elevated nature. He seems as great at the tea-table as he would have done in a council of state. Nothing constrains him, nothing narrows him, nothing draws downward the flight of his thoughts. His great views are expressed freely and fearlessly. He was a true man, such as we should all be. We others are always in bondage to something. The persons, the objects that surround us, have their influence upon us. The tea-spoon constrains us, if it is of gold, instead of silver, as usual. And so, paralyzed by a thousand side-views, we do not succeed, if there is any thing great in our nature, in expressing it freely. We are the slaves of objects round us, and appear little or important according as these restrain or give us leave to dilate.”
He was silent. The conversation turned on other subjects; but I continued to meditate on these words, which had touched my inmost consciousness.
Mr. Hönninghausen, from Crefeld; a great merchant, and also very fond of natural philosophy,—a man enriched with various knowledge, both from travel and study,—dined with Goethe to-day.
He was returning from the Berlin assembly; and much was said on subjects of natural history, especially of mineralogy.
There was much talk also about the Vulcanists, and of the various ways by which men formed their opinions and theories upon nature. The great natural historians, and especially Aristotle, were mentioned, about whom Goethe spoke thus:—
“Aristotle has better observed Nature than any modem, but he was too rash in his inferences and conclusions. We must go to work slowly and indulgently (lasslich) with nature, if we would get any thing from her.
“When I had arrived at a conclusion in my inquiries, I did not expect that Nature would immediately confirm my opinion, but continued to test it by new observations and experiments, satisfied if she had the kindness occasionally to respond to my wishes. If she would not, then I took some other way to pursue her, through which, perhaps, I might find her more kindly disposed.”
To-day, at dinner, I talked with Goethe about Fouqué’s Säagerkrieg auf der Wartburg, which I had read, according to his wish. We agreed in this—that Fouqué had spent a life in studies connected with ancient German history, without drawing from them at last any valuable knowledge.
“From those old German gloomy times,” said Goethe, “we can obtain as little as from the national songs of the Servians, or other barbarians. We can read and be interested about them a while, but must a1 last cast them aside, and let them lie behind us. Generally speaking, a man is quite sufficiently saddened by his own passions and destiny; he need not make himself more gloomy, by looking into the darkness of barbaric early days. He needs enlightening and cheering influences, and must therefore tam to those eras in art and literature, during which remarkable men could obtain that degree of culture, which made them satisfied with themselves, and able to impart similar satisfaction to others.
“But if you would have a good opinion of Fouqué, read his Undine, which is really a most charming story. The materials are so excellent that I should scarcely say the writer had made all possible use of them; however, Undine will be sure to give you pleasure.”
“I have been unfortunate in the circumstances of my acquaintance with the most modem German literature,” said I. “I read the poems of Egon Ebert just after my first acquaintance with Voltaire, and, indeed, just after I had been reading Voltaire’s little poems addressed to individuals, which certainly belong to the best which he has ever written. And now, just as I was deeply engaged in Walter Scott’s ‘Fair Maid of Perth,’ the first work of this great writer which I had ever read, I am induced to put it aside, and busy myself with Fouqué.”
“Against these great foreigners,” said Goethe, “the modem German writers cannot keep their ground; but it is desirable that you should, by degrees, make the acquaintance of all writers, foreign and domestic, that you may see how the high culture, which the poet needs, is best to be obtained.”
Frau von Goethe came in at this moment, and sat down to the table with us.
“But,” continued Goethe, with animation, “do you not find Walter Scott’s ‘Fair Maid of Perth’ excellent? There is finish! there is a hand! What a clear plan for the whole, and in details no touch which does not conduce to the catastrophe! I do not know whether the dialogues or descriptions are the best:
“His scenes and situations remind me of the pictures of Teniers; in the plan they show the height of art. Individual figures have a speaking truth, and the least details show the pervading love of the artist for his work. How far have you read?”
“I have come,” said I, “to the passage where Henry Smith carries the pretty minstrel girl through the streets, and round about lanes, home; and when, to his great vexation, Proudfoot and Dwining met him.”
“Ah, that is excellent,” said Goethe; “that the obstinate and honest blacksmith should be brought at last, to take with him not only the suspicious maiden, but her little dog, is one of the finest things that are to be found in any romance. It shows an eye for human nature, to which the deepest mysteries lie open.”
