From: Conversations with Goethe in the Last Years of His Life (1839)
Author: Johann Peter Eckermann, Trans. S. Margaret Fuller
Published: Hilliard Gray and Co. 1839 Boston
“I have been reading Schubart,” said Goethe. “He is a valuable man, and says many excellent things, if we can but translate them into our own language. His book is chiefly intended to prove that there is a stand-point without philosophy—that of the healthy human understanding; and that art and science have always thriven best independent of philosophy, by the free working of man’s natural faculties.
“This is water for our mill. For my part, I have always kept aloof from philosophy. The stand-point of the natural human understanding was the one I preferred; and Schubart confirms the wisdom of what I have been saying and doing all my life.
“I have but one fault to find with him, and this is, that he knows better than he will confess on some subjects, and does not show himself perfectly sincere. Like Hegel, he would interweave the Christian religion with philosophy, where they have nothing to do with one another. Christianity has a might of its own lifting up, from: time to time, dejected, suffering humanity, and in this rises above all philosophy, and needs no support therefrom. Neither does the philosopher need the support of religion to prove certain doctrines; for instance, that existence is prolonged into eternity. Man must believe in immortality; this belief corresponds with the wants of his nature. But, if the philosopher tries to prove the immortality of his soul from a legend, that is very weak, and says little to us. To me, the eternal existence of my soul is proved, from my need of activity; if I work incessantly till my death,—nature is pledged to give me another form of being when the present can no longer sustain my spirit.”
My heart beat, at these words, with admiration and love.
“Never,” thought I, “was doctrine spoken more likely to incite to noble deeds than this. Who would not work and act indefatigably on to the end of his days. If, by so doing, he obtained the surety of an eternal life?”
Goethe had a portfolio brought, full of drawings and engravings. After we had looked at some leaves in silence, he showed me one from a picture of Ostade’s.
“Here,” said he, “you have the scene of our good man and good wife.”
I looked at the engraving with much pleasure. I saw the interior of a peasant’s dwelling,—kitchen, parlor, and, bed-room, all in one. Man and wife eat opposite one another; the wife spinning, the husband winding yarn; a child at their feet. In the back-ground was a bed, and very rude household furniture and utensils. The door led at once into the open air. This picture gave perfectly the idea of a happy marriage in a very limited condition; satisfaction, content, and the luxury of wedded love, were expressed in the faces of both man and wife as they looked upon one another.
“One feels happier,” said I, “the longer he looks at this picture; it has a quite peculiar charm.”
“It is sensuous,” said Goethe; “and, in this respect, higher efforts often are wanting. In works of this kind, the senses must be moved, or they are nothing. In those of a higher ideal tendency, this is often lost sight of, and the work becomes dry and cold. The time of life has great influence here, and the artist should be careful to remember his age in choosing his subject. I succeeded in my ‘Iphigenia’ and ‘Tasso,’ because I had yet enough of youthful ardor to penetrate and animate the ideal of the stuff into sensuous life. Now, I could not manage so ideal subjects, and must choose those where a part of the work is already done for me.”
He spoke of the great mistake made by those who think, because a fact is interesting in itself, it must afford an interesting subject for the stage:—
“To write for the theatre is a profession which the dramatist must learn, and a talent which he must possess. Both are rare, and if either be wanting, little good can be done.”
Goethe talked of the Wahlverwandtschaften. He said that a person supposed the character of Miller to be meant for him, though he (Goethe) had never seen or known him,
“It must,” said he, “be a character true to nature, and have existed more than once in the world. Every line in that book is taken from my intimate knowledge of life; and there is more .in it than can be gathered from a first reading.”
Goethe talked of Merck; of the state of culture in Germany at the time of their acquaintance, and how difficult it was to emerge from the so called storm and stress period (Sturm und Drang-periode) to a higher mode of thought; of his first years in Weimar; the poetic talent in conflict with reality, which he, from his connection with the Court, and the various sorts of service demanded of him, is, for his own advantage, obliged to encounter; thence nothing poetical of importance produced during those ten years; saddened by love affairs; the father always impatient of his court life.
The advantage—that he did not change his place of abode, and was not obliged twice to go through the same experience.
He fled to Italy in order to revive his poetic power. Superstitious fancy, that he should not succeed, if any one knew about it; therefore observes profound secrecy. Writes to the Grand Duke from Rome. Returns from Italy with great requisitions upon himself.
Duchess Amelia—a perfect Princess, with perfectly natural, human sense and enjoyment of life. She was very fond of Goethe’s mother, and would fain have had her at Weimar, but he opposed it.
About “Faust.”—‘Faust’ sprang up at the same time with ‘Werther.’ I brought it with me, written out on letter-paper, and not an erasure in the manuscript, for I took care not to write down a line that was not worthy to-remain.”
Oberbau-Director Coudray dined with me at Goethe’s house. He spoke of the Female Industry School and the Orphan’s Institute, as the best establishments in their kind of this country. The first was founded by the Grand Duchess; the last by the Grand Duke, Carl August. Much was said, both of the art of theatrical decorations, and of road-making. Coudray showed Goethe a sketch for a prince’s chapel. Goethe made an objection, to which Coudray yielded.
Goethe read me the lately-composed noble poem, Kein Wesen kann zu nichte zerfallen.
“I wrote it,” said he, “in contradiction to my lines—
Wenn es im seyn beharren will,’ &c.;
‘All must ever keep dissolving
Would it continue still to be;’
which are stupid, and which my Berlin friends took occasion, at the late assembly of natural philosophers, to put up in golden letters, much to my vexation.”
Goethe extolled the character of the great mathematician, Lagrange.
“He was a good,” said he, “and even on that account, a great man. For when a good man is gifted with talent also, he works morally for the salvation of the world, as poet, philosopher, artist, or some other way.
“I am glad you had so good an opportunity yesterday of knowing Coudray. He says little in general society, but, among us, you can see his excellent mind and character. He had, at first, many contradictions to encounter, but has fought through them all, and enjoys now the entire confidence and favor of the court. He is one of the most skilful architects of our rime. He has always relied on me, and I on him. We have been useful to one another. If I could but have known him fifty years ago!”
I asked if Goethe had not learned much in Italy about architecture.
“I got the idea of earnestness and greatness,” said. he, “but no skill in application, Building the castle here in Weimar helped me more than any thing. I assisted and even made drawings for it. I was, at least in design, superior to the professional people.”
We talked of Zelter.
“I have,” said Goethe, “just received a letter from him, in which he complains that his attempt to give the oratorio of the Messiah was frustrated by the weak, sentimental singing of one of his female scholars. This weakness is characteristic of our age. My hypothesis is, that this is a consequence of the great efforts made in Germany to get rid of French influence. Painters, natural philosophers, poets, musicians, with but few exceptions, show this weakness.”
“Yet I hope,” said I, “suitable music may be composed for ‘Faust.’”
“Impossible!” said Goethe. “Those awful or repulsive elements are not in the style of the time. The music should be like that of Don Giovanni. Mozart should have composed for ‘Faust.’ Meyerbeer might, perhaps, do it; but he is too much engaged with the Italian theatres.”
Afterwards, I do not recollect in what connection, he said—
“The great, the wise, are always in a minority. There have been ministers who were obliged to carry through their great plans with both king and people against them. Let us not dream that Reason can ever be popular. Passions, emotions, may be made popular; but Reason remains ever the property of an elect few.”
