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
We talked of people who, without having any real talent, were excited to productivity, and of those who write upon subjects which they do not understand.
“What misleads young people,” said Goethe, “is this: We live in a time when culture is so diffused, that it has become the atmosphere which a young man breathes; poetical and philosophical thoughts, which he has imbibed with the air he breathes, live and move within him; he fancies them his own, and utters them as such. But after he has restored to the time what it gave him, he remains a poor man. He is like a fountain, which spouts forth a little while the water which is drawn into it, but ceases to give a drop when the loan is exhausted.”
I mentioned a person now visiting Weimar, who had heard Hegel’s Lectures on the proof of the existence of God, Goethe agreed with me, that the time for such lectures was gone by.
“The period of doubt,” said he, “is past; men now doubt as little the existence of God as their own. And the nature of the Divinity, immortality, the existence of our own souls, and their connection with our bodies, are eternal problems, which our philosophers make no progress in solving. A late French philosopher begins confidently thus:—
“It is acknowledged that man consists of two parts, body and soul; accordingly, we will begin by speaking of the body, and pass on to the soul.’
“Fichte went somewhat farther, and extricated himself more skilfully from the dilemma, when he said—
“‘We shall speak of man regarded as a body, and of man regarded as a soul.’
“He felt that a so closely combined whole could not be separated. Kant has given more satisfaction than others, by drawing the limits, beyond which, human intellect has not strength to penetrate, and leaving at rest the insoluble problems. I doubt not of our immortality, for nature cannot dispense with our continued activity. But we are not all, in like manner, immortal; and he who would manifest himself as a great Entelecheia to future ages, must begin now.
“While the Germans are tormenting themselves with these philosophical problems, the English, with their fine practical understanding, laugh at us, and win the world. Every body knows how they have declaimed against the slave trade; and, while they have made us believe they were incited solely by motives of humanity, we at last discover that they have an object, such as they do nothing without; and this we should have known before. They themselves need the blacks, in their extensive domains on the western coast of Africa, and they do not like the trade which carries them off. They have large colonies of negroes in America, which are very profitable. From these they can supply the demand from North America, and, if slaves are brought from other places, it injures their traffic; so they preach against the inhuman African slave trade. At the Congress of Vienna, the English envoy denouncing it with great zeal, the Portuguese envoy had the good sense quietly to reply, he did not know they came together to sit in judgment on the world, or to decide upon maxims of morality. He well understood the object of England; he also had his, which he knew how to plead for and obtain.”
To-day, after dinner, Goethe read me the first scene of the second act of “Faust.” The effect was great, and gave my soul a high satisfaction. We are once more in Faust’s study, where Mephistophiles finds all just as he had left it. He takes from the hook Faust’s old study-gown, and a thousand moths and insects flutter out from it. While these are quieting down again, and Mephistophiles is speaking, the locality is brought very clearly before our eyes. He puts on the gown, while Faust lies behind a curtain, in a state of paralysis, intending to play the Doctor’s part once more. He pulls the bell, and such an awful tone reverberates into the cloister, that the doors spring open and the walls tremble. The servant rushes up, and finds Mephistophiles in Faust’s seat; he does not recognize, but pays him respect. Being asked, he replies that Wagner is now become a celebrated man, but is always hoping the return of his master; that he is at this moment busy in his laboratory, seeking to produce an Homunculus. The servant retires, and the Bachelor enters; he is the same whom we knew some years ago as a shy young student, when Mephistophiles (in Faust’s gown) made such a joke of him. He is now become a man, but still is so in darkness that even Mephistophiles can do nothing with him.
“The conception,” said Goethe, “is now so old, for I have had it in my mind for fifty years; the materials have consequently accumulated to such a degree, that separation and choice are by no means easy. The scheme, even of the second part, is as old as I say; but it may be an advantage that I have not written it down till now, that I have so much knowledge of the world. I am like one who began life with a small sum in silver and copper money, which he has during his course exchanged again and again with such profit that he has it now in pure gold.”
I asked whether the Bachelor was not meant to represent a certain class of ideal philosophers.
“No,” said Goethe, “I only meant to personify the arrogance which is natural to youth, and of which we had such striking examples after our war for freedom. A man believes, in his youth, that the world properly began with him, and that all exists for his sake.
“In the East, there was a man who, every morning, collected his people about him, and never would go to work till he had commanded the sun to arise. But he was wise enough not to speak his command till the sun of its own accord was ready to appear.”
Goethe remained awhile absorbed in silent thought; then he said—
“I cannot but think that the demons, dallying with men, have placed among them single figures, so alluring that every one strives after them, so great that nobody can reach them. Raphael was one—he whose thoughts and acts were equally perfect; some distinguished followers have come near, but none has ever equalled him. Mozart represents the unattainable in music; Shakspeare in poetry. I know what you can say on the other side; but I refer to the natural dowry, the inborn wealth. Even so, none can stand by the side of Napoleon. It was great that the Russians were so moderate as not to go to Constantinople; but we find a similar trait in Napoleon—he too had the moderation not to go to Rome.”
I thought to myself that the demons had made Goethe even so—a form too alluring not to be striven after; too great to be reached.
To-day, after dinner, Goethe read me the second scene of the second act of “Faust,” where Mephistophiles visits Wagner, who is hoping to make a human being by chemical means. The work succeeds; the Homunculus appears in the phial, a shining being, and becomes at once active. He repels Wagner’s questions upon incomprehensible subjects; reasoning is not his business; he wishes to act, and begins with our hero, Faust, who needs a higher aid to shake off the paralysis. He sees into the soul of Faust, and, by describing the dream he is enjoying; brings a most charming picture before our eyes. Mephistophiles sees nothing in it, and the Homunculus jeers at his northern nature.
“Generally,” said Goethe, “you will perceive that Mephistophiles appears to disadvantage beside the Homunculus, who is like him in clearness of intellect, superior to him in his tendency to the beautiful, and to a beneficent activity. For the rest, he styles him cousin; for such intellectual beings as this Homunculus, not yet saddened and limited by the assumption of a human nature, belong to the class of demons, and thus there is a sort of relationship between him and Mephisto.”
“Certainly,” said I, “Mephistophiles occupies here but a subordinate situation; yet I cannot help thinking that he has been at work, in his secret way, to produce the Homunculus. It would be like what I have seen of him before, Thus superior in the whole, he can well afford to let himself down a little in particulars.”
“Your feeling is correct,” said Goethe; “indeed, I have doubted whether it would not be well to put some verses into the mouth of Mephistophiles, to make the reader aware of the truth.”
“It would do no harm,” said I. “Yet is this intimated by the words with which Mephistophiles closes the scene—
Von Creaturen die wir machten.’”
“True,” said Goethe, “that would be almost enough for the attentive; But I will think about adding some verses.”
I thought again of Faust’s dream about Leda.
