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
Dined with Goethe. We talked of different forms of government; and it was remarked what difficulties a too liberal form presents, calling forth the demands of individuals, and wishes in such multitudes, that it is hopeless to try to satisfy them. It will be found that the greatest goodness, mildness, and moral delicacy, in those who have the upper places, will not suffice, while they have beneath, a mixed and vicious world to manage and hold in respect.
It was also remarked that the art of governing is a great one, requiring the whole man, and that it is therefore not well for a ruler to have too strong tendencies to other affairs; the fine arts, for instance, by which means not only the interest of the Prince, but the powers of the State must be withdrawn from what is more necessary. An overruling partiality for the fine arts suits best a rich private man.
Goethe told me that his “Metamorphosis of Plants,” with Soret’s translation, was going on well, and that, in his supplementary labors on these subjects, particularly on the “Spiral,” quite unexpected favorable things had come to his aid from without.
“We have,” said he, “as you know, been busy with this translation already more than a year; a thousand hinderances have come in our way; the enterprise has often stood still, quite refractory, and I have often cursed it in silence. But now I could do reverence to those very hinderances; for these delays have given opportunity for excellent men to ripen matters abroad, which now bring the finest water to my mill, and will bring my work to a far better conclusion than I could have imagined a year ago. The like has often happened to me in life; and thence one is led to believe in the interposition of a demoniacal power—a higher influence, which we adore without presuming to explain it.”
Dined at Goethe’s, with Hofrath Vogel. A slight sketch of the island Heligoland had been sent to Goethe, which he read with great interest; telling us what he found important in it.
Vogel told, as news of the day, how the natural small-pox, in defiance of inoculation, had broken out in Eisenach, carrying many off in a short time.
“Nature,” said Vogel, “plays us a trick every now and then; and we must waylay her, if oar theory is to keep up with her. Inoculation was thought so sure a remedy, that a law was made to enforce it; but this Eisenach affair, in which the natural followed the artificial disease, makes the remedy suspicious, and weakens the law.”
“Yet,” said Goethe, “I would enforce inoculation as strictly as before: these little exceptions should not be thought of when compared with the immeasurable benefits it has conferred.”
“I think so too,” said Vogel, “and am inclined to maintain that, in all such cases as this of Eisenach, the inoculation was imperfect. If inoculation is to be a protection; it must induce fever; mere irritation of the skin, without fever, is not enough. I have, therefore, proposed a measure to-day to the council, which, I think, will insure safety.”
“It is natural to man,” said Goethe, “to regard himself as the object of the creation, and to think of all things in relation to himself, and the degree in which they can serve and be useful to him. He takes possession of the animal and vegetable world, and, while he swallows other creatures as his proper food, he acknowledges his God, and thanks the paternal kindness which has made such provision for him. He takes her milk from the cow, honey from the bee, wool from the sheep, and, while he turns these things to his own use, believes they were made for him. Indeed, he cannot believe that the smallest herb is here, except for his use, and, if he has not yet found out how to serve himself with it, doubts not be shall do so at some future time. But, if be aims at science, he soon finds that progress is inconsistent with such low views.
“These utilitarian teachers say, ‘The ox has horns to defend himself.’ Then I ask, ‘Why has the sheep none? or, if he has, why are they so wrapped up with his ears as to be useless to him?’ But it is another thing if I say, ‘The ox defends himself with his horns because he has them.’
“Inquiry after the aim, the question wherefore, is, at any rate, not scientific. We get a little further with the question how; for, if I ask, ‘How is it that the ox has horns?’ I am led to examine his organization, and learn at the same time why the lion neither has nor can have horns.
“So has man in his skull two unfilled cavities. The question wherefore would not carry us far; but the question how teaches us that these hollows are remains of the animal organization frequently to be met in those lower organizations, which man, with all his-dignity, has not yet got beyond.
“The teachers of whom I speak would think they lost their divinity, if they did not adore him who gave the ox horns to defend himself with. But let them permit me to venerate him who was so great in the magnificence of his creations, as, after making a thousand-fold plants, to comprehend them all in one; and, after a thousand-fold animals, to make that one which comprehends them all—Man.
“Further, they venerate him who gives the beast his fodder, and to man, meat and drink, as much as he can enjoy. But I worship him who has infused into the world such a power of production, that, if only the millionth part of it should pass out into life, the world must swarm with creatures to such a degree that war, pestilence, fire, and water cannot prevail against them. That is my God!”
Goethe praised Schelling’s last discourse, delivered for the satisfaction of the students at Munich.
“It is good through and through,” said he; “and we rejoice once again at the distinguished talents which we have long known and admired. In this case he had an excellent subject and a worthy design, and his success has been proportionably great. If the same could be said of the subject and design of his Kabirenschrift, that would claim equal praise, he has displayed in it such rhetorical talent and art.”
From this we were led to the Walpurgis night.
“The old, Walpurgis night,” said Goethe, “is monarchical, while the devil is there throughout respected as chief. But the classic Walpurgis night is republican; while all stand on a plain near one another, so “that each is as prominent as his associates, nobody is subordinated or troubled about the others.”
“And,” said I, “the classic assembly is composed of sharply outlined individualities, while, on the German Blocksberg, each individuality is lost in the general witch-mass.”
“Therefore,” said Goethe, “Mephistophiles knows what is meant when the Homunculus speak! to him of Thessalian witches. One acquainted with ancient times will have many thoughts suggested by these words, (Thessalian witches,) while, to the unlearned, it remains a mere name.”
“Antiquity,” said I, “must be very living to you, else you could not endow the figures with such fresh new life, and use them with such freedom as you have.”
“Without a life-long acquaintance with plastic art,” said Goethe, “it would not have been possible to me. The difficulty lay in observing due moderation amid such plenty, and resolutely avoiding figures that did not fit into my plan. I avoided, for instance, using the Minotaur, the Harpies, and other monsters.”
Upper-Consistorial Counsellor Schwabe met me in the street. I walked with him a little way; he told me of his manifold occupations, and I was interested in looking at the sphere of action of this distinguished man. He observed that he employed his spare hours in editing a volume of new sermons; that one of his school-books had lately been translated into Danish, and forty thousand copies of it sold, and that it had been introduced into the best schools of Prussia. He begged me to, visit him, which I gladly promised to do.
At dinner, I spoke to Goethe of Schwabe, and he agreed entirely with my praises of him.
“The Grand Duchess;” said he, “who always appreciates the people she has about her so justly, values him at a high rate. You do well to visit him, and I should like to have you ask his permission for me to have a drawing of him for my collection of portraits.
“If you show sympathy in what he is doing and planning, you will have an opportunity of observing a peculiar sphere of action, which cannot be tightly understood, unless by close intercourse with such a man.”
I took a drive with Goethe.