Dined with Goethe alone.
“After I have finished the Wanderjahre,” said he, “I shall turn to botany again, though I fear it may guide me too far about, and at last show itself as an Alp in my way. Great secrets still lie hidden; some I know; of others, have intimations. Somewhat wonderful I will to you confide and express.
“The plant goes from knot to knot, closing at last with the flower and the seed. So the tape-worm, the caterpillar, goes from knot to knot, and closes with the head. Man and the higher animals are built up through the vertebral, the powers being concentrated in the head.
“With corporations it is the same as with individuals. The bees form a similar scale of individuals, closing and perfected in their king. How this is managed is a mystery, bard to be expressed in words, but I may say that I have my thoughts upon it.
“Thus does a nation bring forth its hero, who stands at the head, like a demigod, to protect and save. Thus were the poetic powers of the French concentrated in Voltaire. Such heads of a nation are always great in the generation for which they work. Many have enduring, life; but the majority are succeeded by others, and forgotten by after times.”
“One must grow old to have time to look into all these, matters, and have money enough to pay for experience. Each bon mot of mine has cost a purse of gold; half a million of my own money, the fortune I inherited, my salary, and the large income derived from my writings for fifty years back, have been expended to instruct me in what I now know. I have, besides, seen a million and a half expended on great designs, by the royal personages with whom l have been so nearly connected, and in whose measures, failures, and successes I bore part.
“It is not enough to have talent: to be wise, great connections are also needed, that one may see how the cards of the time are played, and even assist oneself in winning or losing.
“Without my inquiries into natural science, I could never so well have learned man as he is. In all other pursuits it is easier to evade exposure of weakness. But Nature understands no joke; she is always true, earnest, and severe; she is always right, and all failing and error must belong to man. She disdains the inadequate; only to the adequate, true; and genuine will she reveal her mysteries.
“The Understanding can never scale such heights. Man must rise through the highest Reason, to approach the Divinity which manifests itself in the primitive phenomena, (Urphänomenen,) physical and moral, behind which it dwells, and which proceed from it.
“Divinity works in the living; and not in the dead; in the becoming and changing, not in the become and changed. Therefore Reason, aspiring to the Divine, deals with the becoming, the living; bat Understanding with the become, the already stiffened, which it can apply to use.
“Mineralogy is a science for the Understanding, for practical life; its subject is the dead, which cannot rise again, and gives no room for synthesis.
“The subject of Meteorology, on the contrary, is living, what we daily see working and changing; so this science supposes synthesis, only so great an accumulation of observations is needed for this, that man is not yet prepared. We steer by hypotheses, by imaginary islands; but the proper synthesis will probably remain an undiscovered country; and I do not wonder, when I see how difficult it is to obtain a synthesis about such simple things as plants and colors.”
We talked of Goethe’s Grosskophta.
“Lavater,” said Goethe, “believed in Cagliostro and his wonders. When .the impostor was unmasked, Lavater maintained— ‘This is another; Cagliostro, who did the wonders, was a holy person.’
“Lavater was a truly good man, but subject to strong delusions, and not to be depended on for truth; he deceived himself and others. This made a breach betwixt him and me. The last time I saw him was in Zurich; and he did not see me. I was coming in disguise down an alley; seeing him approach, I stepped aside, and he passed without seeing me. He walked like a crane, and therefore figures as such on the Blocksberg.”
I asked whether Lavater had a tendency to observe nature, as we might infer from the “Physiognomy.”
“Not in the least,” said Goethe. “His tendency was wholly towards the moral—the religious. That part of his book which relates to the skulls of animals, he got from me.”
The conversation turned upon the French—upon the lectures of Guizot, Villemain, and Cousin. Goethe spoke with high esteem of the stand they had taken; saying that they observed every thing on a free and new side, and went straight to their aim.
“It is,” said Goethe, “as if, till now, we had been forced to reach a garden through roundabout, crooked ways; and now these men have broken a door in the wall, and get at once into the broadest walk of the garden.”
From Cousin we passed to the Indian philosophy.
“This philosophy,” said Goethe, “has, if we may believe what the English tell us, nothing foreign, but rather repeats the epochs through which we all pass. While we are children, we are Sensualists; Idealists when we love, and attribute to the beloved object qualities which she does not possess. Love wavers; we doubt her fidelity, and are Skeptics before we think of it. The rest of life is indifferent; we let it go as it will, and end, like the Indian philosophers, with Quietism.
“In the German philosophy, there are still two great works to do. Kant did a vast deal, when he wrote the ‘Critique of Pure Reason;’ but the circle is not yet complete. Now, some able man must write the ‘Critique of the Senses and Understanding of Man;’ and, if this could be as well done, we should have little more to wish in German philosophy.
“Hegel has written, in the ‘Berlin Yearly Register,’ a criticism upon Hamann, which I, of late, have read and re-read, and must highly praise. Hegel’s judgments as a critic have always been excellent.
“Villemain, too, stands very high in criticism. The French will never boast another genius to equal Voltaire; but we can say of Villemain, that he is so far elevated above Voltaire by his intellectual standpoint, as to be able to judge his virtues and faults.”
We talked of the Farbenlehre.
“The highest,” said Goethe, “which man can attain in these matters, is astonishment; if the primary phenomena bring him this, let him be satisfied, and forbear to seek above or behind; for here is the limit. But men will not stop here; they are like children, who, after peeping into the mirror, turn it round to see what is on the other side.”
I asked whether Merck loved natural history.
“Very much,” said Goethe, “and had fine collections. He was an uncommonly many-sided man. He loved art also; and, if he saw a fine work in the hands of a Philistine who could not know how to value it, he used every means to get it for himself. In such matters he had no conscience, and would cheat in a grandiose style.”
Goethe related some interesting anecdotes of this.
“A man like Merck,” continued he, “will not again be born; or, if he be, the world will model him into a very different person. That was a good time, when Merck and I were young! German literature was yet a clean tablet, on which one could hope to paint good things with pleasure. Now, it is so scribbled over and soiled, that there is no pleasure in looking at it, and a wise man is not sure he had best make any mark upon it.”
Dined with Goethe téte à téte, in his work-room.
We talked of the alterations which Schiller had made in “Egmont,” to adapt it to the stage.
“The Regent,” said I, “should not have been left out. Not only does her presence impart to the whole a nobler character, but the political relations and state of the Spanish Court are brought much more clearly to view by her conversation with Machiavelli.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Goethe. “And then Egmont gains in dignity from the lustre which the partiality of this princess casts upon him, as also Clara seems more lovely when we see that Egmont prefers her even to princesses. These are very delicate, shades, which cannot be obliterated without hurting the whole.”
“Then,” said I, “when Clara is alone, the male parts preponderate too much. The Regent helps balance the picture.”
“You judge rightly,” said Goethe. “All this I carefully weighed when I wrote the piece; and it cannot but suffer when an important figure is taken out. But Schiller had a dash of violence in his nature, and acted often upon his preconceived idea, without due consideration of the subject of his action.”
“You, perhaps, may be blamed,” said I, “that you suffered him to do as he pleased in so important an affair.”