“How,” said I, “the parts of such a work bear upon, perfect, and sustain one another! This dream of Leda is the groundwork of ‘Helena.’”
Goethe was pleased that I remarked this.
“So you will see,” said he, “how much there is in these earlier acts to harmonize the classic and romantic; this is the rising ground to the spot where both those forms of poetry are brought out, and in some sort balance one another.
“The French begin to think justly of these forms. Both classic and romantic, say they, are equally good; only let the form be used with judgment, and be the medium of valuable thoughts. You can be absurd in either, and then it is good for nothing.”
Dined with Goethe. We spoke of the Chancellor, and I asked whether he did not bring any news of Manzoni, on his return from Italy.
“He wrote to me about him,” said Goethe. Chancellor paid Manzoni a visit; he lives estate near Milan, and is, to my sorrow, sick.”
“’Tis singular,” said I, “that we generally find persons of distinguished talents, and especially poets, with very weak constitutions.”
“The extraordinary performances of these men,” he replied, “show that they are of uncommonly delicate organization, which makes them more susceptible to unusual emotions, and enables them to hear more easily the celestial voices. Such an organization is easily injured or destroyed by conflict with the world and the elements; and he who does not, like Voltaire, combine with great sensibility an equally uncommon tenacity, must lose his health entirely. Schiller was always sick. When I first knew him, I thought he could not live four weeks; but he had something of the tenacity I spoke of; he sustained himself many years, and would have done so longer, if he would have lived in a way more favorable to health.”
We spoke of the theatre, and of a certain part.
“I have seen Unzelmann in it,” said Goethe; “we always enjoyed seeing him; for he had a perfect freedom of spirit, which he imparted to us. ’Tis with acting as with all the other arts. What the artist does or has done is sure to excite in us the self-same mood in which he did it. A free mood in the artist makes us free; a restrained one restrains us. We usually find this freedom in the artist who is fully grown up to his work. This is what pleases us in the Flemish school; those artists painted the life around them, of which they were perfect masters. An actor, to have this freedom, must, by study, fancy, and disposition, have become perfect master of his part, must have all bodily requisites at his command, and be upheld by a certain youthful energy. But study is not enough without imagination; imagination is not enough without suitableness of disposition. Women do the most through imagination and temperament; thence came the excellence of Madame Wolff.”
We discussed the possibility of acting this sequel to “Faust.”
I spoke of the elephant in the carnival.
“He would not be the first elephant that has appeared on the stage,” said Goethe. “In Paris, they have one who plays a whole part. He is on a side in some public dispute, takes the crown from the head of one king, and sets it upon that of another, which, of course, must have a grand effect. When he is called for, at the close of the piece, he comes out alone, makes his reverence, and then returns. So you see that we need not want for elephants at our carnival. But it is on too large a scale, and would demand such a manager as is not easily to be found.”
“If,” said I, “it could be represented as you have designed it, the public would sit astonished, and confess that it wanted power of thought and sense fitly to receive such an empire of apparitions.”
“Go,” said Goethe, “leave your public, of which I would not willingly hear any thing. The most important is to put it in writing; then let the public receive it as it will, and use it as far as it can.”
We spoke of the boy Lenker.
“You have discovered Faust under the mask of Plutus, Mephistophiles under that of Avarice; but who is the boy Lenker?”
I hesitated, and knew not what to say.
“It is Euphorion,” said Goethe.
“But how,” said I, “can he, who is not born till the third act, appear here at the carnival?”
“Euphorion,” he replied, “is not a human, but an allegorical being. In him is Poetry personified, which is bound down to no time, no place, and no person. The same spirit, who is afterwards pleased to appear as Euphorion, is here the boy Lenker, like ghosts which are present every where, and can appear at any hour.”
[Goethe afterwards read other scenes to Eckermann; but, as only an outline of them is given, unaccompanied by any explanatory hints, they are omitted.]
Goethe showed me the “English Keepsake,” for 1830, with very fine engravings, and some extremely interesting letters’ from Lord Byron, which I read after dinner. He was, meanwhile, reading the French translation of his” Faust,” by Gérard.
“I have some singular thoughts in my head,” said he, “on finding this book translated into a language over which Voltaire had the mastery fifty years since. You cannot understand my thoughts upon this subject, because you can have no idea of the influence which Voltaire and his great contemporaries had over me in my youth, as over the whole civilized world. My biography does not clearly show how powerful was the influence of these men over me in those years; how difficult it was for me to defend myself against them, to maintain my own ground, and true relation to nature.”
We talked further about Voltaire, and Goethe recited to me his poem Les Systèmes, from which I perceived how he had studied and appropriated such things in early life.
He praised Gérard’s translation as very successful, although mostly in prose.
“I cannot read my ‘Faust,’” said he, “now, in German, but this French translation gives it back to me in all its original freshness and significance.”
“‘Faust,’” continued he, “is, indeed, incommensurable; and all attempts to bring it nearer to the understanding are in vain. Also, it should be considered, that the first part is the product of a somewhat obscure era in my mental progress. However, its very obscurity has a charm for men’s minds, exciting them to thought, as all insoluble problem, do.”
This afternoon, Goethe did me the great pleasure of reading those scenes in which Faust visits the Mothers.
The novelty and unexpectedness of this subject, with his manner of reading the scene, struck me so forcibly, that I felt myself translated into the situation of Faust, shuddering at the communication from Mephistophiles.
Although I had heard and felt the whole, yet so much remained an enigma to me, that I felt myself compelled to ask Goethe for some explanation. But he, in his usual manner, wrapped himself up in mystery, looking on me with wide, open eyes, and repeating the words—
“I can betray to you no more, except that I found, in Plutarch, that in ancient Greece the Mothers were spoken of as divinities. This is all for which I am indebted to tradition; the rest is my own invention. Take the manuscript home with you, study it carefully, and see to what conclusion you come.”
I was very glad of an opportunity to study these interesting scenes in quiet, and took thereby the following view of the peculiar characters and operations, the abode and outward circumstances, of the Mothers:—
Could we imagine that our earth had an empty space in its centre, permitting one to go hundreds of miles in one direction, without coming in contact with any thing corporeal, this might be the abode of those unknown goddesses to whom Faust descends. They do not live in any place; for nothing stands firm in their neighborhood. Neither can we attach to them the idea of time; for no heavenly body shines upon them, which, by its rising or setting, can mark the alternation of day and night.
Thus, dwelling in eternal obscurity and loneliness, these Mothers are creative beings. They are the creating and sustaining principles from which all phenomena on the surface of the earth proceed. Whatever ceases to breathe, returns in its spiritual nature to them, and they preserve it until a fit occasion rises to imbody it anew. All souls and forms of what has been, or will be, hover like clouds in the vast space of their abode.
So are the Mothers surrounded, and the magician must be able to enter their dominion, if he would obtain power over the forms of beings, and be able to call back former existences to seeming life.
