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
1823.
I ARRIVED here some days since, but did not see Goethe till to-day. He received me with great cordiality; and the impression he made on me during our interview was such, that I consider this day as the happiest of my life.
Yesterday, when I called to inquire, he said he should be glad to see me today, at twelve o’clock. I went at the appointed time, and found a servant waiting to conduct me to him.
The interior of the house impressed me very pleasantly; it was not showy, but simple and noble in its arrangements; the casts from antique statues, placed upon the stairs, indicated Goethe’s partiality for the plastic art, and for Grecian antiquity. I saw several women busily engaged in the lower part or the house, and one of Ottilia’s beautiful boys, who came frankly up to me, and looked fixedly in my face.
After I had cast a glance around, I ascended with the talkative servant to the first floor. He opened a room, on whose threshold the motto Salve bid me anticipate a friendly welcome. He led me through this apartment into another, somewhat more spacious, where he requested me to wait, while he went to announce my arrival to his master. The air was cool and refreshing; on the floor was spread a carpet; the room was prettily furnished with a crimson sofa and ottomans; on one side stood a piano; and the walls were adorned with many pictures and drawings, of various sorts and sizes.
Through the open door, I saw yet another room, al6o hung with pictures, through which the servant had gone to announce me.
Goethe soon came in, dressed in a blue coat, and with shoes. His appearance was full of dignity, and made a surprising impression on me. But he soon put me at ease by the kindest words. We sat down on the sofa. I felt so happy, and yet so overcome, by his look and his presence, that I could say little or nothing.
He began by speaking of my manuscripts. “I have,” said he, “been reading them all the morning; they need no recommendation—they recommend themselves.” He praised the clearness of the’ statements, the flow of the thought, the solid basis on which the whole rested, and the thorough manner in which the whole subject had been thought out. “I am in haste to promote the affair,” said he; “to-day I shall write to Cotta by post, and send him the parcel by the coach to-morrow.” I thanked him with words and looks.
We then talked of my proposed excursion. I told him that my design was to go into the Rhineland, and stay where I could find a suitable place for writing. Meanwhile, I would go to Jena, and await Cotta’s answer.
Goethe asked whether I had friends in Jena. I replied that I hoped for the acquaintance of Herr von Knebel; on which he promised me a letter which should insure me a favorable reception from that gentleman. “And, indeed,” said he, “while you are in Jena, we shall be near neighbors, and can see or write to one another as often as we please.”
We sat a long while together, in tranquil, affectionate harmony. I was close to him; I forgot to speak for looking at him, and yet could not look enough. His face is so powerful and brown, full of wrinkles, and each wrinkle full of expression, and every where such nobleness and firmness, such repose and greatness! He speaks in a slow, composed manner, such as you would expect from an aged monarch. Yon perceive by his air that he leans upon himself, and is elevated far above both praise and blame. I was extremely happy near him. I fell the blissful tranquillity of one who, after many toils and tedious expectations, finally sees his dearest wishes gratified.
He spoke, too, of my letter, and remarked that I was perfectly right in thinking, that, to manage any one affair with decision and ability, one should be fitted to act in various other departments.
“No one can tell how things may draw and turn,” said he; “I have many good friends in Berlin, and thought of you in that connection.” Then he smiled pleasantly at some thought which he did not express. He pointed out to me what was best worth seeing in Weimar, and said he would desire secretary Kräuter to be my cicerone. Above all, I must not fail to visit the theatre. He asked where I lodged, saying that he should like to see me once more, and would send for me at a suitable time.
We bid an affectionate farewell. I, on my side, was supremely happy; for every word of his spoke kindness, and I felt that he had a favorable opinion of me.
This morning I received a note from Goethe, written by his own hand, desiring me to come to him. I went and staid an hour. He seemed quite a different man from that of yesterday, and had the impetuous and decided manner of a youth.