“It was also,” said I, “an excellent idea to make the heroine’s father a glover, who has been, and must be, connected with the Highlanders by his trade in skins.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “a most admirable idea. From this circumstance spring the relations and situations most favorable for the whole book, and which, by this means, also obtain a foundation in reality, and thence an air of the most convincing truth. You find every wherein Walter Scott a remarkable security and thoroughness in his delineations, which proceed from a comprehensive knowledge of the real world, which he has obtained by life-long studies and observations, and a daily acquaintance with the most important relations. His comprehensive existence corresponds with his great genius. You remember the English critic, who compares the poet with voices for singing, of which some can command only a few fine tones, while others can, at pleasure, run through the whole compass, equally at their ease, with the highest and lowest note. Walter Scott is one of this last sort. In the ‘Fair Maid of Perth,’ you will not find a single weak passage, where you feel as if his knowledge and genius were not equal to the utmost demands of the occasion. He was prepared to use all his materials; the king, the royal brothers, the prince, the great ecclesiastics, the nobles, the magistracy, the citizen mechanics, the Highlanders, are all drawn with the same sure hand, and finished with equal truth.”
“The English,” said Frau von Goethe, “are particularly partial to Henry Smith, and Scott seems to have intended him for the hero of the book; but he is not my favorite; I like the Prince.”
“The Prince,” said I, “wins our affections, indeed; with all his wildness, and he is as well drawn as any.”
“The passage,” said Goethe, “where he, sitting on horseback, makes the pretty minstrel girl step upon his foot, that he may give her a kiss, is in the boldest English style. But you women are wrong always to take sides as you do. Usually, you read a book to find something for the heart; to find a hero, whom you could love; but that is not the way to read, and it is not important whether this or that character please, but that the book please.”
“We women were made so, dear father,” said she, leaning over the table to press his hand.
“Well, we must let you be in your own lovely ways,” replied Goethe.
He took up the “Globe.”
“How the writers in the ‘Globe,’” said he, “enhance its importance every day! What men they are! How pervaded with one wish and one idea! People here have scarce any notion of such things. Such a paper would be an impossibility’ for Germany. We are distinct individuals; harmony and concert are unattainable; each has the opinions of his province, his city, and his own idiosyncracies; and it will be a long while before we have a standard of common culture.”
To-day at dinner was the pleasantest society. Beside our Weimar friends, some of the philosophers were there, on their return from Berlin; among whom, Von Martius, from Munich, who sat next Goethe, was known to me. There were jokes and conversations on various subjects. Goethe was particularly goodhumored and communicative. Much was said of the opera last given—Rossini’s “Moses.” They found fault with the subject; both praised and found fault with the music.
Goethe said, “I do not understand, my good children, how you can separate the subject from the music, and enjoy each by itself. You say the subject is miserable; but you can set that aside, and enjoy the excellent music. I do not understand this arrangement in your natures; how your ears can be in a state to enjoy pleasant sounds, while the most powerful sense, vision, is tormented by the absurdest objects. And how absurd is this ‘Moses’! When the curtain rises, there you see the people at prayer. This is very unfit. It is written ‘When thou prayest, go into thy closet, and shut the door;’ and will you pray on the stage?
“I would have made a wholly different ‘Moses,’ and begun the piece otherwise. I would have first shown you how the children of Israel suffered from their Vassalage to the Egyptians, in order to bring into bolder relief the merit of Moses in freeing them from this shameful oppression.”
He then built up his opera step by step, through all the scenes and acts, full of life and meaning, in historical harmony with the subject, to the astonishment of the company, who could not sufficiently admire the irresistible flow of his thoughts, and the gay profusion of his inventions. ’Twas done too quickly for me to seize it. I only remember the dance of the Egyptians, which Goethe introduced to express their joy at the return of light, after the miraculous darkness.
The conversation turned from Moses to the deluge, and took, from the presence of the distinguished naturalists, a new turn.
“If,” said Von Martius, “they have found on Ararat, a petrified piece of the ark of Noah, why should they not find petrified skulls of the first men?”
This led to a conversation about the various races of men—how black, brown, yellow, and white inhabit different climates, and whether all men are descended from the single pair, Adam and Eve.
Von Martius was for the biblical account, which he sought to confirm by the maxim, Nature goes to work as economically as possible.