The eternal metamorphoses of earthly being, birth and growth, destruction and new formation, are also the unceasing care of the Mothers; and, as in all which receives new life on earth, female influences are most busy, these creating and sustaining divinities are thought of as female, and may rightly receive the title of Mothers.
Really, this is all only poetic creation; but the limited human mind cannot penetrate far into these subjects, and is well satisfied to find something on which it may rest. We see on earth apparitions, and feel influences, whose origin and aim are equally unknown to us; this leads the mind to the idea of a spiritual source of divinity, for which we have no adequate thought and no fit expression; which we must draw down to us, and anthropomorphize, in order in some measure to imbody and make comprehensible our obscure sentiments.
So have all Mythi arisen, which from century to century have lived with nations, and, in like manner, this new one of Goethe’s, which has at least the semblance of a truth of nature, and may indeed bear comparison with the best in its kind.
“I have to-day received a letter from our famous director of the mines in Stotternheim,” said Goethe, “whose introduction I must communicate to you.
“‘I have had an experience,’ writes he, ‘which will not be lost upon me;’ and what do you suppose this is? It involves the loss of at least a thousand dollars. The shaft by which you descend through earth and stone, twelve hundred feet down to the rock salt, he improvidently omitted to prop up sufficiently at the sides. The soft ground has crumbled away, and so filled up the pit, that it will be a very expensive piece of work to clear it out again. He will then, 1200 feet down, put in metal pipes, to secure him for the future against a similar mischance. He should have done it at first; but such people as he have a fearlessness in their undertakings, which those of a different temperament cannot understand, without whose aid they would never venture on such enterprises. He takes his misfortune very coolly, and simply thinks “I have gained an experience which will not be lost upon me.” This is the conduct of such a man as I find true pleasure in; who rises from his fall, and begins to act again immediately. What say you to it? Does it not please you?”
“It reminds me of Sterne’s complaint,” I replied, “that he had not used his sorrows like a reasonable man.”
“It is something similar,” said Goethe.
“I am also reminded of Behrisch,” continued I. “Accidentally, this very day, I have been reading his chapter on experience.
“‘Experience,’ says he, ‘is only to be gained by doing something which one would not willingly have done.’”
“Yes,” said Goethe, smiling, “such is the ancient pastime in which we so shamefully lose our time.”
“Behrisch,” said I, “seems to have been a man full of sweetness and elegance. How pleasant is the joke in the wine-cellar, when he prevents the young man in such whimsical ways from visiting his mistress!”
“Yes,” said Goethe, “that is pretty; ’twould have been a most attractive scene on the stage, as, indeed, Behrisch every way shows a talent for the theatre.”
We then talked over all the odd anecdotes told of Behrisch in Goethe’s “Life;” his gray clothes, where silk, satin, and wool are shaded one with another, as if all his care had been to find some new shade of gray; how he wrote his poems imitating the compositor; his favorite pastime of lying at the window to observe the dress of the passers-by, and in his thoughts to alter it in the most ludicrous manner.
“Then his way of amusing himself with the postboys; is not that droll?”
“I do not remember that,” said I; “it is not mentioned in your memoirs.”
“Indeed,” said Goethe, “then will I tell it you. When we were lying together at the window, and be saw the letter-carrier coming up the street, and going from one house to another, he would take out a penny, and lay it on the window-sill.
“‘Seest thou the letter-carrier?’ says he, turning to me. ‘He is coming here immediately: he has a letter to thee; and what a letter! no every-day affair; but a letter with a check on the bank; with a check for, I dare not say how much; see, he is coming in. No! but he will come immediately. There he is again now; here! here! my friend, this is the place. He goes by—how stupid! O, how stupid! how can one be so stupid, and act so shamefully in two ways!—towards thee, to whom he does not give the check which he had in his hand all ready for thee, and towards himself, to lose this penny, which I had taken out for him, and must now put up again.’ Then he would put, with the most ludicrous air of dignity, the penny again in his pocket.”
I was amused with this anecdote, so like the rest. I asked Goethe whether he did not see Behrisch in later days.
“Yea,” said he, “in 1776, when I went with the Duke to Dessau, where he lived as governor of the hereditary prince. I found him, as formerly, the graceful courtier, and of the pleasantest humor.”
“I saw him last in 1801. He was an old man then, and still in the best humor. He had very handsome chambers in the castle, and had filled one of them with geraniums, of which he was then very fond.
“At that time, the botanists had made a new classification among the geraniums, and given a certain sort the name of Pelargoniums. This made Behrisch very angry. He was always scolding at the botanists. ‘Blockheads!’ said he; ‘I think I have a whole room full of geraniums, and they come and tell me they are Pelargoniums. What shall I do with them if they are not geraniums? What do I care for their Pelargoniums?’ And so he talked by the half hour together.”
We talked then of the classic “Carnival,” the beginning of which Goethe had read me some days since.
“Mythological figures,” said he, “press upon me in crowds; but I take care to use only such as will produce a picturesque effect. Faust is now with Chiron, and I hope to satisfy myself with the scene. If I am diligent, I shall finish my ‘Carnival’ in a few months. Nothing shall again distract me from ‘Faust.’ It will be strange if I live to complete it; yet it is possible. The fifth act is as good as done, and the fourth will all but write itself.”
He then spoke of his health, and said how happy he was to find himself so perfectly well.
“For this,” said he, “I may thank Vogel; but for him I should have said farewell to earth long since. He is a born physician, besides being one of the most genial men that I have ever known; but we will not say how good he is, lest he be taken from us.”
Dined with Goethe. We talked of Milton.
“I have lately,” said Goethe, “been reading his ‘Samson,’ which has more of the spirit of ancient times, than any production of any other modern poet. He is great, indeed, and his own blindness enabled him adequately to describe the situation of Samson. Milton was truly a poet; one to whom we owe all possible respect.”
The newspapers were brought in, and we saw in the “Berlin Gazette,” that whales and sea-monsters had been introduced on the stage there.
Goethe read in the French periodical, the “Times,” an article on the enormous salaries of the English clergy, who receive more than all other ecclesiastics in Christendom put together.
“It has been maintained,” said Goethe, “that the world is governed by pay; this I know, by examining the distribution of pay, we can find out whether it is well or ill governed.”
We talked of Mozart.
“I saw him,” said Goethe, “at seven years old, when he gave us a concert while travelling on that route. I myself was about fourteen years old, and remember perfectly the little man, with his frisure and sword.”
I stared, hardly able to realize that Goethe was old enough to have known Mozart when a child.
Dined with Goethe. He spoke with real gratification of the poem written by Riemer, for the festival of the 2d February.
“All,” said Goethe, “which Riemer writes, is fit to be seen both by master and journeymen.”
We talked also of the classic Walpurgis night. He said I should see no more of it till it be finished, and then I might have it, and examine it in quiet. He sent his servant to inquire after the Grand Duchess Mother, who is very ill, and seems in a dangerous situation.