He entered, bringing two thick books. “It is not well,” said he, “that you should pass from us so soon; let us become better acquainted. I wish more ample opportunity to see and talk with you. But, as the field of generalities is so wide, I have thought of something in particular, which may serve as a ground-work for intercourse. These two volumes contain the Frankfort literary notices of the years 1772 and 1773, among which are almost all my little pieces of criticism, written at that time. These are not marked; but, as you are familiar with my style and tone of thought, you will easily discriminate them from the others. I would have you examine with care these youthful productions, and tell me what you think of them, I wish to know whether they deserve a place in a future edition of my works. They stand so far from my present self, that I am not competent to judge them. But you, younger people, can tell whether they are to you of any value, and whether they suit our present literary point of view. I have had copies taken of them already, which you can have by and by to compare with the originals. We will also take a careful survey, and ascertain whether here and there something might not be left out, or something added, with advantage, and without injuring the genuine character of the whole.”
I replied that I would gladly make the attempt, and that nothing could gratify me more than adequately to fulfil his design.
“You will find yourself perfectly competent,” said he, “when you have once entered on the employment; it will be very easy to you.”
He then told me that he should probably set off for Marienbad in a few days, and that he should be glad if I could remain at Weimar up to that time, that we might see one another at our ease, and become better acquainted.
“I wish, too,” said he, “that you should not merely pass a few days or weeks in Jena, but live there till I return from Marienbad in the autumn. Already I have written to bespeak for you a proper home, and other things necessary to make your stay convenient and pleasant. .
“You will find there, in the greatest variety, means and materials for higher attainments, and a very cultivated social circle; besides, the country presents such various aspects, that you may have fifty walks, each different from the others, each pleasant, and almost all suited for undisturbed indulgence in meditation. You will find there plenty of leisure and opportunity, not only to accomplish my designs, but to write many new things for yourself.”
I could make no objections to such proposals, and consented joyfully to them all. He took a very affectionate farewell of me, and fixed an hour when we might meet again, to-morrow.
I have now had repeated interviews with Goethe. To-day we talked principally of business. I declared my opinion also of his Frankfort criticisms, naming them echoes of his academic years, which expression seemed to please him, as marking, with some precision, the point of view from which these youthful productions should be regarded.
He gave me the first sheets of Kunst und Alterthum, that I might take them with me to Jena, and begin upon them as soon as I should have finished my present task.
“It is my wish,” said he, “that you should study carefully these papers, and not only make a summary of their contents, but also the written notes on those subjects which do not seem to you to be satisfactorily discussed, that I may by this means see more clearly what thread I had best take up again and spin upon yet a while longer. I shall thus be greatly assisted, and you also; since, in this practical way, you will far more sharply consider, and fully receive, the import of each particular treatise, than by any common perusal, regulated solely by inclination.”
I was well pleased by these remarks, and willingly undertook this labor also.
I was to have gone to Jena to-day; but Goethe yesterday requested earnestly that I would stay till Sunday, and then go with the post. He gave me yesterday the promised letters of recommendation, and also one for the family of Frommann. “You will enjoy their circle,” said he; “I have passed many delightful evenings there. Jean Paul, Tieck, the Schlegels, and all the other distinguished men of Germany, I have visited them, and always with delight; and now you will meet there many learned men, artists, and other persons of note. In a few weeks, write to me at Marienbad, that I may know how you are going on, and how you are pleased with Jena. I have requested my son to visit you there during my absence.”
I felt very grateful for so much care from Goethe, and very happy that he regarded me, and wished others should regard me, as appertaining to himself.
Saturday, 21st June, then, I bid farewell to Goethe, and set off for Jena, where I established myself in a rural dwelling, with very good, respectable people. In the family of von Knebel and Frommann, I found, on Goethe’s recommendation, a very cordial reception, and instructive society. I proceeded very successfully with my work, and had, besides, the joy to receive a letter from Cotta, in which he not only declared himself ready to publish my manuscript which had been sent him, but assured me of a handsome pecuniary compensation. So was I now honorably provided with the means of subsistence for at least a year, and I felt the liveliest desire to produce something new, on which to found my future prosperity as an author. I hoped that I had already, in my Beyträge zur Poesie, taken my critical and theoretical ground. I had there endeavored to bring out my opinions upon the principles of art, and my whole inner nature now urged me to test them in practice. I had plans for innumerable poems, both long and short, also for dramas of various sorts; and I thought I had now only to choose among them with judgment, and peacefully to finish one after the other.
I was not long content in Jena; my life there was too quiet and uniform. I longed for a great city, not only because I should there enjoy the advantages of a good theatre, but because I might there observe social life on a great scale, and thence draw the elements of a more complete culture. In such a town, too, I could live quite undisturbed, and be free to isolate myself when ready to produce any thing.