“I cannot agree to that,” said Goethe; “I maintain rather that Nature is lavish, even prodigal; and it would show more acquaintance with her, to believe she has, instead of one single poor pair, produced men by dozens or hundreds.
“When the earth had arrived at a certain point of maturity, the water had ebbed away, and the land gave signs of green, came the epoch for the creation of man. Men arose, through the omnipotence of God, wherever the ground permitted; perhaps on the heights first.
“To believe that this happened, I esteem reasonable; but to attempt to decide how it happened, I esteem useless; and we will leave it to those who, having nothing better to do, busy themselves willingly with insoluble problems.”
“If I,” said Von Martius, archly, “could, as a naturalist, yield to your excellency’s opinion, I should, as a good Christian, find some difficulty in adopting a view which cannot well be reconciled with the account given us in Holy Writ.”
“Holy Writ,” replied Goethe, “speaks, certainly, only of one pair of human beings, whom God made on the sixth day; but the gifted men, who wrote that record, had in view their own, the chosen people; and we will not dispute the descent of that people from Adam and Eve. But we, and tall, slender men, handsomer than we, as well as the Negroes and Laplanders, had, certainly, different ancestors; and this worthy company must confess that we are, at present, a quite a distinct race from the genuine descendants of Adam, and that they, at least in money-making, are greatly our superiors.”
We laughed; the conversation became general. Goethe, excited by Von Martius to argument, said many interesting things, which veiled a deep meaning under a jesting exterior.
After dinner, the Prussian Minister, Herr von Jordan, was announced, and we went into the next room to receive him.
Tieck, returning from a journey to the Rhineland, with his wife, his daughters, and Countess Finkenstein, dined with Goethe to-day. I met them in the anteroom. Tieck looked very well; the Rhine baths seemed to have had a favorable effect upon his health. I told him that I had been reading Sir Walter Scott’s new novel, and what pleasure it had given me.
“I think,” said Tieck, “that I may find this romance of Scott’s, which I have not read as yet, the best he has ever written; however, he is so great a writer, that the first you know of him always excites astonishment, approach him on what side you will.”
Professor Göttling came in, just returned from his journey to Italy. I was extremely glad to see him again, and drew him to a window, that he might tell me what he had seen.
“To Rome!” said he; “you must to Rome, if you would make something of yourself! That is indeed a city! that is a life! that is a world! As soon as we enter Rome, we are transformed, and feel ourselves great, like the objects which surround us.”
“Why,” said I, “did you not stay longer?”
“My money, and my leave of absence, were at an end. I cannot describe my feelings when I turned my back upon Italy.”
Goethe came in, and greeted his guests. He talked awhile with Tieck and his family, then offered the Countess his arm to the dining-room. We followed. The conversation was lively and unconstrained, but I could retain little of its substance.
After dinner, the Princes von Oldenberg were announced. We then went up to Frau von Goethe’s apartment, where Fraulein Agnes Tieck seated herself at the instrument, and gave us the song, Im Felde schleich’ ich still und wild, with a fine alto voice, and so thoroughly in the spirit or the situation, that it made an ineffaceable impression on the mind.
I dined, to-day, in private, with Goethe and Frau von Goethe. Rossini’s “Moses” was spoken of, and we recalled, with pleasure, what Goethe had said a day or two previous.
“What I said, in the good-humored merriment of the moment, about ‘Moses,’” said he, “I cannot recall; for such things are done quite unconsciously. But of this I am certain, that I cannot enjoy an opera, unless the story is as good as the music, so that the two may keep step with one another. If you ask what opera suits me, I would name the Wasserträger; for here the subject is so well managed, that, if given as a drama, without music, it might be seen with pleasure. Either composers in general do not attach any importance to a good foundation, or they have not poets suited to aid them. If the Freischütz had not been so good a subject, it would hardly have drawn such crowds by the charm of the music merely; and, therefore, Kind should have some share in the honor.”
After talking a little longer oh this, we spoke of Professor Göttling, and his travels in Italy.
“I cannot blame the good man,” said Goethe, “for speaking of Italy with such enthusiasm; I well remember what my own feelings were. Indeed, I may say that only in Rome have I felt what it is to be a man. The same elevation, the same blissfulness of feeling, I have never known at any after period; indeed, compared with my situation at Rome, I may say I have never since known happiness.”