“She should not have seen the masquerade,” said he; “but princes are accustomed to take their own way, and the protests of her physician and attendants were in vain. With the same strong will with which she once confronted Napoleon, she now resists sickness; and I see what this lends to: she will pass away, like the Grand Duke, in the full force and health of a mind which the body will no longer obey.”
He was visibly saddened, and kept silence for a while; but soon we spoke again on pleasanter themes, and he gave me an account of a book written in justification of Sir Hudson Lowe’s conduct.
“It contains fine anecdotes,” said be, “such as are to be had only from eye-witnesses. You know Napoleon was in the habit of wearing a dark green uniform. This was; after a while, so tarnished and faded by sunlight and constant wear, that he needed another. He wished another of the same color; but nothing of the kind was to be found on the island. There was, indeed, a piece of green cloth; but the color was imperfect, and inclined to the yellowish. The lord of the world found it impossible to put on such a color as that; and he was obliged to have his old uniform turned, and wear it so.
“Is not that tragic? Is it not pathetic, that the ruler of the world should be so reduced, that he must wear a turned uniform? Yet, when you remember how this man trampled upon the lives and happiness of millions to accomplish his objects, the retribution of destiny seems a very mild one. Nemesis could not help showing a little complaisance to so great a hero. Napoleon gives us a warning how dangerous it is to rise into the region of the absolute, and sacrifice all to the carrying out of an idea.”
I went to see the “Star of Seville,” at the theatre.
To-day, on my way to Goethe, I heard the news of the Grand Duchess Mother’s death. I entered the house full of apprehensions for the effect which this news might have on Goethe.at his’ advanced age.
The servants said his daughter-in-law was gone to tell him the sad news.
“He has been, for fifty years,” thought I, “attached to this princess, and blessed with her especial favor and friendship; her death must deeply move him,”
When I entered his room, I was surprised to find him in his usual cheerfulness and vigor, taking his soup with his daughter-in-law and grandchildren, as if nothing had happened.
We talked of indifferent things. Presently, all the bells began to toll; Frau von Goethe looked at me, and we talked louder, that the tone of the death-bells might not come so near him. We thought he felt like us; but he did not feel like us. His mind was in a wholly different position. He sat before us, like a being of a higher nature, inaccessible to earthly woes.
Vogel was announced. He sat down, and told us all the circumstances of the last hours of the noble departed; to which Goethe listened with the same calmness and composure. He went away, and we talked awhile on other subjects.
Goethe praised the “Reflections upon Play,” in the last number of “Chaos.”
Frau von Goethe took the children away, and left me alone with Goethe.
He then talked to me of his classic Walpurgis night, saying he was getting forward in it every day, and effecting wonderful things, quite beyond his expectation.
He then showed me a letter which he had to-day received from the King of Bavaria, and which I read with great interest. The King’s true and noble way of thinking was manifest in every line; and Goethe seemed much pleased by his constant interest in himself.
Hofrath Soret now entered, with a message of friendly condolence from His Imperial Highness to Goethe, which contributed to maintain his serenity. He spoke of the celebrated Ninon de L’Enclos. In her sixteenth year, this transcendent beauty lay, apparently, on her death-bed, and, with the most perfect composure, comforted those who stood around it, saying, “Do I leave mere mortals behind me?” However, she lived to the age of ninety; and from that time to her eightieth year made happy or desperate hundreds of lovers.
He then talked of Gozzi, and his theatre at Venice, where the actors had merely subjects given them, and filled up the details impromptu. Gozzi said there were only six-and-thirty tragic situations. Schiller thought there were more, but could never succeed in finding so many.
Then were said many interesting things about Grimm; about his life, his character, and his distrust of paper money.
We talked of the theatre,—of the colors of decorations and dresses. The result was as follows:—
Generally speaking, decorations should have a tone suitable to bring out the colors of dresses, like Beuther’s, which fall more or less into the brownish. But, if the scene-painter cannot use one of these undecided colors,—if, for instance, he must introduce a red or a yellow room, a white tent, or a green garden,—the actor should have the judgment to avoid similar colors in his dress. If he comes into a red room, dressed in a red uniform and green pantaloons, his body vanishes, and you see only his legs; if he goes into a green garden, in the same dress, an opposite result takes place. I have seen this happen where an actor in a white uniform and dark pantaloons appeared in a white tent. And if the scene-painter must use a green, or red, or yellow back-ground, he should make it as soft and aerial as possible, that the contrast with the dresses in the fore-ground may not be violent.
We talked of the Iliad, and Goethe called my attention to the judgment shown in leaving Achilles inactive for a time, that the other heroes may have an opportunity to come forward and unfold their characters.
Of the “Elective Affinities,” he said that it contained no stroke which was not taken from his own experience, though nothing was told just as it had happened; the same of the Sesenheim history.
After dinner, we looked through a portfolio of designs from the Flemish school. One painting of a harbor, where men on one side are drawing fresh water, and on the other are playing dice on a barrel, gave occasion to interesting remarks, as to how far the Real must be avoided if we would not mar the effect of a work of Art. The cover of the barrel takes the principal light; you see, by the men’s gestures, that they are throwing the dice, which, however, are not painted upon the cover, because they would break the light, and have a bad effect.
Ruysdael’s studies plainly showed what toil is needful to form such an artist.
Dined with Goethe. He showed me the air-plant, (Luft-planze,) which I looked at with great interest. I remarked therein an effort to continue its existence as long as possible, before permitting its successor to manifest itself.
“I have determined,” said Goethe, “to read neither the ‘Times,’ nor the ‘Globe,’ for a month to come. Things are in such a position, that some event of importance must happen within that time; I will wait till the news comes to me. My Walpurgis night will gain from this abstinence; and, besides, one gets nothing from such interests—a consideration oftentimes left. too much out of mind.”
He showed me a letter, written by Boisserée, from Munich, which had given him great pleasure. Boisserée spoke especially of the “Second Residence in Rome,” and on some points in the last sheets of “Art and Antiquity.” His observations showed equal good will and judgment; and we found cause highly to praise the activity and knowledge of this valuable man.
Goethe then spoke of a new picture, by Cornelius, as being equally fine in conception and execution; and the remark was made that opportunity for coloring a picture well must be found in the composition.
Later, while walking, the air-plant came again into my mind, and I thought how, necessary it becomes to every being, after a while, to reproduce itself This Jaw of nature reminded me of the history of God living alone for a while, and then creating the Son1 who is like him. So, too, good masters find nothing more appropriate to do than to form good scholars, by whom their efforts and opinions may be carried down into the next generation. Even so does the poet or artist reproduce himself in his work; if that is excellent, he also must have been excellent. Thus no good work of another shall excite envy in me, while from its existence I must infer that of a man worthy to be its author.