“One is often more indifferent than is right,” said Goethe. “I was at that time deeply engaged in other matters. I cared neither for ‘Egmont’ nor the theatre, and let them do as they liked. Now, I am consoled by knowing that the piece is printed as I wrote it, and that other theatres have the good taste to play it entire.”
[Here are omitted some pages on the subject of Goethe’s “Theory of Colors.”]
“I have found, among my papers,” said Goethe, “a leaf, in which I call architecture frozen music. There is something in the remark; the influence that flows upon us from architecture is like that from music.
“Magnificent buildings and apartments are for princes and empires. When a man lives in such, he feels satisfied, and asks no more.
“This is contrary to my nature. In a splendid dwelling, such as I had at Carlsbad, I become slothful. A decent little room like this in which we are—somewhat disorderly-orderly—somewhat in the gipsy fashion—is what suits me; it leaves my inner nature free to act and create.”
We talked of Schiller’s letters, and how they two had daily incited one another to new activity.
“Schiller,” said I, “seems to have felt an especial interest in ‘Faust;’ it is pleasant to see how he urges you, or, in his impetuosity, would himself continue the work according to his own idea. I perceive his nature made him precipitate.”
“It did so,” said Goethe, “and all men are so who lay too much stress upon an idea. He was never in repose, and could never have done; as you may see by his letters on ‘Wilhelm Meister,’ which he would have modelled such different ways. I had enough to do to stand my ground, and keep my works free from such influences.”
“I have,” said I, “been reading this morning his ‘Indian Death Song,’ and been delighted with it.”
“You see,” said Goethe, “what an artist he was, and how he could manage the objective also, when it was once before his eyes. I wish he had made a dozen such poems as that ‘Indian Death Song;’ it is one of his very best. And yet—can you believe it?—some of his nearest friends found fault with this poem, thinking it was not sufficiently tinctured with his Ideality. Yes, my good friend, such things one has to suffer from friends. Even so Humboldt found fault with my Dorothea, because she took up arms against the assailing soldiery. And yet, without that trait, the character of the extraordinary maiden, so proportioned to that time and situation, would sink into common place. But the longer you live, the more you will see how few men are capable of understanding the proper law of a production; instead of taking its ground, and seeing what it should be, they praise or blame, according as it harmonizes with their own condition. These of whom I spoke were the first and best; so you may judge how much the opinion of the multitude is to be valued, and how one in fact must always stand alone.
“Had I not had some solid foundation in the plastic arts and natural science, I would scarce have kept myself upright; but this was my protection, and enabled me to aid Schiller also.”
“The nobler a man is,” said Goethe, “so much the more is he under the influence of demons, and he must take heed and not let his guiding will counsel him to a wrong path.
“There was something of demonology in my connection with Schiller; it might have happened earlier or later without so much significance; but that it should occur just at this time, when I had my Italian journey behind me, and Schiller began to be weary of his philosophical speculations, led to very important consequences for both.”
“I will discover to you,” said Goethe to-day at dinner, “a political secret, which must erelong be made public. Capo d’Istria cannot long continue to administer the affairs of Greece; he wants one requisite indispensable in that position; he is no soldier. There is no, instance on record, in which a mere statesman has been able to organize a revolutionary state, and keep under his control the military and their leaders. With the sabre in his hand, at the head of an army, a man may command and make laws, secure of being obeyed; otherwise, the attempt is hazardous. Napoleon, if he had not been a soldier, could never have attained the highest power; and Capo d’Istria will soon be forced to play a secondary part. I tell you this beforehand, and you will see it come. It lies in the nature of things, and must happen so.”
We talked again of the French, especially Cousin, Villemain, and Guizot.
“These men,” said he, “look into, through, and round a subject, with great success. They combine perfect knowledge of the past with the spirit of this nineteenth century; and the result is wonderful.”
We then talked of the late French poets, and of the terms “classic” and “romantic.”
“I,” said Goethe, “should define the classic by the word healthy, the romantic by the word sickly. In this sense, the Nibelungenlied is as much a classic as the Iliad, being equally vigorous and healthy. Most modern productions are not romantic because they are new, but because they are weak, morbid, and sickly; and the old are not classics because they are old, but because they are strong, fresh, healthy, and cheerful. If we make this distinction between ‘classic’ and ‘romantic,’ it will be easy to see our way clearly.”
The conversation turning upon the imprisonment of Beranger—
“He is rightly served,” said Goethe. “His late poems a.re really immodest and disorderly; and he has deserved punishment from king, state, and all peaceful citizens. His early poems were cheerful and harmless, well adapted to make a circle of human beings gay and happy, which is the best that can be said of songs.”
“I am sure,” said I, “that he hall been injured by the society in which he lives, and has said, to please his revolutionary friends, many things which he otherwise would not have said. Your excellency should fulfil your intention of writing a chapter on influences. The more I think on that subject, the richer and more important it seems.”
“It is only too rich,” said Goethe; “for in truth all is influence, except in so far as we ourselves are it.”
“But we can examine,” said I, “what influences are injurious, and what beneficial, to our natures.”
“That is the difficult point,” said Goethe, “to decide how far it is best to keep fast hold on our natures, and allow the demons no more power than is right.”
After dinner, Goethe had a laurel, in full flower, and a Japanese plant, placed before us on the table. I remarked what different feelings were excited by these two plants; that the sight of the laurel was calculated to produce a mild, serene, cheerful mood—that of the Japanese plant, one or barbaric melancholy.
“You are right,” said Goethe; “and great power over the mind of man has been conceded to the vegetable world which surrounds him. Surely, he who passes his life amid solemn, lofty oaks, must be a different man from him who lives among the airy birches. Yet we must remember that men, in general, have not cultivated sensibilities like us, and live away busily, without being so much affected by such impressions. Nevertheless, this much is certain: not only the inborn peculiarities of a race, but soil and climate, aliment and occupations, combine to form the character of a people. Also, we must remember that the primitive races took possession of such countries as pleased them; so that the characteristics of the country were originally in harmony with those of its inhabitants.”
“Look upon the desk,” continued Goethe; “there is a paper which I wish you to look at.”
“This blue cover?” said I.
“Yes,” he replied. “Now; what do you say to that hand-writing? Is it not that of a man who felt himself noble and free, as he wrote? Whose do you think it is?”
I looked at the paper with partiality:
“It is indeed free and grandiose,” said I: “Merck might have written so.”
“No,” said Goethe; “he was not sufficiently noble and positive. It is from Zelter. Pen and paper were favorable on this occasion; so that the writing is happily expressive of his noble character. I shall put that paper into my collection of autographs.”
Dined with Coudray at Goethe’s house. We talked of the new staircase now making in the ducal palace, and also of laying out the roads.
Coudray showed Goethe the instructions which he had been drawing up for a young architect, whom the Board for overseeing the buildings here are about sending to Paris, that he may become more instructed in his art. Goethe approved them. Goethe bad obtained the money from the Ministry for the young man, and they were now planning how he could get most profit from its use. On his return, they thought of making him a teacher in the workman’s school soon to be established, which could not fail to give an opportunity to use his talents, and thus open to himself a proper sphere of action. The plan was good and I gave it my blessing in silence.
They then examined Schinkel’s plans, with which Coudray was pleased.
They talked of sound, and how to avoid it, and of the great strength and firmness of the buildings of the Jesuits.