Meanwhile, I had drawn up the table which Goethe wished for the first four volumes of Kunst und Alterthum, and sent it to Marienbad with a letter, in which I told my plans and wishes. I received in answer the following lines:—
“The table arrived at the time when I most wanted it, and corresponds precisely with my wishes and intentions. Let me find the Frankfort papers equally well arranged, and receive beforehand my best thanks. Meanwhile, be assured, I shall faithfully remember and consider your situation, thoughts, wishes, aims, and plans, that, on my return, I may be ready to give my best advice as to your future conduct. To-day I will say no more. My departure from Marienbad gives much to think of, and to do, while my stay, all too brief, with such interesting beings, must occasion painful feelings.
“May I find you in that state of tranquil activity, from which, after all, the most comprehensive views of the world, and the most valuable experiences, are evolved. Farewell. You must give me the pleasure of a prolonged and more intimate acquaintance.
“Marienbad, 19th August, 1823.”
By these lines of Goethe’s, on the reception of which I felt very happy, I felt tranquillized as to the future. I determined to take no step for myself, but be wholly resigned to his will and counsel. Meanwhile, I wrote some little poems, finished arranging the Frankfort papers, and expressed my opinion of them in a short treatise, intended for the eye of Goethe. I looked forward with eagerness to his return from Marienbad; for my book was almost through the press, and I felt a strong desire to refresh myself this autumn, by passing a few weeks on the banks of the Rhine.
Goethe is, at last, returned from Marienbad, but, as his country-house in this place is not convenient for him just now, he only staid here a few days. He is well and active, so that he can take very long walks, and it is truly delightful to see him now.
After an interchange of joyful greetings, Goethe began to speak thus:—
“I may as well say it at once;—it is my wish that you should pass this winter with me in Weimar, In poetry and criticism, I find you quite to my mind. You have, from nature, an excellent foundation. You should make of them your profession, and I doubt not you will soon derive from it a suitable income. But yet there is much, not strictly appertaining to this department, which you ought to learn, and that with all convenient speed. This you may do with us this winter in Weimar, to such advantage, that you will wonder, next Easter, to see what progress you have made. It is in my power to give you the very best means, in every way. Thus shall you lay a firm foundation for your future life, and have the pleasure of feeling yourself, in some measure, prepared for any situation.”
I was much pleased by this proposal, and replied, that I would regulate myself by his wishes in -all things. “Then,” said Goethe, “I will provide you with a home in my neighborhood, and venture to predict that you shall pass no unprofitable moment during the winter. Many good things are collected in Weimar, and you will gradually find out, in the higher circles, society not surpassed in any of the great cities. And many men of great worth are connected with me, whom you also will know. And whose conversation you will find in the highest degree useful and instructive’.”
Goethe then mentioned many distinguished men, indicating in a few words the peculiar- merit of each.
“You would look in vain elsewhere,” said he, “for so much good in so narrow space. We also possess an excellent library, and a theatre which yields to none ln Germany, in what is most important. Therefore,—let me repeat it,—stay with us, and not only this winter, but make Weimar your home. From thence proceed avenues to all quarters of the globe. In summer you can travel, and see, by degrees, whatever is worth seeing. I have lived here fifty years; and where else have I not been? But I was always glad to return to Weimar.”
I was very happy in being again with Goethe, and bearing him talk, and I felt that my whole soul turned towards him. If I can only have thee, thought I, all else will go well. So I repeated to him the assurance that I was ready to do whatever he, after duly weighing the circumstances of my situation, should think best.
Yesterday, before Goethe’s return to Weimar, I had the happiness of another interview with him. What he said at that time seemed to roe of infinite value, and will have a beneficent influence on all my after life. All the young poets of Germany should hear those words.
He began by asking me whether I had written no poem this summer. I replied that I had indeed written a few, but had done nothing which satisfied me. “Beware,” said he, “of attempting too large a work. That is what injures most our best minds, and prevents fine talents and earnest efforts from accomplishing adequate results. I have suffered from this cause, and know how pernicious it is. What valuables I have let fall into the well! If I had written all that I well might, a hundred volumes would not contain it.