Dined with Goethe. We talked of Homer. I remarked how real and direct the interposition of the gods seems.
“That is infinitely delicate and human,” said Goethe, “and I thank Heaven the times are gone by when the French were permitted to call this interposition of the gods machinery. But, really, to learn to appreciate merits so vast required some time, for it demanded a complete regeneration of their modes of culture.”
He said he had given a new touch to enhance the beauty of the apparition of Helena, which was suggested by a remark of mine, and did honor to my perceptions.
After dinner, he showed me a sketch from a picture by Cornelius—Orpheus, before the throne of Pluto, supplicating for the release of Eurydice. The picture seemed to us well conceived, and the details excellent; yet it did not satisfy or yield a genuine pleasure to the mind. Perhaps, we thought, the coloring may give it the effect of greater harmony, or perhaps the following moment, when Orpheus bas conquered the heart of Pluto, and Eurydice is about to be restored, would have been more propitious. The situation, in that case, not being so fraught with excitement and expectation, the effect would have been more satisfactory to the beholder.
Dined at Goethe’s, with Hofrath Voigt, of Jena. The conversation turned entirely on subjects of natural history, in which Hofrath Voigt displayed the most various and comprehensive knowledge.
Goethe mentioned that he had received a letter, containing this objection to his system,—that the cotyledons are not leaves, because they had no eyes behind them. But we satisfied ourselves, by examining various plants, that the cotyledons have eyes, as well as all the following leaves.
Voigt says that the aperçu of the “Metamorphosis of Plants” is one of the most fruitful discoveries which researches into natural history have given to modern times.
We spoke of collections of stuffed birds; and Goethe told us how an Englishman kept, in great cages, hundreds of living birds, which he fed daily. Some of these died, and be had them stuffed. These stuffed birds pleased him so well, that he thought perhaps it might be better to kill them all, and have them stuffed; and this whim he actually carried into effect.
Voigt mentioned that he had thoughts of translating Cuvier’s “Natural History,” and publishing it, with some additions of his own.
After dinner, when Voigt had gone, Goethe showed me the manuscript of his Walpurgis Nacht, and I was astonished to see to what bulk it had grown.
Went to walk with Goethe before dinner. He spoke favorably of my poem on the King of Bavaria, observing that Lord Byron had had a favorable influence upon me, but that I still wanted that tact and propriety of which Voltaire was such a master; and he recommended me to take Voltaire as my model in this respect.
At table; we talked of Wieland, more particularly of his “Oberon;” and Goethe was of opinion that the foundation of this poem was weak, and that the plan bad not been sufficiently thought over before the author began to work upon it. It was not well judged to let the Fairy King procure the hairs and teeth, because the hero is left inactive all that time. But the pregnant, graceful, picturesque treatment of the subject makes the book so attractive to the reader that he never thinks of these faults.
We continued talking on various subjects, till at last we came upon Entelecheia,
“The obstinacy of the individual, and the power possessed by man of shaking off what does not suit him,” said Goethe, “is to me a proof that some such thing exists.”
I was just thinking the same thing, and was1 the better pleased when Goethe spoke it out.
“Leibnitz,” continued he, “had similar thoughts about such independent existences; and, indeed, what we style Entelecheia is the same with his Monads.”
I resolved to read Leibnitz on this subject.
Went to Goethe about twelve, and found him in fine health and spirits. He said he must lay aside the Walpurgis night for a while, to attend to the new edition of his works,
“I have been wise enough,” said he, “to stop short in mid career while I had yet many things in my mind to say. Thus it will be much easier to me to join on again, than if I had continued to write till I came to a stand.” I marked this in my mind as a valuable precept.
We were to have taken a drive before dinner, but found it so pleasant within doors, that Goethe had the horses taken out.
Meanwhile, the servant, Frederic, had been unpacking a great chest, just come from Paris. It was a present from David, the sculptor—bass-relief portraits, in plaster, of fifty-seven celebrated persons. We had great pleasure in examining them, and observing characteristic traits.
I was particularly interested by Merimée; the head was powerful and bold as his genius, and, as Goethe remarked, had somewhat of the humorist. Victor Hugo, Alfred de Vigny, Emile Deschamps, showed themselves as free, tranquil, and of decided character. We were rejoiced to see Mademoiselle Gay, Madame Tastü, and other young female writers. The powerful head of Fabvier reminded us of the men of earlier ages; we looked at it again and again.
Goethe said repeatedly that he could not adequately show his gratitude to David for sending him such a treasure. He would show this collection to strangers, and, in that way, get light on some of these personages, who were not well known to him.
Some books also were in the chest, which he had taken into another room. Before looking at them, we were to dine. We had a very pleasant talk on plans and modes of working.
“It is not good for man to be alone,” said Goethe. “He needs sympathy and suggestion to do any thing well. I owe to Schiller ‘Achilleis,’ and many of my ballads, to which he urged me; and shall be in like manner indebted to you, if I should complete the second part of ‘Faust.’ I have often said so before, but I repeat it, to make sure that you are aware of it.”
These words rejoiced me, for I felt that there was much truth in what he said. After dinner, Goethe opened one of the packets. This contained the poems of Emile Deschamps, accompanied by a letter, which Goethe showed me. I saw with delight what influence was attributed to Goethe over the new life of French literature, and how the young poets loved and revered him as their intellectual head. So had Shakspeare worked upon the youth of Goethe. It could not be said of Voltaire, that he had any such influence on the young poets of other countries; so that they combined to work according to his ideas, esteeming him as their teacher and master. The letter of Deschamps was written with a charming cordiality and freedom.
“You see there the spring time of a beautiful mind,” said Goethe.
We found also a leaf, which David had sent with various drawings of the hats of Napoleon.
“That is something for my son,” said Goethe, and sent him the leaf immediately.
The young Goethe came down, full of glee, declaring that these hats were the non plus ultra for his collection. Five minutes had not passed before the leaf, under glass and in a frame, was in its place among other mementoes of the hero.
Next day, Herr von Goethe came to see me, and informed me that he was now to set forth on his longexpected journey to Italy; that his father had given him the necessary sum, and that he wished I should be his companion. We rejoiced together, and talked over our preparations.
At noon I went to Goethe’s house. As soon as I came in, he beckoned me to the window. He expressed his satisfaction at his son’s project, and spoke with pleasure of the advantages I should derive from it as to my general culture.
He showed me then a Christ with twelve apostles, and we spoke of the imperfections of such figures as subjects for the sculptor.
“One apostle,” said Goethe, “generally looks just as the other; for very few have lives and deeds which would give them distinct character and meaning. I have lately amused myself with inventing a cycle of twelve biblical figures, where each one has meaning, each a distinct character, and therefore each one is a suitable object for the artist.
“First, Adam, the handsomest of men, as perfect in his form as can be imagined. He may lean one hand upon a spade, as a symbol that it is the vocation of man to till the earth.