“In Messina,” said Goethe, “when all other buildings were shaken to pieces by the earthquake, the church and cloister of the Jesuits remained as undefaced as if they had been built the day before. It could not be seen that the earthquake had produced the slightest impression upon them.”
From the Jesuits we were led to speak of the Catholics, and their emancipation in Ireland.
“This-measure,” said Coudray, “may be agreed to, but with so many clauses and restrictions on the part of Parliament, that it cannot be dangerous to England.”
“All preventive measures,” said Goethe, “are ineffectual in dealing with Catholics. The-Papal see has interests and means silently to subserve them, of which we never dream. If I were a member of Parliament, I would not hinder emancipation; but I would have inserted in the protocol, that when the first distinguished Protestant head should fall by a Catholic vote, I wished them to remember me.”
Speaking again of Cousin, Villemain, aad Guizot, Goethe said—
“Instead of the light, superficial treatment of Voltaire, they display an erudition, such as, in earlier days, was unknown out of Germany. And such intellect! such searching and pressing out of the subject! superb! It is as if they trod the wine-press. All three are excellent, but Guizot is my favorite.”
Speaking on topics of universal history, Goethe said—
“A great ruler needs no means to make him popular other than his greatness. If he has striven and worked to make his realm happy at home, and honored abroad, it matters not whether he ride about in a state coach, dressed in all his orders, or in a bearskin, with his cigar in his mouth, on a miserable droska. He is sure of love and esteem from his people.
“But, if a prince has not this real weight and personal dignity, he had best betake himself to religion, and sympathy with the customs of his people. To appear at church every Sunday; to look down upon, and let himself be looked at by the common people, is the best means of becoming popular which can be recommended to a young sovereign, and one which Napoleon, at the height of his greatness, did not disdain.”
Speaking again of the Catholics, it was remarked how great the influence of the ecclesiastics is, though used in silence. It was observed that a young writer of Henault having of late made merry with the rosary in a periodical which he edited, the paper was immediately bought up through the influence of the priests in their dioceses.
“An Italian translation of my ‘Werther,’” said Goethe, “appeared at Milan. Not a single copy of it was to be had a very short time after. The bishop had bought up the whole edition. I was not vexed, but pleased by the sagacity he showed in seeing that ‘Werther.’ was a bad book for the Catholics,—and in taking such effective measures quietly to suppress it.”
Goethe said he had driven out to Belvidere this morning, to look at Coudray’s new staircase, and was much pleased with it; also that a great petrified log had been sent him, which he should like to show me.
“Such petrified trunks,” said he, “are found about the fifty-first degree, here and in America, round about the earth like a girdle. With all these wonders, we have no idea of the early organization of the earth, and I cannot blame Herr von Buch for trying to spread his theory. He knows nothing; but nobody knows more, and it is something to have even a plausible appearance of reason on such subjects.”
This morning he read me the little poem—
He spoke of a lately-published book about Napoleon, written by one who had known that hero in his youth.
“It is a dry book,” said he, “written without any enthusiasm; but it shows how grand the truth would seem, if it were properly told.”
He spoke of a tragedy by one of our young writers, as “a pathological product,” and said—
“The juices are not advantageously distributed. The subject is good; but I did not find the scenes which I looked for, while others, which I did not expect, are worked out with love and diligence. It is pathological or romantic, according to our late definition.”
We had more pleasant chat, and Goethe entertained me with honey and some dates.
Goethe gave me a letter from Egon Ebert, which I read with pleasure. We said much in praise of Ebert, and of Bohemia, remembering also Professor Zauper with love.
“Bohemia is a peculiar country,” said Goethe, “and was always a favorite of mine. The culture of the Bohemian literati retains more clearness and purity than that of Northern Germany. Here every dunce writes, without any regard to moral basis or high views.”
Goethe spoke of Ebert’s lately-written epic, and of the female rule of early days in Bohemia, whence comes the Saga of the Amazons; also, of the epic of another poet, who has taken great pains to get favorable notices of his work from the newspapers.
“Such notices,” said Goethe, “did appear here and there. Then comes the ‘Halle Litearry Gazette,’ and tells the exact truth about the poem, and nullifies all that the others had done for it. Truth will out now-adays; the public cannot any longer be imposed upon.”
“I wonder,” said I, “that a man can care enough for a little fame, to stoop to falsities to obtain it.”
“Dear child,” said Goethe, “fame is no despicable matter. Napoleon, for the sake of a great name, broke in pieces almost half a world.”
He told me more of the new book about Napoleon, adding—
“The power of truth is great. Each cloud; each illusion which historians, journalists, and poets have conjured up about Napoleon, vanishes before the terrible reality of this book; but the hero looks no less than before; rather he grows in stature as we see him more truly.”
“His personal influence,” said I, “must have been magical, that men would suffer themselves to be so drawn to him, and wholly governed by him,”
“Certainly,” said Goethe, “his personal influence was great. Yet the chief reason was, that men under him were sure of attaining their object. They were drawn towards him, as they always are to him who gives them this certainty, as actors are towards the manager, on whom they can depend to assign them good parts. ’Tis an old story, constantly repeated; for human nature is so constituted that no man serves another disinterestedly, but does it willingly, if thereby he can also serve himself. Napoleon knew men well; be knew how to make proper use of their weaknesses.”
The conversation turned upon Zelter.
“You know,” said Goethe, “that Zelter has received the Prussian Order. But he has no coat of arms, yet, from his large family may hope a continuance of his name. I have taken the whim to make him a coat of arms. Here it is on paper.”
The arms looked very stately, and I could not but praise the invention. In the lower field were the battlements of a city wall, intimating that Zelter had been, in early days, a skilful mason. Thence rises a winged horse, indicating his genius and aspirations. Above was a lyre, over which shone a star, symbol of the art by which the excellent friend, under the influence and protection of favoring stars, had won his fame. Beneath was annexed the Order which his king, in recognition of his great merits, had bestowed upon him.
“I have had an engraving made from it by Facius,” said Goethe, “which you shall see. Is it not pleasant to make a coat of arms for a friend, and thus, as it were, bestow nobility upon him?”
We spoke of the poem “Cupido, loser,” &c. I observed it made upon me the impression of a Flemish picture.
“Yet it could not be painted,” said Goethe.
“It is,” said I, “a fine instance of poetry verging as nearly on painting as is possible, without going out of its own sphere. Such poems are to me the dearest; inspiring both contemplation and feeling. But I hardly understand how you could obtain the feeling of such a situation; the poem is as if from another time and another world.”
“I could not,” said Goethe, “have written such another, a1id know not how it came to me, as often happens about such matters.”
“One peculiarity of this poem,” said I, “is, that it produces the effect of rhyme, though it is not in rhyme. Why is this?”
“’Tis the rhythm,” he replied. “The lines, beginning with an accented syllable, proceed in trochees till the dactyle near the close, which gives them a sad, bewailing character.”
He took a pencil, and divided the line—
We then talked of rhythm in general, and came to the conclusion that no certain rules can be laid down upon the subject.
“The measure,” said Goethe, “flows spontaneously from the mood or the poet. All would be spoiled if he thought about it while writing the poem.”
He spoke again of Guizot—
“I am going on with his Lectures, and continue to find them excellent. I know no historian more profound or more penetrating. For instance, what influence certain religious opinions, such as those upon grace and good works, have had upon certain epochs, is shown us with the utmost clearness; also, the enduring life of Roman law, which, like a diving duck, would hide itself from time to time, but was never quite lost, and sure to reappear, is well set forth; on which occasion, we may again thank our excellent Savigny.