We spoke of the high significance of the original phenomena, (Urphänomene,) behind which we believe the Divinity may directly be discerned.
“I ask not,” said Goethe, “whether this highest Being has reason and understanding, for I feel that He is Reason, is Understanding itself. Therewith are all creatures penetrated; and man so much so, that he can recognize parts of the Highest.”
At table, the efforts of certain inquirers into nature were mentioned to penetrate the organic world by ascending through mineralogy.
“This,” said Goethe, “is a great mistake. In the mineralogical world, the simplest, in the organic world, the most complex, is the most excellent. We see, too, that- these two worlds have quite different tendencies, and that no stepwise progress from one to the other is to be expected:”
I treasured this remark as of great significance.
“The difficulty with nature,” said Goethe, “is, to see the law where it hides itself from us, and not to be led astray by appearances which are contradicted by our senses. Many things in nature, which are contradicted by our senses, are nevertheless true. That the son stands still, neither rises nor sets, and that the earth turns about daily with inconceivable swiftness, contradicts our senses as much as any thing can; yet no well-instructed person doubts that it is so. Even such contradictory phenomena are found in the world of plants; and we must take heed lest they lead us astray.”
I busied myself all day with the manuscript of the fourth volume of Goethe’s “Life,” which he sent me yesterday, that I might see what was yet to be done to it. I was very happy with this work, thinking what it already is, and what it may become. Some books of it seem quite complete, and leave nothing further to wish. In others may be perceived a certain want of congruity, which may be caused by Goethe’s having worked upon them at different times.
All this fourth volume is quite different from the three that precede it. They are, throughout, progressive in a given direction, so that the way passes through many years. In this one, time seems scarce to be in motion, and no decided exertions are perceptible in the principal person. Many things are undertaken, but not finished; many willed, but otherwise guided; every where we feel a secret influence, a kind of Destiny, drawing out many threads for the web which future years must complete.
This volume, therefore, affords a suitable occasion to speak of that secret, problematical power, which all men feel, which no philosopher explains, and over which the religious help themselves with courageous words.
Goethe names this unspeakable world and life-enigma the Demoniacal, (Dämonische; ) and, while he defines its existence, we feel that so it is, and a curtain seems to have been drawn away from a certain background of our life. We seem to see further and more clearly, but, after a while, perceive that the object is too great and manifold, and that our eyesight cannot penetrate beyond a certain limit.
Man is born only for the Little; only what is known to him can be appreciated by him, or give him pleasure. A great connoisseur understands a picture; he knows how to combine the various particulars with the Universal, which is familiar to him; the whole is, to his mind, as living as any one part. Neither does he entertain a partiality for detached portions; he asks not whether such a face is ugly or beautiful, such a part clear or dark, but whether each be in its place, and in harmony with the law of the whole. Show an ignorant man a picture of some compass, and we shall see that, as a whole, it either does not move or confuses him; that some parts attract, others repel him; and that he at last abides by little things which are known to him, praising, perhaps, the execution of a helmet or plume.
But, in fact, we men play more or less the part of this ignoramus before the great destiny picture of the world. The well-lighted parts, the Agreeable attracts us, the shadowy or unpleasant parts repel us, the whole confuses us, and we vainly seek the idea of a single being, to whom we attribute all these contradictions.
And if it be possible, in human things, to become a great connoisseur, appropriating the art and knowledge of a master, yet, in divine things, this is only possible to a being equal in nature to the Highest. If any one attempts to make such mysteries clear to us, we cannot receive or understand what is offered; but are like that ignoramus before the picture, to whom the connoisseur cannot impart the premises from which he judges by any forms of speech he can use. On this account is it right that forms of religion should not be bestowed directly by God himself, but should, as the work of eminent men, be conformed to the wants and the understanding of the masses. If they were the work of God, no man could understand them; but, being the work of men, they do not express the Inscrutable.
The religion of the highly-cultivated ancient Greeks went no further than to give sensible representations of attributes of this inscrutable essence. As only limited beings were thus produced, and a gap was obvious in the connection of the whole, they invented the idea of a Fate to preside over all. As this again remained a many-sided Inscrutable, the difficulty was rather set aside than met.
Christ thought of a God, comprising all in one, to whom he ascribed all properties which he found excellent in himself. This God was the essence of his own fair inward being; full of love and goodness, like himself; every way suited to induce good men to give themselves up trustingly to him, and to receive his Idea, as the sweetest connection with a higher sphere. But, as the great being whom we name the Divinity, manifests himself, not in men only; but in a rich, powerful nature, and mighty world-adventures, so, naturally, a representation of him, framed from human attributes, cannot be adequate, and the attentive observer will soon discern imperfections and contradictions, which will drive him to doubt, nay, to despair, unless he be either little enough to let himself be soothed by an artful evasion, or great enough to rise to the stand-point of a higher view.
Such a stand-point Goethe early found in Spinoza; and he acknowledges with joy how truly the views of that great thinker answered to the wants of his youth. In him he found himself, and could therefore fortify himself with Spinoza to the best advantage.
And as their views were not of the subjective sort, but had their foundation in the works and manifestations of God throughout the world, so were they not mere shells which he, after his own later, deeper search into the world and nature, threw aside as useless, but were the root and germ of a plant that grew up in healthy energy through many years, and at last unfolded the flower of a rich knowledge.
His opponents have often accused him of having no faith; but he had not such as theirs, simply because it was too little for him. If he should speak out his own, they would be astonished; but they would not be able to comprehend him.
But Goethe is far from believing that he knows the highest being as it is. All his written and verbal expressions intimate that it is a somewhat inscrutable, to which men can only obtain approximating perceptions and feelings.
For the rest, Nature and we men are so penetrated by the Divinity, that it holds us; we live, weave, and are in it; that we, under eternal laws, suffer and enjoy; that we practise them, and they are practised on us, whether we recognize them or not:
The child enjoys his cake without knowing who the baker was; the sparrow the cherries, without thinking how they were made to grow.
I dined with Goethe, and, the conversation turning on Demonology, he said—
“The Demoniacal is that which cannot be explained by Reason or Understanding; it lies not in my nature, but I am subject to it.”
“Napoleon,” said I, “seems to have been of the demoniacal sort.”
“He was so,” said Goethe; “so thoroughly, and in so high a degree, that scarce any one is to be compared with him. Also, our late Grand Duke was such a nature, full of unlimited power of, action, and unrest, so that his own dominion was too little for him, and the greatest would have been too little. Demoniac beings of such sort the Greeks reckoned among their demigods.”
“Is not this element,” said I, “perceptible in events also?”
“In a high degree,” said Goethe, “and, indeed, in all which Reason and Understanding cannot explain. It manifests itself in all nature—in the invisible ae in the visible. Many creatures are of purely demoniac sort; in many are parts of it effective.”