“But,” continued he, after a pause, “we will not give ourselves up to melancholy thoughts. Let us talk of your ‘Fair Maid of Perth.’ How far have you read? Tell me about it.”
“I read slowly,” said I. “I am now at the place where Proudfoot, having put on Henry Smith’s armor, and imitating his walk and whistle, is slain, and found in the street by the citizens, who, taking him for Smith, raise a great outcry through the city:”
“That,” said Goethe, “is one of the best scenes.”
“I have been particularly struck,” said I, “with Scott’s great talent for disentangling confused situations, so that all separates into masses and quiet pictures, leaving on our minds an impression as if we, like superior beings, had looked down, and seen, at once, events which were occurring in various places.”
“Generally,” said Goethe, “he shows great under standing of art; for which reason, those like us, who always look to see how things are done, find especial pleasure and profit in his works.
“You will find, in the third volume, an admirable contrivance. You have already seen how the Prince makes, in council, the wise proposal to let the rebel Highlanders destroy one another in combat, and how Palm Sunday is appointed for the battle. You will see with what dexterity Scott manages to make one man fail on the decisive day, and to introduce his hero, Smith, in his place. It is admirably done; and you will be delighted when you come to it.
“But, when you have finished the ‘Fair Maid of Perth,’ you must read ‘Waverley,’ which is quite a different thing, and may be set beside the best works that have ever been written in this world. We see the same man who wrote the ‘Fair Maid of Perth,’ but before he had yet won the favor of the public. He therefore collects his forces more, and is admirable at every step. In the ‘Fair Maid of Perth,’ the writer holds a more rapid pen. He is sure of his public, and his style is broader and freer. After reading ‘Waverley,’ you will understand why Walter Scott always designates himself as author of that work; for, in that first published novel, be showed what he could do, and has never since surpassed, or even equalled it.”
In honor of Tieck, a very pleasant tea-party was given this evening in the apartment of Frau von Goethe. I here made the acquaintance of Count and Countess Medem. They told me of their having to-day seen Goethe, and how happy it had made them.
We had hoped that Tieck would read, and he consented to do so. A wide circle was made with chairs and sofas, and he read “Clavigo.”
I had often read and felt this drama; but now it appeared to me quite new, and made a singularly deep impression. It seemed as if heard from the stage, only better. Each character and situation was given with more entireness of feeling; it had the effect of an acted play, in which each part is well performed,
It would be hard to say what parts Tieck read best, whether tranquil, clear scenes, addressed to the intellect; whether those in which the powers and passions of the male characters were brought out; or moments of tortured love. For giving expression to passages of this sort, he had especial qualifications. The scene between Marie and Clavigo still sounds in my ears: the oppressed bosom, the stifling and trembling of the voices; broken, almost suffocated words and sounds; the panting and sobbing of a hot heart, accompanied with tears;—all this is still present with me, never to be forgotten. Every hearer was absorbed, and wholly carried away. The lights burned dim; nobody thought of that, or ventured to snuff them, for fear of the slightest interruption. Tears, constantly dropping from the eyes of the women, showed the profound effect of the piece, and were the highest tribute that could be paid, either to the reader or the poet.
Tieck had finished and rose, wiping the big drops from his forehead; but the hearers still seemed fettered to their chairs. Each man seemed too deeply engaged with what had just been passing through his soul to have ready suitable words of gratitude for him who had produced so wonderful an effect upon us all. However, we recovered ourselves by degrees. The company arose, and talked cheerfully with one another. Then we partook of a supper, which stood ready on little tables in the next room.
Goethe was not present in person this evening; but his spirit and a remembrance of him were living among us. He sent an apology to Tieck; and to his daughters, Agnes and Dorothea, two handkerchief-pins, with his own picture and red favors, which Frau von Goethe fastened to their dresses, so that they looked like little orders.
From Mr. William Frazer, of London, editor of the “Foreign Review;” I received, this morning, two copies of the, third number of that periodical, and gave one of them to Goethe at dinner.
I found again a pleasant dinner party, invited in honor of Tieck and the Countess, who, at the urgent request of Goethe and their other friends, had remained a day behind the rest of the family, who had set out for Dresden.
At table, we talked much of English literature, and especially of Walter Scott. Tieck said that he himself, ten years ago, first brought to Germany a copy of Waverley.