“Next, Noah, with whom a new creation begins. He cultivates the vine; and this figure may have something of the expression of the Indian Bacchus.
“Next, Moses, as the first lawgiver.
“Then, David, warrior and king.
“Next, Isaiah, prince and prophet.
“Daniel, as beating a reference to the future Messiah.
“Christ.
“Next to him, John, who loves the present Messiah.
“In this way, Christ would be placed between two youthful figures; of which, the one, Daniel, should be painted as of a gentle countenance, with long hair; but John with more impassioned looks, and short, clustering locks.
“The Captain of Capernaum, as a representative of the believing souls, who were expecting immediate assistance.
“Next, Mary Magdalene, as representative of the penitent—of those who need forgiveness and reformation.
“The idea of Christianity is contained in these two figures.
“Then Paul might come, who most contributed to spread abroad the new law.
“Then James, who went to the farthest nations, and represents missionaries.
“You might close with Peter. The artist should place him near the door, and give him an expression, as if he were carefully examining those who wish to enter, to see whether they are worthy the sanctuary.
“What say you to this cycle? Would it not be richer than that of the twelve apostles, where each looks just like the others? I would paint the Moses and the Magdalen sitting.”
I begged Goethe to put this on paper, and he promised to do so, and give it me for the thirty-ninth volume.
Dined with Goethe. He spoke upon the journey of his son, and that we ought not to delude ourselves with over-great expectations.
“Men usually come back much as they went away,” said he; “indeed, we must beware lest we return with thoughts which unfit µs for the life we must afterwards leave. I brought from Italy the idea of their fine staircases, and have consequently spoiled my house since, by introducing such a one there; the rooms are all smaller than they should have been. The most important thing is to learn to rule oneself. If I gave way to my impulses, I have such as might ruin me and all about me.”
We talked then about ill health, and about the reciprocal influences of body and mind.
“The mind.” said Goethe, “is capable of incredible efforts to sustain the body. I suffer much from pain and oppression, but a strong will keeps me up. The mind need only refuse to indulge the body. Thus I cannot work as well when the barometer stands low, as when it is high: since I have observed this, I have exerted myself the more when it is low, and not without success.
“But there are things in the way of poetry which suffer no constraint; and we must wait the favorable hour for what we cannot obtain by mental determination. So I have left myself time for my classical Carnival, that I may work upon it in the fulness of strength and serenity.
“I have endeavored to make distinct sketches of every part, in the true antique style, so that there may be nothing vague or undecided, which might suit the romantic style well enough.
“The idea of the distinction between classical and romantic poetry, which is spread over the civilized world, and occasioned so many quarrels and divisions, came originally from Schiller and myself. I preferred an objective treatment in poetry, and drew thence my rules of criticism; but Schiller, who worked in the subjective way, defended his own fashion, and wrote, with that design, the treatise upon ‘Naïve and Sentimental Poetry.’ He proved to me that I myself, though against my will, was a romantic poet, and my ‘Iphigenia’ too much animated by sentiment to be as classical as some people supposed.
“The Schlegels took up this idea, and carried it further, so that it has since been diffused over the whole world; and now every one talks about classical and romantic—a distinction of which nobody dreamed fifty years ago.”
I turned the conversation again upon the cycle of twelve figures, and Goethe further explained it to me thus—
“It would be best to take Adam after the fall: therefore he should be clothed with a thin deer-skin; and, at the same time, in order to express that he is the father of the human race, it would be well to place by him his eldest son, a fearless boy, looking boldly about him—a little Hercules stifling a snake in his hand.
“And I have had another thought about Noah, which pleases me better. I would not have him like an Indian Bacchus; but I will have him as a vintager, which would give the idea of a benefactor, who, as fosterer of the vine, made men free from the sorrows of care and poverty.”
He showed me the engraving of Neureuther, for his legend of the horse-shoe.
“The artist,” said I, “has given the Savior only eight disciples.”
“Eight are too many,” replied Goethe; “and he did wisely to divide them into two groups, and thus avoid the monotony of an unmeaning procession:”
The pleasantest conversation at table to-day with Goethe. He told me about a French poem which he had found, in manuscript, in the collection of David, under the title “The Laugh of Mirabeau.”
“This poem is full of spirit and boldness,” said Goethe. “You must see it. It seems as if Mephistophiles had prepared the ink for the poet. It is great if he wrote it without having read ‘Faust,’ and no less great if he had read it.”
I took my leave to-day of Goethe, as we, were to set out next morning early for Italy. He charged me to observe very carefully, and write to him now and then. I felt some pain at bidding him farewell, but the sight of his firm health, and my trust that we should meet again in happiness, were my comfort.
He gave me an album, in which he had written these words—
“‘Es geht vouraber eh’ ich’s gewahr werde,
Und verwsndelt sich eh’ ich’s merke.’1
‘Weimar, 21st April, 1830.”
[Here follows a short sketch of Eckermann’s visit to Italy. A few letters are inserted from Goethe, of little interest, chiefly valuable as showing the confidence and affection which he felt towards the absent friend. In November, Eckermann set out on his return to Weimar, leaving young Goethe behind him in Italy. On his journey, Eckermann heard, at an inn on the road to Göttingen, of that blow,—the last and heaviest of Goethe’s life,—the death of his only son. He says—]
I took a light, and went to my chamber; that I might not exhibit my agitation before strangers. I passed a sleepless night. I could not, for a moment, forget the misfortune which touched me so nearly. On the journey, I fared no better. Vainly did I seek, in the desolate country, beneath a gloomy November sky, for some object that might distract my attention; whenever I stopped at an inn, I heard the subject of my grief mentioned as the latest topic of the day. I was most of all distressed by the fear that Goethe, at so advanced an age, could not outlive the tempest of paternal grief.
“And what an impression,” said I to myself, “must my return produce! I, who went out with his son, and now come back alone! He will feel, when he sees me, as if he had never before realized his loss!”
Amid such thoughts and feelings, I reached Weimar, at six o’clock, the evening of the 23d November. I felt once again what cruel moments human beings must go through. In thought, I conversed with higher beings; and when the moon, which had been veiled in thick clouds, emerged for a few moments, I received it, whether accident or no, as a token of favor from above, and was thus unexpectedly strengthened and reassured.
I went almost immediately to Goethe’s house. I saw first Frau von Goethe. I found her already clad in deep mourning, but collected and tranquil; and we had much to say to one another.
I then went to Goethe. He stood upright and firm, and clasped me in his arms. I found him perfectly serene and tranquil. We sat down, and began to talk immediately. I was extremely happy in being with him once more. He showed me two letters which he had begun while I was at Nordheim, but did not send. We talked of the Grand Duchess, the Prince, and many others; but no word was said of his son.
Goethe sent me some books, which had arrived as presents for me from English and German authors.