“Has not Mephistophiles,” said I, “traits of this nature?”
“No,” he replied, “Mephistophiles is too negative a being. The Demoniacal manifests itself in positive active power among artists: it is found often among musicians; more rarely among painters. In Paganini, it shows itself in a high degree; and it is by means of it that he produces such great effects.”
I was rejoiced at these remarks, which made more clear to me Goethe’s notions of the Demoniacal.
Went to Goethe at noon. Found him looking through some architectural designs. He observed it required good courage to build palaces, uncertain as we are how long one atone will remain upon another.
“Those are most fortunate,” said he, “who live in tents, or who, like some Englishmen, are always going from one city and inn to another, sure of finding every where a good table ready for them.”
Dined with Goethe. We talked of children and their naughty tricks, which Goethe compared to the stem leaves of a plant, which fall away gradually of their own accord; so that it is unnecessary to correct them with great severity.
“Man,” said he, “must go through various stages, each bringing with it its peculiar virtues and faults, which, in the epoch to which they belong, may be considered natural, and in a manner right. On the next step you see him another man; there is no trace left of the earlier virtues or faults; others have taken their places. And so on to the final transformation, after which we know not what we shall be.”
After dinner, Goethe read me fragments, which he had kept from 1775, of Hanswurst’s wedding. Kilian Brustfleck opens the piece with a monologue, in which he complains that Hanswurst’s education, despite all his care, has come to no good. This part, and all the others, were written in the tone of Faust. A productive force, powerful even to wantonness, displayed itself in every line; and I could not but lament that it went so beyond all bounds, that even the fragments are not communicable.
Goethe read me the list of the proposed dramatis personæ, nearly a hundred in number. All had significant nicknames; some truly ludicrous: some expressed bodily defects, and so distinguished a figure, that it came like life before the eye; others, taken from various follies and vices, gave a deep look into an immoral world. Had the piece been finished, the power must have excited wonder, that could give life to such various symbolical figures within the limits of one invention.
“It was impossible for me to finish the piece,” said Goethe; “for it demanded a degree of wanton daring, which I had for moments, but which did not lie in the general tenor of my nature, and on which I could not depend. Then our German circle is too limited to favor such an undertaking. On a broad ground, like Paris, one might venture on the giddy whirl; for there a Beranger can live, which would be quite impossible at Frankfort or Weimar.”
Goethe had been reading Ivanhoe.
“Walter Scott,” said he, “is a great genius; he has not his equal; and we need not wonder at the extraordinary effect he has produced on the reading world. He gives me much to think of; and I discover in him a wholly new art, with laws of its own.”
We spoke then of the fourth volume of the biography, and came upon the subject of Demonology before we were aware.
“In poetry,” said Goethe, “especially in that which is unconscious, before which Reason and Understanding fall short, and which, therefore, produces effects so far surpassing all expectation, there is always something of the Demoniacal.
“The same is true of music, in the highest degree. Understanding cannot reach its elevation, and influences flow from it which master all, and of which none is able to give himself an account. Therefore cannot religious worship dispense with it; it is one of the chief means of working wonders upon men. It throws itself willingly into significant individuals, especially when they are in high places, like Frederic and Peter the Great.
“Our late Grand Duke had it to each a degree, that nobody could resist him. He influenced men by his mere tranquil presence, without needing even to show himself good-humored and friendly. All that I undertook by his advice succeeded; so that, when my own mind could not decide, I needed only to ask him, and he instinctively prescribed what was sure of happy results.
“He would have been enviable indeed if he could have possessed himself of my ideas and higher strivings; for when the demon forsook him, and only the human was left, he knew not how to set to work, and was much troubled at it.
“In Byron, also, this element was probably very active, giving him such powers of attraction, especially with women.”
“In the idea of the Divinity,” said I; by way of experiment, “this power, which we name the Demoniacal, would not seem to enter,”
“Dear child,” said Goethe, “what know we of the idea of the Divinity? and what can our narrow ideas tell of the Highest Being? Should I, like a Turk, name it with a hundred names, I should still fall short, and, in comparison with the infinite attributes, have said nothing.”
Goethe continued his acknowledgments to Sir Walter Scott.
“We read many, too many, poor things,” said he; “thus losing our time, and gaining nothing. We should only read what we can admire, as I did in my youth, and as I now experience with Sir Walter Scott. I have now begun “Rob Roy,” and will read all his romances in succession. All is great—material, import, characters, execution; and then what infinite diligence in the preparatory studies! what truth of detail in the composition ! Here we see what English history is; what an inheritance to a poet able to make use of it. Our German history, in five volumes, is, comparatively, sheer poverty; so that, after Goetz von Berlichingen, writers went immediately into private life, giving us what really was no great gain, an Agnes Vernauerin, and an Otto von Wittelsbach.”
I said that I had been reading “Daphnis and Chloe” in Courier’s translation.
“That, also,” said Goethe, “is a masterpiece, which I have often read and marvelled at, in which Understanding, Art, and Taste, appear at their highest point, and beside which the good Virgil retreats somewhat into the back-ground. The landscape is quite in the Poussin style, and appears, behind the personages, finished, though with very few strokes.
“You know Courier found, in the Florentine Library, a new manuscript, containing the principal passage of the poem which had been lost from the preceding editions. Now, I must acknowledge that I had always read the poem in its imperfect state, without observing or feeling that the apex was wanting. But this may be a proof of the excellence of the poem, since what we had satisfied us so completely that we never thought of what was wanting.”
After dinner, Goethe showed me a drawing, by Coudray, of an extremely tasteful door for the Dornburg Castle, with a Latin inscription, signifying, that he who would enter should find friendly reception and entertainment, and that to him who passed by a happy journey was wished.
Goethe had translated this inscription into a German distich, and placed it as a motto over a letter which he had written, in the summer of 1828, during his residence at Dornburg, to Oberst von Beulwitz. I had heard much in public of this letter, and was very glad when Goethe showed it me, at the same time with the drawing.
I read the letter with great interest, admiring the skill with which he had used the localities of Dornburg to introduce the noblest views suited to raise up man again, however great a loss’ he may have sustained, and place him on his feet ready for action.
I rejoiced in this letter, observing that it is needless to travel far in search of good material, but that all depends on the strength in the mind of the poet, which is able to produce something valuable from the lowest occasions.
Goethe put the letter and drawing in a portfolio by themselves.
“It is remarkable in Sir Walter Scott,” said Goethe, “how his great descriptive talent sometimes leads him into error. There is a scene in ‘Ivanhoe,’—where a company are seated at table in the hall of a castle, by evening light, and a stranger enters. Now, it is right for him to describe the upper part of this stranger’s person and dress, but a mistake also to describe his feet, shoes, and stockings. If we sit at table in the evening, and any one comes in, we observe only the upper part of his figure. Describe his feet, and you introduce daylight, destroying the nocturnal character of the scene.”