The above-mentioned number of the “Foreign Review” contained, with a variety of other important and interesting articles, also a very fine essay, by Carlyle, upon Goethe, which I passed the rooming in studying.
I went to see Goethe a little before the dinner hour, that I might have an opportunity to talk this over. I found him, as I wished, still alone, expecting the company. He wore his black coat and star, with which I so willingly see him. He appeared to-day in youthful high spirits, and we began immediately to speak on topics interesting to both. Goethe told me that he had been looking at Carlyle’s article upon him this morning, and we were both ready to praise these efforts among foreigners.
“It is pleasant to see,” said Goethe, “that the Scotch are giving up their early pedantry, are now more in earnest, and more profound. When I recollect how the “Edinburgh Review” treated my works, not many years since, and when I now consider Carlyle’s merits towards German literature, I am astonished at the important step which has been taken towards a better end”
“In Carlyle,” said I, “I venerate most of all the spirit and character which lie at the foundation of his tendencies. He looks to the culture of his own nation; and, in the literary productions of other countries, which he wishes to make known to his contemporaries, pays less attention to art and genius than to the moral elevation which can be attained through such works.”
“Yes,” said Goethe; “the temper in which he works is always admirable. What an earnest man he is! and how he has studied us Germans! He is almost more at home in our literature than ourselves. We can by no means vie with him by our researches in English literature.”
“The article,” said I, “is written with a fire and expression which show how many prejudices and contradictions he has to contend with in England. ‘Wilhelm Meister’ seems to have been placed in an unfavorable light, by malevolent critics and bad translators. Carlyle treats them with great tact. To ‘the stupid prejudice that no pure-minded woman could read Wilhelm Meister,’ he opposes, very quietly, the example of the late Queen of Prussia, who made the book her familiar companion, and who was rightly esteemed one of the noblest women of her day.”
Some of the guests came in now; whom Goethe received. He then turned to me again, and I continued.
“Carlyle has studied that work till he is so penetrated with its merit, that he would gladly bestow similar profit and pleasure on every cultivated mind.”
Goethe drew me to a window to answer me.
“Dear child,” said he, “I will confide to you something which may be of use to you all your life, and in many ways. My works can never be popular. He who thinks and strives to make them so is in an error. They are not written for the multitude, but, only for individual men whose pursuits and aims are like my own.”
He wished to say more; but a young lady came up; and drew him into conversation. Soon after, we sat down to table. I could pay no attention to the conversation that was going on, for I was wholly occupied in thinking over those words of Goethe’s.
“Really,” thought I, “a writer like him, of so high an intellect, so wide a nature, how can he be popular? Only a small part of him can be popular. Those songs, which convivial companies or enamored maidens sing, are as if they were not for other beings.
“And, rightly regarded, is not this the ease with every thing extraordinary? is Mozart, is Raphael popular? and does not the world conduct towards these great fountains of spiritual life like travellers who merely sip a little as they pass?
“Yes; he is right. His works are only destined for individuals. They are for contemplative natures, who wish to penetrate into the depths, and try all the paths of the world and human nature. They are for those susceptible of passionate enjoyment, who seek in the poet the bliss and woe of the heart. They are for the young poet, who wishes to learn how to express his feelings, and how to treat his subject according to the rules of art. They are for critics, who find there a model, not only for the best rules of judgment, but for the best means of making a criticism interesting and attractive.
“His works are for the artist, whose mind they enlighten as to general principles, and whom they teach what subjects are suited to works of art; what he should use, and what leave aside. They are for the observer of nature, not only because great laws are discovered and taught him, but, still more, as teaching a method by which the intellect may best persuade Nature to reveal her mysteries.
“All those who are engaged in science or art, may be guests at his richly-provided table, and in their works show plainly that they have drawn from a great general source of light and life.”
Such thoughts were in my head all dinner-time. I thought of individuals, of many excellent German artists, natural philosophers, poets, and critics, who owed to Goethe great part of their culture. I thought of intellectual Italians, Frenchmen, and Englishmen, who have their eyes upon him, and who have followed his lead. All around me were jesting and talking, or partaking of the good fare. I spoke now and then a word, but without exactly knowing what I said. A lady put a question to me, to which I did not render a very appropriate answer; and they all laughed at me.