At noon, I went to him. I found him looking at a portfolio of engravings and drawings, which had been offered him for sale. He told me he had had the pleasure, that morning, of a visit from the Grand Duchess, to whom he had mentioned my return.
Frau von Goethe joined us, and we sat down to dinner. Goethe asked an account of my travels. I spoke of Milan, Venice, Genoa; and he seemed particularly interested about the family of the English consul there. I then spoke of Geneva; and he asked with sympathy after the Soret family, and Herr von Bonstetten. He wished a particular account of this last, and I satisfied him as well as I could.
After dinner, I was pleased that he spoke of my “Conversations.”
“It must be your first work,” said he; “and we will not let it go till the whole be distinct and complete.”
But Goethe to-day appeared to me unusually silent, and oftentimes lost in thought, which I feared was no good sign.
Last Friday, we were thrown into a state of great anxiety. Goethe was seized with a hemorrhage in the night, and was near death all the day. He lost, counting the vein they opened, six pounds of blood—a great quantity, at his age. However, the great skill of his physician, Hofrath Vogel, and his incomparable constitution, have saved him this time. He recovers rapidly, has already an excellent appetite, and sleeps again all night. Nobody is admitted, as he is forbidden to speak; but his always active mind cannot rest, he is already thinking of his work. This morning, I received from him the following note, written in bed, with a lead pencil:—
“Have the goodness, my best Doctor, to look yet once again at the accompanying poems, and to rearrange the others, so as to adapt these to their place in the whole. ‘Faust’ shall presently follow.
“Weimar, 30th November, 1830.”
As soon as Goethe had recovered, he busied himself with finishing “Faust,” and with the fourth volume of Dichtung und Wahrheit.
He wished me to examine his heretofore unpublished writings, his journals and letters, that we might know exactly what we had best do about the new edition.
Examining my “Conversations” with him was at present out of the question. I thought it wiser, instead of arranging what I had already, to add to my stock while opportunity was still vouchsafed me by a kindly fate.
[Some pages are here occupied by an account of the method which Eckerman proposed to adopt in publishing Goethe’s letters. He detailed it to Goethe, who replied—]
“I will appoint you, in my will, editor of these letters, and mention that we agreed entirely as to the method best to adopt in their arrangement.”
Apropos to some remarks upon Voss’s “Luise,” Goethe said—
“The critics, now-a-days, trouble themselves greatly if in rhyme an s instead of a ss alternates with an s; such is the devotion to the technics of poetry. Were young and daring enough, I would, intentionally, sin against their technical fastidiousness. I would use alliterations, assonances, and false rhymes, whenever they came in my way, and suited my convenience. I would fix my attention on what is important, and say such good things, that every one would be anxious to read and learn them by heart.”
Goethe spoke with high praise of Carl Schöne, a young philologist of Leipsic, who has written a work upon the costume proper for the plays of Euripides; and, though possessed of extensive learning, bas made use of it only so far as was necessary to his aim.
“I am delighted,” said Goethe, “to see the productive intelligence with which he seizes upon his subject; for other philologists have of late wasted much time upon technics, and long and short syllables.
“Too great attention to technical minutiæ is a sign of an unproductive time and an unproductive individual.
“Some have other hinderances. Count Platen, for instance, has almost all the essentials for a good poet—imagination, invention, soul to feel, fertility to reproduce; he is complete in the technical part, and has a studiousness and an earnestness which few could rival; but he is hindered by his unfortunate polemical tendency. That he cannot, amid the magnificence of Rome and Naples, forget the paltry concerns of German literature, is unpardonable in a man of such abilities.
“The ‘Romantic Œdipus’ gives tokens that; especially as to technics, Platen was just the man to write a, first-rate German tragedy; but how will be do it after he has used the springs of tragedy to set his parody in motion?
“And then (what is not duly kept in mind) these quarrels occupy the thoughts; the images of our foes are like ghosts gliding between us and, all free creation, and disturbing the otherwise sufficiently fragile harmony of nature.
“Lord Byron was ruined by his love for polemics; and Platen should, for the honor of German literature, quit forever a path which can lead to no good.”
I have been reading in the New Testament, and thinking of a picture Goethe showed me of Christ walking on the water, and Peter coming towards him; at the moment when the apostle begins to sink, in consequence of losing his faith for a moment.
“This,” said Goethe, “is a most beautiful history, and one which I love better than any. It expresses the noble doctrine, that man, through faith and animated courage, may come off victor in the most dangerous enterprises, while he may be ruined by a momentary paroxysm of doubt.”
Goethe told me that he was engaged with the fourth act of “Faust,” and had succeeded to his wish in the beginning.
“I had,” said he, “long since the what, as you know, but was not easy about the how; it is the more pleasant that good thoughts come to me.
“I will now invent throughout, from ‘Helena’ to the fifth act, which is finished, and make out a detailed plan, that I may work with pleasure and security on parts, as they attract me.
“This act is to bear a quite peculiar character, so that it, like a by-itself-existing little world, need never touch the others, and is only connected with the whole by a slight reference to what precedes and follows it.”
“It will also,” said I, “be perfectly in character with the rest; for, in fact, are not Auerbach’s cellar, the witches’ kitchen, the Blocksberg, the imperial diet, the masquerade, the paper money, the laboratory, the classic Walpurgis night, Helena, also by themselves, existing little worlds, which, each shut up within itself, do indeed work upon; yet do not depend upon, one another? The poet, wishing to speak out a manifold world, uses the story of a famous personage as a thread on which he may string what he pleases. Even so are ‘Gil Blas’ and the ‘Odyssey’ constructed.”
“True,” said Goethe; “ and what is important in such compositions is, that the parts should be clear and significant, while the whole is incommensurable, and even on that account, like an unsolved problem, lures men to busy themselves with it again and again.”
I spoke of a letter from a young soldier, whom I and other friends had advised to go into foreign service. Now, not being pleased with his situation, he blames his advisers.
“When one,” said Goethe, “has looked about him in the world long enough, to see how the most judicious enterprises frequently fail, and the most absurd have the good fortune to succeed, he becomes disinclined to give any one advice. At bottom, he who asks advice shows himself limited; he who gives it gives also proof that he is presumptuous. If any one asks me for good advice, I say I will give it, but only on condition that you will promise not to take it.”
The conversation turning on the, New Testament, I mentioned that I had been reading again the account of Christ walking on the sea, &c.
“When one has not, for some time, read the Evangelists;” said I, “he is astonished at the moral grandeur of the figures. We find in the lofty demands made upon our moral power of will a sort of categorical imperative.”
“Especially,” said Goethe, “do we find the categorical imperative of faith, which, indeed, Mahomet carried still farther.”
“For the rest,” said I, “the Evangelists are, if you look closely into them, full of differences and contradictions; and the books must have gone through strange revolutions of destiny, before they were brought together in their present arrangement.”