Goethe went on expressing his admiration of Walter Scott. I asked him to put his views on paper; but he declined, observing that art stands so high in this writer that it would be difficult to tell the public what he thought of him.
Speaking of “William Tell,” I expressed my surprise that Schiller should have made such a mistake as to degrade his hero by unworthy treatment of the flying Duke of Swabia, making him judge the Duke so severely, while he boasts of his own deed.
“It would be incomprehensible,” said Goethe, “only that Schiller was, like others, subject to the influence of women, and this mistake happened rather from such interference than from his own fine nature.”
We talked of higher maxims, and whether it be advisable or possible to communicate them to other men.
“A disposition to receive what is high,” said Goethe, “is very rare; and, therefore, in common life, a man does well to keep such things for himself, and only to give out what part seems needful to place others at some advantage.”
We touched upon the point that many men, especially critics and poets, wholly ignore true greatness, and therefore over-praise mediocrity.
“Man,” said Goethe, “recognizes and praises only that which he himself is capable of doing; and those who, by nature, are mediocre, have the trick of depreciating productions, which, if they have faults, have also good points, so as to elevate the mediocre productions which they are fitted to praise.”
We spoke of the Farbenlehre, and of those German professors who continue to warn their pupils against it as a great error.
“‘I am sorry, for the sake of many a good scholar,” said Goethe; “but; for myself, it is all one; my Farbenlehre is as old as the world, and cannot always be calumniated and set aside.”
He spoke of Soret’s translation of the “Metamorphosis of Plants.”
“* * * I have had inserted,” said he, “some passages, by valuable young inquirers into nature, in which it is pleasant to see that, among the best people here in Germany, a good style has become so common that you cannot tell which is speaking. The book, however, gives me more trouble than I expected; indeed, I was drawn into the undertaking, almost against my will, by some demoniacal influence which I could not resist.”
“You did well,” said I, “to yield to the influence; for this Demoniacal seems so mighty a nature as to be always in the right at last.”
“Yet must man,” he replied, “exert himself to do his part; and I must, in the present instance, do my work with that care and diligence which my strength and circumstances permit. In such matters, it is like the game which the French call codille, where throws of the dice, indeed, decide in a great measure, but placing the pawns judiciously on the table is left to the discretion of the player.”
I venerated this good doctrine, and took it to heart, that it might regulate my future actions.
We talked on political subjects,—of the incessant disturbances at Paris, and the unwise desire of young people to meddle in the most important affairs of state.
“In England, also,” said I, “the students some time ago tried to obtain an influence on the decision of the Catholic question by sending in petitions; but they were laughed at, and no further notice taken of them.”
“The example of Napoleon,” said Goethe, “has, especially in the young people of France who grew up under that hero, excited a spirit of egotism; and they will not rest until a great despot once again rises up among them, in whom they may see the perfection of what they themselves wish to be. The misfortune is, that a man like Napoleon will not so soon again be born; and I fear that some hundred thousands of human lives must be wasted before the world can again be tranquillized.
“Of literary operations there can be no thought at present; all that is to be done is quietly to prepare good things for a more peaceful time.”
We spoke again of “Daphnis and Chloe.” Goethe said that Courier’s translation was perfect.
“Courier did well,” said he, “to respect Amyot’s old translation, and only in parts to improve, to purify, and bring it nearer the original. The old French is so naïve, and suits the subject so perfectly, that it would not be easy to make, in any language, a more perfect translation of this book.”
We spoke of Courier’s own works,—of his little fugitive pieces, and the defence of the famous inkspots on the manuscript at Florence.
“Courier,” said Goethe, “is a great natural genius. He has features of Lord Byron, as also of Beaumarchais and Diderot. He is like Byron in command over all things which may serve him as argument,—like Beaumarohais in his adroitness as an advocate,—like Diderot in dialectic skill,—and it is not possible to be more spirited and witty. However, he seems not to have entirely cleared himself from the ink-spot accusation, and is, in his whole tendency, not sufficiently positive to claim unqualified praise. He is at variance with all the world, and we must suppose that the fault is in part his own.”
We spoke of the difference between the German word Geist, and the French Esprit.
“The French Esprit,” said he, “means nearly the sane with our German word Witz. Our Geist might, perhaps, be expressed in French by Esprit and Ame. It includes the idea of productivity, which is not the case with the French Esprit.”
“Voltaire,” said I, “had a clear idea of that which we name Geist. And when Esprit does not suffice to express this, what word do the French use?”
“Génie,” he replied.
“I am reading,” said I, “a volume of Diderot, and am astonished by the extraordinary talent of the man. And what knowledge! what a power of language! We see that, in a great animated world, where each was constantly exciting the other to create, and mind and character were kept in such constant action, both must be flexible and strong. But it is extraordinary to see what men French; literature could boast in the last century, I am astonished wherever I take a look at it.”
“It was the metamorphosis of a hundred-year-old literature,” said Goethe, “ which had been growing ever since Louis XIV., and stood now in full flower, Voltaire excited the emulation of such men as Diderot, D’Alembert, and Beaumarchais. To be somewhat near him, a man needed to be much, and could allow himself no holidays.”
As I went, he gave me an essay, by Schrön, on the expected comet, that I might not remain entirely a stranger to such matters.
Goethe read to me passages from the letter of a young friend, now at Rome. Therein figured certain German artists, with long hair, mustachios, shirt-collars turned over on old-fashioned German coats, tobacco pipes, and bull-dogs. They do not seem to visit Rome for the sake of the great masters, or to learn any thing. To them Raphael seems weak, and Titian merely a good colorist.
“Niebuhr,” said Goethe, “was right in predicting &a era of barbarism. It is already here, and we are in the midst of it; for wherein does barbarism consist unless in not appreciating what is excellent?”
Our young friend also gave an account of the carnival, the choice of the Pope, and the revolution which broke out immediately after.
Horace Vernet ensconces himself like a knight, while some young German artists stay quietly at home, and cut off their beards, which seems to intimate that they may not have made themselves, by their conduct, very popular among the Romans.
We discussed the question whether the errors perceptible in certain young artists of Germany, originated with individuals, and had spread abroad by intellectual contagion, or whether they were the effect of the general tendency of the time.
“They come,” said Goethe, “from a few individuals; and the work has been doing these forty years. The doctrine was, the artist needs, chiefly, piety and genius, in order to produce master-pieces. Disciples seized with both hands upon this flattering doctrine. For, to become pious, a man need learn nothing, and genius each one inherited from his lady mother. One need only utter what flatters indolence and conceit, and he is sure of plenty of adherents among the ordinary set of people.”
Goethe showed me an elegant green elbow-chair, which he had bought to-day at an auction.