“Let him alone,” said Goethe. “He is always absent, except when he is at the theatre.”
They laughed at me again; but I did not regard it. I felt myself, to-day, peculiarly happy. I blessed my fate, which, after many singular transitions, bad associated me with the small circle who enjoy the conversation and intimacy of a man whose greatness I had deeply felt only a few momenta since, and whom I now had before my eyes, in all the loveliness of his personal presence.
Biscuit, and some very fine grapes, were brought for dessert. The last came from a distance, and Goethe made a mystery of from whence. He offered me some of the ripest.
“Here, my, good friend,” said he, “eat these sweets, and much good may they do you.”
I highly enjoyed the grapes from Goethe’s hand, drawing near him now both in body and soul.
They talked of the theatre, and of Wolff’s great merit.
“Our earlier actors,” said Goethe, “learned much from me, but I can properly call none but Wolff my pupil. I will give you a little instance how thoroughly he was penetrated with my-principles, and how fully he acted out my thought. I was once very angry with Wolff, for various reasons. He played one evening, and I sat in my box. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘thou wilt be able to spy out his faults; for there is not to-day in thy heart, one trace of affection which might speak for him and excuse him.’ He played, and I never turned my sharpened eye from him; but how he played! how secure, how firm he was! I could not find in him the shadow of a fault, according to the rules which I had given him; and I could not refuse to be good to him again.”
Oberbergrath Noeggerath, from Bonn, returning from the assembly of natural philosophers, was to-day a very welcome guest at Goethe’s table. Mineralogy was the principal topic, of conversation, and this worthy stranger gave us many valuable particulars as to that in the neighborhood of Bonn.
After dinner, we went into the room where the colossal bust of Juno is. Goethe showed his guests a long slip of paper, with outlines of the friezes of Phigalia. Looking at these outlines we observed that the Greeks represented animals less from an observation of nature than from conformity with certain fixed rules. We found those days inferior to our own in subjects of this sort; and that the goats, oxen, and horses, frequently found on bas-reliefs, are usually very stiff, ill formed, and imperfect creatures.
“I will not quarrel with you about that,” said Goethe; “but, first of all, we should decide to what era and what artists such works belong; for I could instance a multitude of masterpieces, where Grecian artists, in their representation of animals, not only equalled, but, indeed, surpassed nature. The English, who understand horses better than any nation in the world, have acknowledged that two antique heads of horses are more perfect in their forms than those of any race now existing upon earth.
“These works are from the best era of Greece, and, while we are astonished at their beauty, we should not so much infer that these artists have copied from finer models than, we now possess, as that they themselves had advantages in their time and in their culture, by which they improved on the manifestations of nature.”
While all this was said, I stood a little way off, looking at engravings, with a lady, at one of the tables, and could only, as it were, lend half an ear to Goethe’s words; but so much the deeper did they sink into my mind
After the company had gone, I approached Goethe, who stood by the stove.
“Your excellency,” said I, “said, a little while ago, that the Greeks exalted nature by the greatness of their minds, and I think that we cannot be too deeply penetrated with the truth of this maxim.”
“Yes, my good friend,” said Goethe, “all depends upon this; one must be something, in order to make something. Dante seems to us great; but he had the culture of centuries behind him. The house of Rothschild is rich; but it has taken more than one century to accumulate such treasures. All these things lie deeper than is thought.
“Our good artists, who imitate the old German school, begin, while weak as men, and uninformed as artists, to copy from nature, and think they become something. They stand beneath nature. But he who wishes to do any thing great, must be, like the Greeks, so highly cultivated that he will know how to raise up the realities of nature to the height of his own mind; and to realize that, which, in nature, whether from internal weakness or external hinderance, has remained an intention merely.”
To-day at table we talked of women; and Goethe said, “Women are the silver dishes, in which we place golden apples. My idea of woman is not abstracted from what I have seen in real life, but rather inborn. At any rate, it arose in me, I know not how. Accordingly, the characters of women in my works have all been successful. They are all better than they could be found in real life.”
Goethe spoke of a new article in the “Edinburgh Review.”
“It is delightful,” said he, “to see the ability of the English critics. Very fine properties have taken place of the early pedantry. In an article on German literature in this number, you find the following remark:—
“‘There are people among the poets who are always inclined to select such subjects as are really abhorrent to other minds.’