“’Tis like trying to drink out a sea,” said Goethe, “to enter into an historical and critical examination of them. It is the best way to appropriate from what is really there such portions as we can use, to strengthen our characters and advance our moral culture. But, as it is pleasant to get a clear notion of the localities, I recommend to you Rohr’s admirable book on Palestine. The late Grand Duke was so pleased with this book, that he bought it twice, giving the first copy to the library, after he had read it, and keeping the other always by him.”
I wondered that the Grand Duke should take an interest in th.is subject.
“Therein,” said Goethe, “was he great. He was interested in every thing significant, in whatsoever department it lay. He was always progressive, and sought to domesticate all the good inventions and institutions of his time. If any failed, he spoke of it no more. I often thought how I should excuse to him this or that failure; but he always ignored it in the cheerfulest way, and was immediately engaged with some new plan. This greatness was a part of his being—not acquired, but inborn.”
We looked, after dinner, at some engravings, from pictures by the most modern artists.
“You see,” said Goethe, “that none of these are manly. Good natural talents are here, that have attained a high degree of taste and skill. But manliness, (mark and underscore the word,) a certain determined energy which was always to be found in the earlier ages, is wanting to the present, not only in painting, but in all the other arts. The present is a weaker race, whether by birth, or from some fault in their education and nourishment.”
“Certainly, in art and poetry, the personality of the artist is all in all, though certain weak critics and connoisseurs of our day will not acknowledge this, and treat a grand personality as an accessory of little importance to a work.
“But, really, in order to feel and admire a grand personality, a man must himself be somewhat. All who have denied Euripides the praise of sublimity, were either poor herrings, incapable of such exaltations or shameless charlatans, who, by dint of presumption, seemed, to the world more than they really were.”
Dined with Goethe.
“It is remarkable,” said I, “that, of all talents, the musical shows itself earliest; so that Mozart ill his fifth, Beethoven in his eighth, and Hummel in his ninth year, astonished all near them by their performance and compositions.”
“The musical talent,” said Goethe, “may well show itself earliest of any; for it is innate; its life is within; it needs little nourishment from without, and little experience drawn from life. Really, as apparition like that of Mozart remains always an inexplicable prodigy. But how would the Divinity find every where opportunity to do wonders, if it did not sometimes try its powers on extraordinary individuals, at whom we stand astonished, unable to understand whence they come?”
Dined with Goethe. I told him about the theatre; he praised the piece given yesterday—“Henry III.,” by Dumas—as of great excellence; but found it very natural that such a dish should not suit the public.
“I should not,” said he, “have ventured to give it when I was director; for I remember well what trouble we had to smuggle upon the public the ‘Constant Prince,’ which has far more general human interest, is more poetic, and lies nearer us, than Henry III.’”
I spoke of the “Grand Cophta,” which I had been re-perusing. I expressed a wish to see it on the stage.
“I am pleased,” said Goethe, “that you like that piece, and find there what I have labored to put in. It was indeed no little labor to make an entirely real fact first, poetical, and then theatrical. And yet you will grant that it is, throughout, suited to the stage. Schiller was, also very partial to it; and we gave it once, with brilliant effect, for the higher order of men. But it is not for the public in general; the criminal transactions preserve an apprehensive character, which prevents their coming home to the people. Its bold character places it, indeed, in the sphere of ‘Clara Gazul;’ and the French poet might envy roe for taking from him so good a subject;—so good a subject, because not merely of moral, but also of great historical significance; for this fact immediately preceded the French Revolution, and was, in some sort, its foundation. That fatal story of the necklace destroyed the dignity of the Queen, and deprived her of esteem; thus she lost, in the eyes of the people, that stand-point where she was unassailable. Hate injures no one; it is contempt that casts men headlong. Kotzebue had been hated long; but not till certain journals had made him contemptible, did the student dare to use his dagger upon him!”
Dined with Goethe. I brought him his “Residence at Carlsbad,” from the year 1807, which I had finished examining that morning. We spoke of wise passages inserted there as hasty remarks of the day.
“People always fancy,” said Goethe, laughing, “that we cannot become wise, without becoming old also; but, in truth, as years accumulate, it is hard to keep ourselves as wise as we were. Man becomes, in the different stages of his life, indeed, a different being; but he cannot say that he will surely be a better as he goes onward, and, in certain matters, he is as likely to be right in his twentieth, as in his sixtieth year.
“We see the world one way from a plain, another way from the promontory, another from the glacier fields, of the Alps. We see, from one of these points, a larger piece of world than from the other; but who can say that we see most truly from any one of them? When a writer leaves monuments on the different steps of his life, it is chiefly important that he should have from nature a foundation, and goodwill; that he should, at each step, see and feel clearly, and say distinctly and truly, what has passed in his mind. Then will his, writings, if they were true to the season in which they originated, remain always true and right, however the writer may unfold or alter.
“Lately, I found, on a piece of waste paper, something that pleased me. I said to myself, ‘Thou wouldst have said much the same.’ But, as I looked more closely at the leaf, it was from one of my own works. For, as I am always striving onwards, I forget what I have written, and soon regard my things as foreign matter.”
I asked about “Faust.”
“That,” said Goethe, “will not again let me loose. I daily think and invent more md more upon it. I have now had the whole manuscript of the second part sewed into books, that it may lie a palpable mass before my eye. The place of the yet wanting fourth act is filled with white paper; and, undoubtedly, what is finished will allure and urge me to complete the whole. There is more than is thought in these matters of sense, and we must come to the aid of the spiritual by all manner of devices.”
He sent for the manuscript, and I was surprised to see how much he had written.
“And all,” said I, “in the six years that I have been here, amid so many occupations and hinderances! How much a work grows, even if we can only now and then attend to it!”
“Of that one is still more convinced as he grows older,” said Goethe; “while youth believes all must be done in one day. Next spring, if fortune favor, and I continue in good health, I hope to get a great way on with this fourth act. It was, as you know, long since invented; only the other parts have, in the mean time, grown so much that I can use only the outline of my first im1ention for this, and must fill out so as to make it of a piece with the rest.”
“A far richer world is displayed,” said I, “in this second part than in the first.”
“I should think so,” said Goethe. “The first part is almost entirely subjective; it proceeded from that oppressed, impassioned state of the individual character, whose semi-darkness excites such agreeable feelings in the minds of men. But, in the second part, there is scarce any thing of the subjective; here is seen a higher, broader, clearer, more passionless world, and he who has not lived and looked about him some time, will not know what to make of it.”
“There may be found exercise for thought,” said I; “some learning is also needful. I was glad that I had read Schelling’s Kabirenschrift; for else had I not known the meaning of that famous passage in the Walpurgis night.”
“I have always found,” said Goethe, laughing, “that it is well to know something.”
——————————
1 [Lo, he goeth by me, and I see him not; he passeth on also, but I perceive him not.” Job.-TRANSL.]
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