“However,” said he, “I shall use it little or none; for all indolent habits are against my nature. You see in my chamber no sofa; I sit always in my old wooden chair, and never, till a few weeks ago, have permitted even a leaning-place for my head to be added. If surrounded by tasteful furniture, my thoughts are arrested, and I am placed in an agreeable, but passive state. Unless we are accustomed to them from early youth, splendid chambers and elegant furniture had best be left to people who neither have nor can have any thoughts.”
The long-expected fine spring weather has come at last. Over the perfectly blue heaven hovers only some little white cloud now and then, and it is warm enough, for summer clothing.
Goethe had the table covered in a pavilion in the garden, and we dined once more away from the house. We talked of the Grand Duchess; how she is quietly at work in all directions, doing good, and winning the hearts of all her subjects.
“The Grand Duchess,” said Goethe, “has as much intellect and sweetness, as good will; she is truly a blessing to the country. And as men are every where quick to feel whence they receive benefits, worshipping the sun and kindly elements, I wonder not that all hearts tum to her with love, and that she is speedily known as she deserves to be.”
I mentioned that I had begun “Minna von Barnhelm” with the Prince, and observed how excellent it appeared to me.
“Lessing,” said I, “has been spoken of as a cold man of understanding; but I find in this drama as much heart, soul, charming naturalness, and free world-culture, of a fresh, cheerful, living man, as any one could desire.”
“You may imagine,” said Goethe, “what an effect that work produced on us young people at the dark day in which it came out. Truly it was a glittering meteor. It taught us to perceive a higher state of things, of which the weak literary productions of that time gave no idea. The two first acts are models in the art of exposition; from which much has been, and much may still be learned. Now-a-days, indeed, writers are not curious about this art: what was once expected only in the third act, may now be found in the first scene: they are not aware that it is with poetry as in going to sea; we should push from the shore, and reach a certain elevation, before we unfurl all our sails to the wind.”
Goethe had some excellent Rhine wine brought, sent by his Frankfort friends as a present on his last birth-day. He told some stories about Merck, and how he could not pardon the Grand Duke for having once praised an ordinary wine as excellent.
“Merck and I,” he continued, “were always to one another as Mephistophiles to Faust. Even so did he mock at a letter written by my father from Italy, in which he complained of the miserable way of living, bad wine, food to which he was unaccustomed, and mosquitoes. Merck could not forgive him, in that delicious country, and surrounded by objects so magnificent, for being troubled about such little matters as eating, drinking, and flies.
“All Merck’s ironical ways had, no doubt, their foundation in a high state of culture; only, as he was not productive, but had, on the contrary, a decidedly negative tendency, he was ever more inclined to blame than to praise, and involuntarily was always seeking for means of gratifying this inclination.”
We talked of Vogel, and his ministerial talents; of * * *, and his character.
“* * *,” said Goethe, “is a man by himself—a man who can be compared with no other. He alone sided with me in opposing the freedom of the press: he stands fast; one can depend on him; he will always abide by what is legitimate.”
After dinner, we walked up and down in the garden, taking our pleasure in the snow-drops and crocuses, now in full flower. The tulips, too, are coming out; and we talked of the splendor and costliness of these children of Holland.
“A great flower-painter,” said Goethe, “is not now to be expected: we have attained too high a degree of scientific truth; and the botanist, having no eye for picturesque lights and grouping, counts the stamina after the painter.”
I passed some delightful hours with Goethe. He said he had as good as finished his “Metamorphosis of Plants” had turned this morning to the fourth volume of his “Biography,” and made an outline of what is yet to be done, adding—
“I may in some sort name myself enviable, in that I am permitted at so advanced an age to write the history of my youth, and, indeed, of an epoch, in many respects, of high significance.”
We talked over the particulars, which were perfectly familiar both to him and me.
“In the description of your love for Lili,” said I, “we no way miss your youth; rather have such scenes the very breath of earlier years.”
“It is,” said Goethe, “because those scenes are poetical; and I can, by the power of poetry, supply the want of the youthful feelings of love.”
He spoke also of his sister.
”What relates to her,” said he, “will be read with interest by accomplished women, of whom many, like her, do not combine the advantage of personal beauty with their intellectual and moral endowments.”
We talked of Merck.
“The late Grand Duke,” said Goethe, “was very partial to Merck, so much so that he once became his security for a debt of four thousand dollars. Very soon Merck, to our surprise, gave him back his bond.
As Merck’s circumstances were not improved, we could not divine how he had been able to do this. When I saw him again, he explained the enigma thus—
“‘The Duke,’ said he, ‘is an excellent, generous man, who trusts and helps men whenever he can. So I thought to myself, “Now, if you cozen him out of his money, that will prejudice a thousand others; for he will lose his precious trustfulness, and many unfortunate but worthy men will suffer, because one was worthless.” So I made a speculation, and borrowed the money from a scoundrel, whom it will be no matter if I do cheat; but if I had not paid our good lord, the Duke, it would have been a pity.’”
We laughed at the whimsical greatness of the man.
“Merck had a habit,” continued Goethe, “of continually shouting he, he, as he talked. This grew upon him, with advancing years, till at last it became like the bark of a dog. He fell at last into a hypochondriacal gloom, the consequence of his many speculations, and finished by shooting himself. He imagined he must become bankrupt; but they found his affairs by no means in so bad a state as he had supposed.”
We talked again of the demoniacal element.
“It throws itself willingly into figures of importance,” said Goethe, “and prefers somewhat darkened times. In a clear prosaic city, like Berlin, for instance, it would scarcely find occasion to manifest itself.”
In this remark Goethe expressed what I had been thinking some days since. This gave me, the pleasure we always feel in finding our thought confirmed.
Yesterday and this morning I had been reading his “Biography,” and fared like one who, after making progress in a foreign language, reads again a book, which he thought he understood in an earlier day, but now first perceives its minute touches and delicate shades.
“Your ‘Biography,’” said I, “is a book by which you see our culture greatly assisted.”
“Those are mere results from my life,” said he; “the particular facts that are related serve only to confirm a general reflection, or higher truth.”
“I named the book Dichtung und Wahrheit, (Poetry and Truth,) because it raises itself by higher tendencies from the region of a low Reality. Now has Jean Paul, in the spirit of contradiction, written Wahrheit aus meinem Leben, (Truth out of my Life;) as if the truth from the life of such a man could be any other than that the author was a Philistine. But the Germans do not easily understand how to receive any thing out of the common course, and what is of a high nature often passes them by without their being aware of it. A fact of our lives is valuable, not according as it is true, but as it is significant.”
Dined at the Prince’s with Soret and Meyer. We talked of literary matters. Meyer gave an account of his first acquaintance with Schiller.