“How many of our late literati are here characterized by a single stroke!”
I dined to-day with Goethe alone, in his work-room. We talked on various literary topics.
“The Germans,” said he; “cannot cease to be Philistines. They keep quarrelling about some verse, which are printed both in Schiller’s works and mine, as if it were of any importance to ascertain which of us really wrote them. Friends, such as we were, intimate for years, having the same interests, in habits of daily intercourse, and under reciprocal obligations, live so truly into one another, that it is hardly possible to decide whether single thoughts belong to the one or the other.
“We have made many couplets together; sometimes I gave the thought, and Schiller made the verse; sometimes the reverse was the case; sometimes he made one line, and I the other. Who, but a Philistine, would care to settle the mine and thine?”
“Something similar,” said I, “often happens in the literary world, when people doubt the originality of this or that celebrated man, and seek to trace out the sources from whence he obtained his riches.”
“How absurd!” said Goethe; “we might as well inquire, when we see a strong man, about the oxen, sheep, and swine, which he has eaten, and which have contributed to his strength.
“We have, indeed, faculties to begin with; but, for unfolding them, we may thank a thousand influences of the great world, from which we appropriate what we can and what is suitable to us. I owe much to the Greeks and French; l am infinitely indebted to Shakspeare, Sterne, and Goldsmith; but, in saying this, I have not pointed out all the sources of my culture; that would be an endless, as well as an unnecessary task. What is important is to have a soul which loves truth, and receives it wherever it can find it.
The world is now so old, so many worthy men have lived and thought, that there is little new to be discovered or expressed. My theory of colors is not entirely new. Plato, Leonardo da Vinci, and many other fine minds, have made similar observations; my merit is to have rediscovered, and in a confused world spoken out once more the truth.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Of Voltaire I said I had yet read but a small portion of his writings; for his little poems to persons charmed me so much that I could not leave reading them.
“Indeed,” said Goethe, “all is good which is done by so great a genius as Voltaire; only his mockeries and irreverence I cannot excuse. But you are quite right to give so much time to those little poems; they are among the most charming of his works. Every line is rich in thought, clear, bright, and attractive.”
“And we see there with pleasure,” said I, “the grace and ease with which be sustained his relation to persons of such dignified rank and station.”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “he bore himself like a nobleman. And with all his irreverence, he always kept within the limits of strict propriety. The Empress of Austria has observed to me repeatedly, that there is no passage in these poems of Voltaire’s in which he trespasses against etiquette.”
“Does your excellency,” said I, “remember the poem in which he makes to the Princess of Prussia, afterwards Queen of Sweden, such a pretty declaration of love, while he says that he dreamed of being elevated to the royal dignity!”
It is one of his best,” said Goethe, and he recited the lines—
Les Dieux à mon reveil ne m’ont pas tout oté,
Je n’ai perdu que mon empire.’
“How pretty it is! And never did poet have his talent so completely at command as Voltaire. I remember an anecdote of a time when he had been visiting Madame Du Chatelet, Just as he was going away, and the carriage had even driven up to the door, he received a letter from the young girls of a neigh boring convent, who wished to play the ‘Death of Julius Cæsar,’ on the birth-day of their abbess, and begged him to write them a prologue. The request was too politely made to be refused; so he called for pen and paper, and wrote the prologue, standing, upon the mantel-piece. It is a piece of perhaps twenty verses; the thoughts well arranged, the style finished, perfectly suited to the occasion, enough, and of the best sort.”
“I shall be very desirous to read it,” said I.
“I doubt,” said Goethe, “whether you will find it is your collection of his works; it has only of late been published,—he wrote hundreds of such poems,—and many, probably, still lie hidden in the possession of individuals.”
I mentioned reading, to-day, a passage in Lord Byron, which showed how much he admired Voltaire. “Byron,” said Goethe, “knew well where any thing good was to be got, and was too wise to neglect this great source of light.”
Goethe then repeated some observations which he had formerly made upon Byron.
“I entirely agree with your excellency,” said I; “but, however great the genius of this poet, I must doubt whether the interests of human culture be profited by his writings.”
“I think otherwise,” said Goethe; “his fearlessness and majesty must cultivate those who admire them. We must be careful not to confine ourselves too narrowly to what is moral and decorous. All greatness helps him who is able to apprehend it.”
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