“I was particularly struck by what he says of the Germans, in speaking of the influence which other nations exercised on his in former times.
“‘The Germans,” says he, ‘brought us the idea of personal freedom; which was possessed by that nation more than any other.’
“Is not that good? He is perfectly right; and it is this idea which works upon us still. The Reformation is as much attributable to this cause as the Burschen conspiracy on the Wartburg—wise as well as foolish enterprises. The motley hues of our literature; the thirst of our poets for originality, and the belief of each one that he must strike out a new path; the separation and isolation observable among our learned men, each one standing by himself, and drawing out his thread from a point of his own,—all this comes from one source.
“The French and English keep more together, and modify one another’s tendencies far more. They harmonize in dress and manners; indeed, fear to differ widely from one another, lest there should be something to excite ridicule. The German never thinks of others, but suits himself; and from this love of personal freedom comes indeed much that is excellent, but also much absurdity.”
I found Hofrath Meyer, who has been ill of late, at table with Goethe to-day, and was rejoiced to see him so much better. They spoke of things relating to art,—of Peel, who has of late established himself in Meyer’s good graces by giving four thousand pounds for a Claude Lorraine.
The newspapers were brought, and the question of emancipation in Ireland came up again.
“It is instructive,” said Goethe, “to see how things come up on this occasion, whose existence was not suspected, and would never have been spoken of, but for the present crisis. We cannot get a clear notion of the present state of Ireland; the materials are too much entangled. But this we can see, that she suffers from evils which will not be removed by emancipation. If it has been unfortunate that Ireland must endure those evils alone, it is now unfortunate that England is engaged with her. Then, no confidence can be put in the Catholics. We see with what difficulty the two million of Protestants have kept their ground hitherto against the five million of Catholics; how, for instance, the Protestant farmer has been pressed, tricked, and tormented by his Catholic neighbors. The Catholics, though they do not agree among themselves, will always unite against a Protestant. They are like a pack of bounds, who will be biting one another until a stag comes in view, when they all unite to run it down.”
From Ireland we passed to the affairs of Turkey. Surprise was expressed that the great power of Russia did not effect more in the late campaign.
“The means provided,” said Goethe, “were in adequate, and therefore overgreat requisitions were made upon individuals; this produced great deeds and individual sacrifices, but which were of little avail to the cause.”
“It may be,” said Meyer, “that the locality presents peculiar difficulties. We see, in the earliest times, that, if an enemy attempted to enter any where on that side, from the Danube to the northern mountains, he always encountered the most obstinate resistance, and almost invariably failed. Could the Russians only keep the sea-side open, and furnish themselves with stores in that way!”
“That may be done yet.” said Goethe. “I am reading Napoleon’s campaign in Egypt. What is related by his every-day companion, Bourrieone, destroys the romantic cast of many scenes, and displays the facts in naked and sublime truth. It is evident that he went upon this expedition merely to till out an epoch when he could not be doing any thing in France to pave his way to supreme power. He was at first undecided what to do; he visited all the harbors on the Atlantic coast, to inspect the fleets, and see whether an expedition against England were practicable. He found it was not, and then decided on going to Egypt.”
“It is surprising,” said I, “how Napoleon, at that early age, could play with the great affairs of the world as easy end secure as if familiarized to them by many years’ practice and experience.”
“That, dear child,” said Goethe, “is inborn with great geniuses. Napoleon managed the world as Hummel manages his harpsichord; we understand the skill of neither, though the whole is done before our eyes. Napoleon was in this especially great—that he was at all hours the same. Before and during a battle, after victory or defeat, he stood always firm, was always clear and decided what to do. He was always in his element, and equal to each situation, and each moment, just as Hummel is to an adagio or allegro, bass or treble. This facility we find wherever is real talent, in peace or war; at the harpsichord, or behind the cannon.
“We see, by this book, how many fables have been invented about the Egyptian campaign. Some anecdotes are corroborated, but most of them contradicted. It is true that he had eight hundred Turkish prisoners shot; but it was in conformity with the deliberate judgment of a council of war that nothing else could be done with them. It is not true that he descended into the Pyramids. He stood at ease on the outside, while others descended, and told him, on their return, what they had seen. He was not in the habit of wearing the Eastern dress. He put it on once at home, and wore it among his followers, to see how he liked it. But the turban does not suit such long heads, and he laid it aside.
“He really visited those sick of the plague; and, indeed, in order to prove that the man who could vanquish fear, was proof against the plague also. And he was right! I could instance a similar passage in my own life, where I was exposed to infection from putrid fever, and warded it off by force of will. It is incredible what power the moral will has in such cases. It penetrates, as it were, the body, and puts it into a state of activity which repels all hurtful influences. Fear, on the other hand, induces a state of indolent weakness and susceptibility, which makes it easy for the foe to take possession of us. This Napoleon knew well, and he felt that he risked nothing in setting his army an example so imposing.”
“But,” continued he, gayly, “pay your respects. See what book Napoleon carried in his field library—my ‘Werther!’”
“He showed at Erfurt,” said I, “how faithfully he had studied it.”
“He had studied it as the judge does his Acts,” said Goethe, “and talked with me conformably about it. Bourrienne gives a list of the books which Napoleon took to Egypt, among which is ‘Werther.’ What is worth noticing in this list is the manner in which the works are classed, under different rubrics. Under the head Politique we find mentioned the Old Testament, the New Testament, the Koran; from which we may judge what Napoleon’s view was on religious matters.”
He told us many other interesting passages from the book. Among others, we talked of Napoleon’s passing with his army through the narrow part of the Red Sea, at time of ebb; but that the flood returned before they had got through, so that the last men waded up to their waists in water.; and had like to have come to the same end as Pharaoh’s followers. This led Goethe to speak of the rise of the flood. He compared it with that of the clouds, which come not from afar; but arise at once in various parts, and pass off in the same manner.
Goethe received me with a cheerful air.
“From whence, and from whom, think you,” said he, “‘I have received a letter? From Rome—from the King of Bavaria.”
“I sympathize in the pleasure you feel,” said I. “.And is it not odd? Not an hour since, during my walk, I had marry thoughts about the King of Bavaria; and now I receive this pleasant intelligence from you.”
“Our minds often give us intimations of that sort,” said Goethe. “Here is the letter; sit down and read it.”
I took the letter. Goethe the newspaper, and I read undisturbed the royal words. The letter was dated Rome, 26th March, 1829; written in a very legible and dignified hand. The King told Goethe that he had bought an estate in Rome, the Villa di Malta, with the adjacent gardens in the neighborhood of the Villa, Ludovisi, in the north-west part of the city. It stands upon a hill, which gives him, a full view, over all Rome, and towards the north-east of St. Peter’s.
“It is a prospect,” he writes, “to enjoy which one would travel a long way, and which l have at my command every hour, from the windows of my house.”
He goes on to express his joy at being so advantageously settled in Rome.
“I had not,” he continues, “seen Rome for twelve years, and longed for it with the impatience of a lover; but now I shall be able to return with that feeling of tranquil happiness with which one visits a beloved friend.”