“I was walking with Goethe,” said he, “in the place called Paradise, near Jena, where we met Schiller, and conversed with him for the first time. He had not then completed Don Carlos; he had just returned from Swabia, and seemed very sick, and in a state of nervous suffering. His face was like the pictures of the Crucified One. Goethe thought he could not live fourteen days; but, as his situation became more agreeable, he grew better, and, indeed, wrote all his best things after that period.”
Meyer then related some traits of Jean Paul and Schlegel,—both of whom be met at a public house in Heidelberg,—and pleasant stories about Italy, which entertained us highly.
I always feel happy near Meyer; probably because he is a self-relying, satisfied person, little affected by the circumstances which surround him, but, at suitable intervals, uttering the feelings of his happy, inward existence. He is every where well grounded, possesses great treasures of knowledge, and a memory to which the most remote events are as present as if they happened yesterday. He has a preponderance of understanding, which might make us dread him, if it did not rest upon the noblest culture; but, as it is, his quiet presence is always agreeable, always instructive.
Goethe showed me a picture, in water colors, by Herr von Reutern, representing a young peasant, who, in the village market, stands beside a female basketseller. The young man is looking at the baskets which lie before him, while two women, who are seated, and a buxom girl, who is standing by, look with an expression of pleasure at the handsome young man. The composition of the picture was so graceful, the expression of the figures so true and naïve, that one could not be weary of looking at it.
“Simpletons,” said Goethe, “say Von Reutern has nobody but himself to thank in his art; he has done every thing for himself; as if a man got any thing from himself but ignorance and awkwardness. If Von Reutern had no nominal master, yet has he been acquainted with excellent masters, and has from them and their great predecessors, and omnipresent nature, learnt what is now his. Nature gave him excellent talents, which Art and Nature have unfolded. He is admirable, in many respects unique; but they should not say he has all from himself. This may be said of a bad artist, never of a good.”
He then showed me, from the same artist, a rich frame, painted with various colors, and gilt, having in the midst a space left free for writing. Above was a building in the Gothic style; on both sides, rich arabesques, with landscapes and domestic scenes interwoven; beneath, a gay wood party, with the freshest verdure and turf.
“Von Reutern,” said he, “wishes that I should write something in the place he has left open; but his frame is so splendid, and so rich in art, that I fear lest I spoil the picture by my handwriting. I have composed some verses for the occasion, and have been thinking whether I had not better have them copied there by a caligrapher, and only subscribe them with my own hand. What should you advise?”
“If I were Von Reutern,” said I, “I should be grieved to have them in the hand of another; happy, if in your own. The painter has made the frame so rich in art, that none is needed in the writing; it is only important that it should be in your own hand. I advise you not to use the Roman, but the German text; for your hand has in that a more peculiar character, and it harmonizes better with the Gothic designs in the frame.”
“You may be right,” said Goethe; “and in the end it will be my shortest way. Perhaps to-day will bring a courageous moment, in which I may venture upon it. But if I make a blot on the beautiful picture,” added he, laughing, “you shall answer for it.”
“Write only,” said I, “and it will be well, however it be.”
“In Art,” said Goethe, “we meet not easily a talent that gives us more pleasure than that of Neureuther. Few artists know how to confine themselves to what they can do well; most are constantly trespassing beyond the circle in which Nature intended them to work. But of Neureuther, we can say that he stands above his talent. All the departments of nature are at his command; he draws ground, rocks, and trees, with as much skill as men or animals, and, while be lavishes such wealth on slight marginal drawings, seems to play with his capabilities, and that pleasure which is wont to accompany the spending a rich income in a free and easy manner, passes over to the spectator.
“No one can vie with him in these marginal drawings; even the great talent of Albert Dürer has been less his pattern than his excitement. I will send a copy of these drawings to Scotland, to Mr. Carlyle, and hope they will prove no unwelcome present to that friend.”
Goethe spoke of a certain well-known writer.
“His is a talent,” said he, “which, independent of its alliance with party hate, would have produced no effect. There are many such instances in literature, where hatred supplies the place of genius, and where vulgar abilities make a sensation by lending themselves to be the organ of a party. So we find in life a multitude of person’s who have not character enough to stand by themselves: these enlist in some party, and thus feel stronger and make some figure. Beranger, on the other hand, is a genius sufficient to itself, and therefore has never served any party. He enjoys too much satisfaction in his inner life, for the world to have power over him, either to give or to take away.”
Dined with Goethe alone in his work-room. After much pleasant conversation, he rose and took from his desk a written paper.
“One,” said he, “who has, like myself, passed the age of eighty, has hardly a right to live, and ought each day to hold himself ready to be called away. I have, as I recently told you, appointed you in my will as the editor of my literary legacy, and have this morning drawn up a sort of contract, which I wish you to subscribe with me.”
He placed before me the paper, in which I found myself, with certain stipulations and conditions, appointed the editor of the works, partly finished and partly not, which were to be published after his death. I had come to an understanding with him upon essentials, and we both signed the contract.
I supposed the material, which I had already from time to time been busy in revising, might make out fifteen volumes.
“It may chance,” said Goethe, “that the publisher is unwilling to go beyond a certain number of volumes, and. that some part of the materials cannot be used. In that case, omit the polemics of my Farbenlehre. My peculiar doctrine is contained in the theoretical part; and there is enough of polemics in the historical, as the leading errors of the Newtonian theory are pointed out there. I nowise disavow my severe dissection of the Newtonian maxims; it was necessary at the time, and will, also, have its value hereafter; but, at bottom, all polemical activity is repugnant to my disposition, and I can take but little pleasure in it.”
We also talked about the best way or disposing of the Maxims and Reflections, which had been printed in the second and third volumes of the Wanderjahre.
When he began to work over and finish this romance, which had, originally, been published in one volume, Goethe intended to expand it into two, and so announced it for the new edition. But, as the manuscript grew beneath his hands more than he expected, and as his secretary wrote it out in so loose a way as to spread it over more paper than was necessary, he was deceived into thinking be had enough for three volumes, and sent it so arranged to the publishers. But when the press had reached a certain point, it was found that Goethe had made a miscalculation, and that the two last volumes would be too small. They sent for more manuscript, and, as the course of the whole could not be altered, and no new novel could be invented, written, and inserted, on the spur of the occasion, Goethe was much perplexed about filling up the space.
He sent for me, told me the difficulty, and mentioned, at the same time, what means had occurred to him for helping himself out of the difficulty. He showed me two large bundles of manuscript, saying—
“In these two parcels you will find various hitherto unpublished and unfinished works, essays on natural science, an, literature, and life, all mingled together. Suppose you should prepare from these six or eight sheets, to fill the gap in my romance. Though, closely looked to, they do not belong there, yet, as Makaria’s Archive is mentioned, an excuse is afforded for inserting them; and thus we shall not only gel over the present difficulty, but find a vehicle for introducing to the world, a number of interesting things.”