He spoke of the magnificent treasures of art, and the edifices, with the animation of a connoisseur who has at heart the interests of the truly beautiful, and who keenly feels every sin against good taste. The letter throughout had a beautiful humanity of feeling and expression, such as we do not ordinarily expect from persons of so high rank. I mentioned this to Goethe.
“You see in it,” be replied, “a monarch whose royal dignity has not destroyed the beautiful feelings natural to him as a man—a rare phenomenon, and to be rejoiced at when seen.”
I read other fine passages from the letter.
“Here in Rome,” he writes, “I refresh myself after the cares of a throne; Art, Nature, are my daily delight; artists are my table companions.”
He mentions how often he thinks of Goethe, in passing by the house where he once lived. Some passages were quoted from the Romish elegies, which showed that the King treasures them in his memory, and probably reads them again on the spot where they were written.
“He loves those elegies,” said Goethe, “and has teazed me much to know how far they are matter of fact; because those poems have so attractive an air, it seems as if there must be something in the incidents. Few people can realize that the poet is usually prompted to his highest efforts by slight occasions.
“I wish,” continued he, “that I had the King’s poems by me, that 1 might allude to them in my answer. I should think they were good, to judge from the little I have read. In form and mode of treatment he resembles Schiller, and, if he has put high thoughts into so fine a vase, the result must be good.”
He bade the servant spread out the large engraving of Rome in the next room, that he might show me the King’s villa: I felt much obliged to him. While this was doing, we talked over Claudine von Villa Bella, &c.; praised the music, which is by Reichardt.
“He has,” said Goethe, “been especially successful with Cupido, loser,” &c.
“This song,” I remarked, “throws me into a pleasant, dreamy mood.”
“It should do so;” said Goethe, “for it was born of such a one.”
Frederic came and told us that the engraving was ready. We went in. Goethe soon found the Villa Ludovisi, and, near it, the Villa di Malta.
“See,” said he, “what a superb situation! The whole city is spread out before him, and the hill is so high, that he can see quite over the buildings towards south and east. I have often visited this villa, and enjoyed the view from the windows. Here, where the city extends out towards the north-east beyond the Tiber, you see St. Peter’s and the Vatican. The long road which enters the city by the Porta del Popolo comes from Germany. I lived in one of these streets near the gate, in a corner house. They show another in Rome as the place where I lived; but it is no matter: these things are, at bottom, quite indifferent, and we must let tradition take its course.”
We returned into the dining-room.
“The Chancellor,” said I, “would enjoy that letter.”
“He shall see it,” said Goethe.
“When I am reading in the Paris newspapers the debates of the Chambers, I think always how truly the Chancellor would be in his place there. Not only wisdom is required for that element, but an inclination for and a pleasure in speaking; both of which are united in our Chancellor. Napoleon liked to speak; when he had no proper opportunity, be wrote or dictated. Blucher; too, liked it; he spoke well and with emphasis; be had cultivated his talent at the theatre. Our Grand Duke liked, it, though he was by nature laconic. When he could not speak, he wrote. He has prepared many laws, many treaties, generally very well; only princes have not time or quiet to obtain the necessary knowledge of details. In his later days he issued an order about paying for the restoration of pictures; and, princelike, he had made a mathematical calculation for paying by the foot. If the restored picture hold four square feet, pay four dollars; if twelve feet, twelve dollars. This was like a prince, but not like an artist; for a twelve-foot picture may be in such a state, that it can be cleaned in a day, while a four-foot picture may require a week. But princes, like good military men, are fond of mathematical arrangements.”
We talked of Art.
“I possess drawings,” said he, “after pictures by Raphael and Dominichino, which called from Meyer this valuable observation:—
“‘The drawings,’ said Meyer, ‘do not show great practice of hand; but it is evident that whoever made them had a delicate and just feeling about the pictures which lay before him, which has passed into the drawing, and brings the originals faithfully before the soul. If an artist of our day should copy these same pictures, his drawing would be more correct, and better finished; but he would probably want this true feeling of the originals, and we should not get from him, by any means, so correct or full an idea of Raphael or Dominichino.’
“Is not that good? And the same may be said of translations. Voss, for instance, has certainly made an excellent translation from Homer; yet, I am inclined to think, a more naïve and faithful representation of the original might have been given by one not in all respects so masterly.”
“While we are waiting for our soup, I will provide you with refreshment for your eyes.”
With these friendly words, Goethe placed before me a volume, containing landscapes by Claude Lorraine.
I had never before seen any productions of this great master. The impression they made upon me was extraordinary; and my surprise and rapture rose with every leaf I turned over.
The power of the shadowy masses on either side, the splendid sun-light streaming from the back-ground, and its reflection in the water, producing so clear and decisive an impression, struck me like the always-recurring maxims upon art of the great masters. I also was delighted to find each picture a little world by itself, in which every part harmonized with and enhanced the ruling thought. Whether it was a harbor with vessels at anchor, active fishermen and magnificent buildings on the water’s edge, or a lonely, barren hill-country, with its grazing goats, little brook and bridge, a few low bushes, and a shady tree, under which a shepherd was amusing himself with his pipe, or low moorlands with the standing pools, which, under powerful summer heat, give so pleasant an impression of coolness,—each picture was by itself, and at one with itself; no trace of any thing foreign to its element was to be seen in it.
“Here you see, for once, a complete man,” said Goethe. “Beautiful were his thoughts and feelings, and in his mind lay a world, such as you will not easily find elsewhere. “ The pictures have the highest truth, not the truth of actual life. Claude Lorraine knew the real world by heart, but used it only as means to express the world of his fair soul. That is the true Ideality, so to use the means afforded by the actual world, that the truth evolved may at first appear to be actual too.”
“Those are good words,” said I, “and would apply as well to poetry as to the plastic arts.”
“Even so,” replied Goethe. “Meanwhile, you had better defer further enjoyment of the admirable Claude till after dinner; for the pictures are too good to look at many of them at once.”
“Here,” said Goethe, “you will see in the Gazette a poem addressed to the King of Bavaria.”
I read it to myself.
“What think you of it?” said he.
“They are,” I replied, “the feelings of a Dilettant, who has more good-will than talent, and to whom the high state of literature presents language ready made, which sings and rhymes for him, while he imagines, that he himself is speaking.”
“You are perfectly right,” said he; “I also think it a very weak production. It bears no trace of observation of any thing external; it is wholly mental, and that not in the right way.”
“To write a good poem,” said I, “requires great knowledge of the subject; and he who has not, like Claude Lorraine, a whole world at his command, will seldom produce any thing good.”
“And then,” said Goethe, “only native genius knows what is to be done, while others go blundering on their way.”
“Your æsthetic teachers,” said I, “are a proof of this, for scarce one of them knows what properly should be taught, and they only confuse young poets. They speak not of the Ideal, but of the Real; instead of helping the young poet to what he has not, they confuse him about what he has. He who has from nature wit or humor, will use them to the best advantage, while scarcely conscious of possessing them; if, by these treatises, he is mode conscious of his powers, they will be paralyzed.”
“You are right,” he replied, “and a great deal might be said on that chapter.”
Speaking of the new epic of Egon Ebert, he said—
“It shows much talent, but wants the true groundwork for a poem in Reality. What he takes from observation of the external world, landscapes, sunset, and sunrise, the stars, could not be better done. But the rest, which lies in ages gone by, and belongs to the Sagas, is not painted with its proper truth; it has no pith or kernel. The Amazons, with their life and actions, are described in that general way which young people esteem poetic or romantic, and which passes for such in the æsthetic world.”