I prepared them, accordingly, with speed, and Goethe seemed well satisfied with the course I had adopted. I put together the whole in two part one under the title “From Makaria’s Archive;” the other, under the head “According to the Thoughts of the Wanderer.” And, as Goethe, just at this time, had finished two fine poems, one Auf Schiller’s Schädel, and the other Kein Wesen kann zu nichts zerfallen, he was desirous also to bring out these poems, and we added them at the close of the two divisions.
But when the Wanderjahre came out, no one knew what to make of all this. The progress of the romance was seen to be interrupted by a parcel of enigmatical sayings, whose explanation could be expected only from men of a certain class, such as artists, literati, and natural philosophers, and which greatly annoyed all other readers, especially lady readers. And the two poems were as far from being understood as may be supposed when found so out of place. Goethe laughed at all this.
“What is done is done,” said he to-day, “and all you have to do is, in a future edition, to insert these things in their proper places, and republish the Wanderjahre in two volumes, according to my original intention.”
We agreed that I should arrange all that belonged to Art, Nature, Literature, and Ethics, each in a volume, under a suitable title.
We talked of “Wallenstein’s Camp.” I had often heard that Goethe had insisted in the composition of this, and, in particular, that the Capuchin sermon came from him. To-day, I asked him, and he replied—
“At bottom, it is all Schiller’s own work. But, as we lived in such a relation that Schiller not only told me his plan, and talked it over with me, but also communicated what he did from day to day, hearing and using my remarks, I may be said to have had some share in it. As to the Capuchin’s sermon, I sent him a discourse, by Abraham a Sancta Clara, and he immediately prepared his with great talent.
“I scarcely remember any passages to have come from me except the two verses—
Liess mir ein paar glückliche Würfel nach,’
For, wishing to give some motive for the peasant’s use of the false dice, I wrote down these lines in the manuscript with my own hand. Schiller did not trouble himself about that, but, in his bold way, gave the peasant the dice without inquiring how he came by them. A careful linking together of motives was, as I have said, not in his way; whence, perhaps, his pieces had so much the greater effect on the stage.”
Goethe told me of a boy who could not tranquillize himself after he had committed a trifling error.
“I was sorry to observe this,” said he; “it shows a too great tenderness of conscience, which values so highly the peculiar moral self that it will excuse nothing in it. Such a conscience makes hypochondriacal men, unless it is balanced by great activity.”
A nest of young hedge-sparrows, with one of the old birds, had lately been brought me. I saw with admiration the bird not only continue to feed the young in my chamber, but, when set free through the window, return to take charge of them. Such parental love, superior to danger and imprisonment, moved me deeply, and I, to-day, expressed my feelings of surprise to Goethe.
“Simple man!” he replied, with a meaning smile, “if you believed in God, you would not wonder.
Natur in Sich, Sich in Natur zu hegen,
So dass, was in Ihm debt, und webt, und ist,
Nie Seine Kraft, nie Scinrm. Geist vermint.’
“He from within lives through all Nature rather,
Nature and Spirit fostering each other;
So that what in Him lives, and moves, and is,
Still feels His power, and owns itself still His.”
“Did not God inspire the bird with this all-powerful love for his young, and did not similar impulses pervade all animate nature; the world could not subsist. But even so is the divine energy every where diffused, and divine love every where active.”
So, a few days since, when a model from Myron’s cow, with the suckling calf, was sent him by a young artist—
“Here,” said he, “we have a subject of the highest sort—the nourishing principle which upholds the world, and pervades all nature, is brought before our eyes by this beautiful symbol. This, and others of a like nature, I esteem the true symbols of the omnipresence of God.”
Goethe showed me the till now wanting beginning of the fifth act of “Faust.” I read to the place where the cottage of Philemon and Baucis is burnt, and Faust, standing by night on the balcony of his palace, perceives the smoke, which is borne to him by a light breeze.
“These names of Philemon and Baucis,” said I, “transport me to the Phrygian coast, recalling the famous couple of antiquity. But this scene belongs to modem days, and a Christian land.”
“My Philemon and Baucis,” said Goethe, “have nothing to do with the ancient characters and their story. I gave this couple the names merely to mark their characters. The persons and relations being similar, the use of the names has a good effect.”
We then spoke of Faust, whom his hereditary portion of discontent has not left in his old age, and whom, amid all the treasures of the world, and in a new dominion of his own making, a couple of lindens, a cottage, and a bell, which are not his, have power to annoy. He is therein not unlike Ahab, King of Israel, who fancied he possessed nothing, unless he could also make the vineyard of Naboth his own.
“Faust,” said Goethe, “should, according to my design, appear just a hundred years old in the fifth act; and perhaps it would be well, in some passage, expressly to say so.”
We then spoke of the conclusion, and Goethe directed my attention to the passage—
From the control of evil powers;
Who ceaselessly doth strive must merit
That we should save and make him ours;
Celestial Love did never cease
To watch him from its upper sphere;
The children of eternal peace
Bear him to cordial welcome there.”
“These lines,” said he, “contain the key to Faust’s salvation. In himself, an activity becoming constantly higher and purer, eternal love coming from heaven to his aid. This harmonizes perfectly with our religious view, that we cannot obtain heavenly bliss through our own strength, unassisted by divine grace.
“You will confess that the conclusion, where the redeemed soul is carried np, was difficult to manage; and that I, amid these supersensual matters, about which we scarce have even an intimation, might easily have lost myself in the vague, if I had not, by means of sharply-drawn figures and images from the Christian church, given my poetical design the desirable form and compactness.”
In the following weeks, Goethe finished the fourth act; so that, in August, the second part was entirely finished and sewed together. Goethe was extremely happy in having attained this object towards which he had been striving so long.
“My remaining days,” said he, “I may now consider a free gift; and it is truly of little consequence what I now do, or whether I do any thing.”
Dined with Goethe. The question came up why his Farbenlehre had not spread abroad more extensively.
“It is not easily to be propagated,” said he; “because it must, as you know, not only be read and studied, but also be done, which is difficult. The laws of poetry and painting are also communicable up to a certain degree; but, to be a good poet or painter, genius is required, which is not communicable. To receive a primitive phenomenon in its simplicity, to recognize its high significance, and work with it accordingly, demands a productive intellect, capable of taking a wide survey, and is a rare gift, only to be found in highly-favored natures.
“And even this is not enough. For, as no man, with all the rules, and all the genius requisite, is a painter, except by unwearied practice, so with the Farbenlehre—it is not enough that the disciple know the true laws, and have a suitable intellect, unless be is continually busy observing, combining, and drawing inferences from the individual, often very mysterious, phenomena.”
After dinner, we looked at some landscapes, by Poussin.
“Those places,” observed Goethe, “on which the painter throws the principal light, do not admit or detail in the execution; and, therefore, water, masses of rock, bare ground, and buildings, are mom suitable subjects for the reception of the principal light. Things, on the contrary, which require more detail, should not be used by the artist in those light places.
“A landscape-painter should possess various sorts of knowledge. It is not enough for him to understand perspective, architecture, and the anatomy or men and animals; be must also have some insight into botany and mineralogy, that he may know how to express properly the characteristics of trees, plants, and the different sorts of mountains. It is not, indeed, necessary that he should be an accomplished mineralogist, since he has to do chiefly with lime, slate, or sandstone mountains, and only needs know in what forms they lie, how they are acted upon by the atmosphere, what trees thrive, and what are stinted of their growth upon them.”
He showed me then some landscapes, by Hermann von Schwanefeld, making various remarks upon the art and personality of that eminent man.
“We find in him,” said he; “art and inclination more completely identified than in any other. He has a deep love for nature, and a divine tranquillity, which pass into us as we look upon his pictures. He was born in the Netherlands, and studied at Rome, under Claude Lorraine. On this master he formed himself, and unfolded his fine capacities with perfect success.”
We looked into an “Artist’s Lexicon,” to see what was said of Von Schwanefeld, and found him censured for not having equalled his master.
“The fools!” said Goethe; “Von Schwanefeld was a different man from Claude Lorraine, and the latter could not boast of being the better of the two. If there were nothing more in one’s life than is told by your writers of biographies and lexicons, it would be a bad business, not worth the trouble it costs.”
At the close of this; and in the beginning of the next year, Goethe turned again to his darling studies, the natural sciences, and, at the suggestion of Boisserée, occupied himself with inquiries into the laws of the rainbow; and also, from sympathy with the dispute between Cuvier and St. Hilaire, with, subjects referring to the metamorphoses of the plant and animal world. Also, he aided me in revising the historical part of the Farbenlehre, taking also lively interest in a chapter on the blending of colors, which I, by his desire, was arranging to be inserted in the volume upon the theory.
During this time, there was no lack of interesting conversations between us, or of valuable utterances on his side. But, as he was daily before my eyes, fresh and energetic as ever, I fancied this must always be so, and was too careless of recording his words, till, on the 22d March, 1832, I, with thousands of noble Germans, was called to weep for his irreparable loss.
The following I noted down shortly after, from memory:—
Goethe mentioned at table that he had received a visit from Baron Carl Von Spiegel, with whom he was uncommonly well pleased.
“He is a very fine young man,” said Goethe; “in his mien and manners the nobleman is seen at once. He can as little dissemble his descent as another man could his intellect; for both birth and intellect give their possessor a stamp which no incognito can conceal. Like beauty, these are powers which one cannot approach without some feeling of their high nature.”
We talked of the Greek idea of Destiny, as exhibited in their tragedy.
“It does not suit our way of thinking,” said Goethe; “it is obsolete, and contradicts our views of religion. If a modern poet introduces those antique ideas into his dramas, he gives them an air of affectation. The dress is, long since, out of fashion, and suits us as ill as the Roman toga would.
“It is better for us moderns to say with Napoleon, ‘Political Science is Destiny.’ But let us beware of fancying, with our late literati, that politics are poetry, or a suitable subject for the poet.
“The English poet Thomson wrote a very good poem on the Seasons, a very bad one on Liberty; and, truly not from want of poetry, in the poet, but in the subject.
“If a poet would work politically, he must give himself up to a party; and so soon as he does that, he is lost as a poet; he must bid farewell to his freedom of spirit, his unlimited prospect, and draw over his ears the cap of bigotry and blind hatred.
“The poet may, as a man and citizen, love his native land; but the native land of his poetic energies and poetic action is the Good, Noble, and Beautiful, which is confined to no province nor country, which he is to seize upon and body forth wherever he finds it. Therein is he like the eagle, which hovers, with free gaze, over all countries, and to which it is of no consequence whether the hare, on which he pounces down, is running through Prussia or through Saxony.
“And what, then, is meant by love of one’s country? what is meant by patriotic deeds? If the poet has employed a life in battling with pernicious prejudices, in setting aside narrow views, in enlightening the intellects, purifying the tastes, ennobling the feelings and thoughts of his countrymen, what better could he have done? how showed himself more truly a patriot?
“The ungrateful and unsuitable demands made upon a poet are even as if they demanded of the captain of a regiment to show himself a patriot, by taking part in political innovations, which would oblige him to neglect his proper calling. The country of the captain is his regiment, and he will show himself a good patriot by taking only his due part in politics, and bestowing his whole mind, and all his care, so to train and discipline the battalion confided to him, that they may play the desired part, if the native land should be in peril.
“I hate all bungling, like sin; but, most of all, bungling in state affairs, which produces nothing but mischief to thousands and millions.
“You know that I, generally speaking, care little what is written about me; but it comes to my ears, and I know well that, in the eyes of certain people, all my life-long toils and labors are as nothing, merely because I have disdained to mingle in party squabbles about politics. To please such people I must have become a member of a Jacobin club, preaching up bloodshed and murder; but not a word more upon this subject, lest I show myself unwise in railing against folly.”
Also, he blamed the political course, so much praised by others, of Uhland.
“Watch well,” said he, “and you will see the politician devour the poet. To be a member of the Estates, and live amid perpetual jostlings and excitements, is not the life for a poet. His song will cease soon, and that is in some sort to be lamented. Swabia has plenty of men, sufficiently well educated, well meaning, able, and fluent of tongue, to be members of the Estates; but only one poet of Uhland’s class.”
The last stranger whom Goethe entertained as his guest was the eldest son of Frau von Arnim; the last words he wrote were some verses in the album of the above-named young friend.
The morning after Goethe’s death, a deep longing seized me to look yet once again upon his earthly garment. His faithful servant, Frederic, opened for me the chamber in which he was laid out. Stretched upon his back, he reposed as if in sleep; profound peace and security reigned in the features of his noble, dignified countenance. The mighty brow seemed yet the dwelling-place of thought. I wished for a lock of his hair; but reverence prevented me from cutting it off. The body lay naked, only wrapped in a white sheet; large pieces of ice had been placed around, to keep it fresh as long as possible. Frederic drew aside the sheet, and I was astonished at the divine magnificence of the form. The breast was so powerful, broad, and arched; the limbs full, and softly muscular; the feet elegant, and of the most perfect shape; nowhere, on the whole body, a trace either of fat or of leanness and decay. A perfect man lay in great beauty before me; and the rapture which the sight caused, made me forget, for a moment, that the immortal spirit had left such an abode. I laid my hand on his heart—there was a deep silence—and I turned away to give free vent to my tears.
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