“This,” said I, “is the pervading fault of our present literature. Writers avoid special truths, for fear they should not be poetical, and th11s fall into common place.”
“Egon Ebert,” said Goethe, “should have adhered strictly to the chronicles; he would then have made something of his poem. When I remember how Schiller studied tradition, what trouble he gave himself about Switzerland when he wrote his ‘Tell,’ and how Shakspeare used the chronicles, copying into his plays whole passages word for word, I am inclined to prescribe the same course to a young poet. I have, in my ‘Clavigo,’ made use of whole passages from the ‘Memoirs’ of Beaumarchais.”
“But they are so interwoven with the rest,” said I, “that the fact is not observed.”
“That is well,” said Goethe, “if so it be. Beaumarchais was a mad Christian, and you must read his ‘Memoirs.’ Lawsuits were his element, in which he felt truly at home. There are arguments from one of his lawsuits, among the boldest, most impressive, and full of talent, which have ever been known in the kind. He lost this famous lawsuit. As he was going down the stairs from the court, he met the Chancellor coming up. Beaumarchais ought to have given place; he would not, but took half the stair. The Chancellor, thinking himself insulted, commanded his people to push Beaumarchais aside, which they did. Beaumarchais immediately returned into court, and took steps to begin a process against the Chancellor, in which he came off victor.”
We talked of Goethe’s “Second Residence in Rome.” He said—
“I have now taken it up once more, that I may finally get rid of it, and turn my attention to something else. You know that my published Italian journey was prepared from my letters. But I cannot use those in the same way which I wrote during my second visit to Rome; they contain too much about home; about my connections in Weimar; and too little about my Italian life. Yet there are many utterances or my inward life. I think of extracting these, and inserting them in my narrative, to which they will give tone and harmony.”
“It has from olden time been said and repeated, that man should strive to know himself. To this singular requisition no man either has fully answered or shall answer. Man is by sense and custom led outwards into the world, and has a great deal to do that he may know and make use of this. He knows himself only from joy or sorrow, and is only in this way instructed what to seek, and what to shun. Man is a darkened being; be knows not whence he comes, nor whither he goes; he knows little of the world, and Jess of himself. I know not myself, and may God protect me from it! But this I can say, in my fortieth year, while living in Italy, I became wise enough to know thus much of myself—that I had no talent for the plastic arts and that this tendency of mine was a false one. If I drew any thing, I had not a sufficient inclination for the corporeal. I felt a certain fear lest objects should press too much upon me; rather was I suited with the weak, the moderate. If l drew a landscape, and got well through the back- and middle-ground, I never dared making the foreground powerful enough; so that my pictures never produced the right impression. Then I made no progress except by practice, and was always obliged to go back, if I left off practising for a while. Yet I was not absolutely destitute of talent, and Hackert was wont to say, ‘If you would stay with me eighteen months, you might do something which would give pleasure to yourself and others.’”
I listened with great interest.
“But how,” said I, “can one be sure of possessing real talent for an art?”
“Real talent,” said Goethe, “possesses an innate sense for form, relations, and color, so as to manage all that well with little instruction. Especially has it a sense for the corporeal, and brings it out into palpable existence, by judicious distribution of the lights. In the intervals of practice it pauses not, but grows inwardly. Such a talent is not hard to recognize, yet best recognized by a master.
“I visited the palace this morning,” continued he, in a lively tone. “The apartments of the Grand Duchess are furnished with great taste; and Coudray has shown with his Italian people his fine judgment anew. The painters were still busy with the walls; they are two Milanese. I spoke Italian with them, and was glad to see that I had not lost the power. The language brings back, as it were, the atmosphere of the country.”
After dinner, he sent for a small plan of Rome.
“Rome,” said he, “would not do for the permanent abode of people like us. He who would settle there must marry and turn Catholic, else would be lead an uncomfortable life. Hackert is not a little proud of having lived there so long a Protestant.”
He showed me the Villa Farnese
“Was not,” said I, “the witch scene, in ‘Faust,’ written in those gardens?”
“No,” he replied, “in the Borghese gardens.”
I now refreshed myself with more landscapes by Claude.
“Could not now a young artist,” said I, “model himself on this great master?”
“He whose mind is cast in a like mould,” answered Goethe, “would, without doubt, best unfold himself on Claude Lorraine. But he whom nature did not so endow will at best know only particulars of this great master, and make use of him by way of phrase.”
I found the table set to-day in the long hall, with covers for many persons. Goethe and Frau von Goethe received me with great cordiality. One by one entered—Madame Schopenhauer, young Count Reinhard of the French embassy, his brother-in-Jaw, Von D——, passing through to enter the Russian army against the Turks, Fraulein Ulrica, and Hofrath Vogel.
Goethe was in a particularly cheerful mood, and entertained us before dinner with some pleasant Frankfort stories, especially about Rothschild and Bethmann’s interference with one another’s speculations.
Count Reinhard went to Court, and the others sat down to dinner. The conversation was lively and agreeable. They talked of travelling; of the bathing places; and Madame Schopenhauer interested us in the arrangements going on at her new estate on the. Rhine, near the Island Nonnenwerth.
After dinner, Count Reinhard returned, and was much complimented on the quickness of his motions, as he not only had dined at Court, but changed his dress twice, since he left us.
He brought us news, that a pope was chosen, and from the family of the Castiglioni. Goethe detailed to the company the ceremonies usual when pope is chosen.
Count Reinhard, who had passed the winter at Paris, gave us a great deal of desirable information about celebrated statesmen, literati, and poets—Chateaubriand, Guizot, Salvandy, Béranger, Merimée, and others.
After dinner, when all except myself had taken leave, Goethe showed me two very interesting papers. They were two letters written in his youth, one in 1770, from Strasburg, to his friend, Dr. Horn, at Frankfort; one in July, the other in December. In both spoke a young man who had a presentiment of the great things which lay before him to do. 1n the last, traces of “Werther” are visible; the Sesenheim connection bad been formed, and the happy youth, dizzy with the sweetest feelings, seemed lavishing away his days, as if in a dream. The hand-writing was calm, clear, and elegant; it had already formed to the character it always afterwards preserved. I could not forbear reading again and again these charming letters, and left Goethe full of emotions of happiness and gratitude.
Goethe read me his answer to the King of Bavaria. He had represented himself as if ascending the steps of the Villa, and expressing his feelings to the King, by word of mouth.
“It must be difficult,” said I, “to preserve exactly the proper tone and manner in such a connection.”
“Not difficult,” said Goethe, “to one who has had, during a long life, so much intercourse as I with persons of high rank. Yet perfect nature will not do; we do not meet them man to man, but must keep within the line of a certain conventional propriety.
He spoke of the papers belonging to his “Second Residence at Rome,” which he is now looking over,
“From the letters,” said he, which were written at that period, I can easily see what advantages and disadvantages come with every time of life, to balance these of earlier and later periods. In my fortieth year, I was as clear and decided on some subjects as at present, and, in many respects, superior to my present self; yet, now, in my eightieth, I possess advantages which I would not exchange for these.”
“While you made that remark,” said I, “the metamorphosis of plants came before my eyes, and I can well understand that one would not return from the flower to the green leaf, from the fruit or seed to the flower.”
“The simile,” he replied, “expresses perfectly my meaning.”
“It is bad, however, that we are so hindered in life by false tendencies, and cannot know them to be false until we are already freed from them.”
“How,” said I, “shall we know whether a tendency be false or no?”
“Either,” he replied, “the false tendency produces nothing, or nothing of worth. It is easy enough to judge about this in others; but to be just upon oneself requires great freedom of spirit. And, even if we do perceive the truth with regard to ourselves, that is not always enough; we delay, doubt, cannot resolve to part, even as the lover cannot leave the beloved maiden of whose infidelity he had repeated proof long since. This I say, because I remember how many years I was finding out that my tendency to the plastic arts was a false one, and how many, after I was sure that it was so, to separate myself entirely from it.”
“But,” said I, “that tendency has been of such advantage to you, that it can hardly be considered false.”
“I make myself easy about it,” said Goethe, “by recollecting how much it has done for me in the way of insight. That is the good we draw from these errors. He who, with inadequate abilities, devotes himself to music, will never, indeed, become a master, but may learn to know and to value a masterly production. With all my toil, I could not be an artist; but, as I tried every department of art, I learned to take cognizance of each stroke, and to know success from failure. This is no small gain; and false tendencies scarce ever fail to produce the like. Even such misdirected efforts were the Crusades; but, though they could not free the holy sepulchre, they weakened the Turks, and prevented them from gaining ground in Europe.”
He spoke to me of a book on Peter the Great, by Segur, which had interested and given him much light.
“The situation of Petersburg,” said he, “is quite unpardonable, especially as the ground rises in the neighborhood, and the Emperor could have had a city quite exempt from all this trouble from overflow of the stream, if he had but gone a little higher up, and had only the haven in this low place. An old shipmaster represented this to him, and prophesied that the people of the city would all be drowned every seventy years. There stood also an old tree, with various marks from times when the waters had risen to a great height. It was all in vain; the Emperor stood to his whim, and had the tree cut down, that it might not bear witness against him.
“You will be surprised at such conduct in so great a man. I explain it to myself thus:—Man cannot cast aside his youthful impressions; even bad things, to which he was accustomed in those early years, remain so dear to him that he cannot see their faults. So would Peter the Great repeat Amsterdam, so dear to his youth, upon the Neva; as the Dutch always try to build new Amsterdams in the distant region, where they sometimes go to live.”
I looked again at some of Claude’s landscapes. “The collection,” said Goethe, “bears the title Liber Veritatis, and might, with equal propriety, be styled Liber Naturæ et Artis,—for here we find Nature and Art in the highest state and fairest agreement.”
I asked in what school Claude Lorraine formed himself.
“His nearest master,” said Goethe, “was Antonio Tasso, who was, however, a pupil of Paul Brill, whose maxims afforded Claude a foundation, and whose school came m him to flower; for what appeared too earnest and severe in those masters, is, in Claude Lorraine, unfolded to the serenest sweetness and loveliest freedom. There is no going beyond him.
“It is difficult to say from whom so great a genius, and who lived in so remarkable a time and situation, did learn. He looked about, and appropriated every thing which could afford nourishment to his designs. No doubt he was as much indebted to the Caraccischool as to his immediate masters.
“Thus, it is usual to say, Julio Romano was the scholar of Raphael; but we might, with as much propriety, say he was the scholar of his age. Only Guido Reni had a scholar, who received so entirely into himself the spirit, intellect, and art of his master, that he was and did almost exactly the same as be. This is a case by itself, and which will hardly be repeated.
“The Caracci school, on the contrary, was calculated to set free and remove obstacles, so that each talent was developed in its natural direction, and masters proceeded from it, all entirely different one from another. The Caracci seemed born to be teachers of Art; they lived in a time when the best had already been done, and they could show their scholars the finest models in all departments. They were great artists, great teachers; but I could not say that they were truly gifted with the spirit, (geistreich.) it is a somewhat bold saying, but so it seems to me.”
After I had looked at a few more landscapes of Claude’s, I opened an Artist’s Lexicon, to see what is said of this great master. We found “His chief merit was in his palette.”
We looked at one another, and laughed.
“There you see,” said Goethe, “how much he learns who relies on books, and receives all that he finds written.”
I found Meyer with Goethe. He showed us in the Claude Lorraine volume, the engraving of the landscape, for which we lately saw in the newspapers that Peel had given four thousand pounds. He has got a beautiful picture; it is no bad bargain.
On the right side of the picture is a group of people sitting and standing. A shepherd is leaning over a girl, whom he seems to be instructing to play upon the pipe. In the middle is a lake, in the full light of the sun; on the left, cattle grazing in the shade of a grove. The two groups balance one another admirably, and the full light has the magical effect usual with that artist.
Meyer said he knew well the villa which the King of Bavaria has bought, and had often been there.
“The house is of moderate size. The King, no doubt, will adorn it, and make it attractive. In my time, the Duchess Amelia lived there, and Herder in the next house. Afterwards, the Duke of Sussex and Lord. Munster lived there. Strangers of high rank preferred it on account of the healthy situation and superb prospect.”
I asked Meyer how far it was from this Villa to the Vatican.
From Trinita di Monte, which is near the Villa, and where the artists live,” said Meyer, it is a good half league. We went over the ground daily, and often more than once a day. Sometimes we crossed the Tiber in a boat, instead of going by the bridge. I remember we were returning one fine moonlight night from the Vatican; Bury, Hirt, and Lips, were with me, and we were engaged in the customary dispute, which is the greater, Raphael or Michael Angelo. When we reached the shore, we were fully engaged in argument; some merry rogue—I think it was Bury—proposed we should remain upon the water till the strife was settled, and the parties agreed. The proposal was acceded to, and the boatman bid to put off again. Now indeed the dispute grew lively, and when we reached the opposite shore, we put back, and so on, hour after hour, which suited nobody better than the boatman, who had a new fee each time. He had with him, as his helper, a boy of twelve years old, who knew not what to make of our conduct.
“‘Father,’ said he, ‘what is the matter with these men, that they will not land, and we must keep going back?’
“‘I know not, my son,’ replied the boatman; ‘but I believe they are mad.’
“Finally, in order not to row to and fro the whole night, we agreed, and landed.”
We laughed at this anecdote. Meyer was in the best humor; he continued talking of Rome, and Goethe and I took pleasure in listening to him.
“This dispute about Raphael and Michael Angelo,” continued Meyer, “was the order of every day, and always introduced when there were a sufficient number of artists present to support both sides. It usually began at some inn where they had good wine at a cheap rate; pictures were referred to, and, if the adversary disputed the instances adduced, we would adjourn to the Sistine Chapel. The key was kept by a shoemaker, who would open it at any time, for four groschen. After having demonstrated from the pictures, and disputed long enough, we would return to the inn, to be reconciled, and forget all controversy over another bottle of wine. So was it each day; and the shoemaker of the Sistine Chapel got many times the four groschen.”
Mention was made of another shoemaker, who was in the habit of beating out his leather on an antique marble head.
“It was the portrait of a Roman Emperor,” said Meyer. “The antique stood before the shoemaker’s door, and we have often seen him engaged in this laudable occupation as we passed by.”
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