“The Present will have its rights; and the thoughts and feelings which daily press upon the poet should find a voice. But, if you have a great work in your head, nothing else prospers near it, all other thoughts must be repelled, and the pleasantness of life is quite lost, till it is accomplished. What concentration of thought is required to plan and round it off as a whole within the mind, what powers, and what a tranquil, undisturbed situation, to make it flow out as it should! If you have erred in your plan, all your toil is lost; and if, in treating so extensive a subject, you are not perfectly master of your materials, the defects in details lay you open to censure; and, after all his toil and sacrifice, the poet meets, instead of praise and pleasure, nothing but dissatisfaction and blame, which palsy his energies. But if he seizes and treats, in freshness of feeling, what the present moment offers him, he makes sure of something good, and if he does not succeed, has at least lost nothing. There is August Hagen, in Konigsberg; have you ever read his Olfried and Lisena? There you may find passages which cannot be improved; the situation on the Baltic, and all the particulars of the locality, are painted with the hand of a master. But, as a whole, it pleases nobody. And what labor and strength he has lavished upon it, indeed, has almost exhausted himself. And, since, he has been writing a tragedy.” Here Goethe paused, and smiled. I said I believed he had advised Hagen (in Kunst und Alterthum) to treat only small subjects. “I did so,” he replied; “but nobody conforms to the instructions of us old people. Each thinks he knows best about himself, and thus many lose their way entirely, and many wander long in wrong directions; and, besides, you should not wander now: we of a former day have done it long to find the true path for you; and what was the use of all our seeking and blundering, if you young people will not avail yourselves of the experience we have gained? Our errors were pardoned because no track had been opened for us; but from men of a later day the world asks more: they must not be seeking and blundering, hut use the instructions of their predecessors to enter at once on the right path. It is not enough to take steps which may sometimes lead to an aim; each step must be in the right direction, and, at the same time, with each some separate object must be attained.
“Bear these words away with you, and see if you cannot from them draw somewhat for yourself. Not that I feel troubled about you, but I may be able to abridge an unprofitable stage in your progress. Fix your attention on subjects which every day offers you, and on which you can work at once with earnestness and cheerfulness; you will, in all probability, please yourself, and each day will bring its own peculiar joy. You can give what you do to the pocket-books, to the periodicals, but never submit yourself to the judgment of other minds; your own is the only true guide.
“The world is so great and rich, and life so full of variety, that you can never want occasions for poems. But they must all be occasional poems; that is to say reality must give both impulse and material for their production. A particular case becomes universal and poetic when managed by a poet. All my poems are occasional poems, having in real life, by which they were suggested, a firm foundation. I attach no value to poems woven from the air.
Let no one say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this doth the poet prove his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common subject an interesting side. Reality must give the impulse, the subject, the kernel, as I may say; but to work out a beautiful, animated whole, belongs to the poet. You know Fürnstein, sometimes called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem imaginable, on the cultivation of hops. I have now desired him to make songs for the different crafts of working-men, particularly a weaver’s song, and I am sure he will do it well, for he has been brought up among such people, and understands the subject so thoroughly, that he will treat it in a masterly manner. You cannot manage a great poem so; no part can be slighted or evaded; all which belongs to it as a whole must be interwoven and represented with precision. Youth has only onesided views of things. A great work asks manysidedness, and on that rock the young author splits.”
I said that I had contemplated writing a great poem upon the seasons, in which I might interweave the employments and amusements of all classes. “’Tis the very case,” replied Goethe; “you may succeed in parts, and fail in others, with which you have had no proper means of becoming acquainted. You, perhaps, would do the fisherman well, and the huntsman ill; and if you fail any where, the whole is a failure; and, however good single parts may be, that will not atone for the want of completeness. But paint those parts to which you are competent, give each an independent being, and you make sure of something good.
“More especially, I warn you against great inventions; for there a comprehensive view is demanded, for which youth is seldom ripe. Further, character and views are loosened as sides from the poet’s mind, and he has not the fulness desirable for future productions. And, finally, much time is lost in invention; internal arrangement, and combination, for which nobody thanks you, even supposing your design be happily accomplished.
“When materials are ready lo the hand, all goes easier and better. Facts and characters being pro vided, the poet has only the task of animating them into a whole. He preserves his proper fulness, for he needs to part with but little of himself, and there is much less loss of time and strength. Indeed, I would advise the choice of subjects which have been used before. How many Iphigenias have been written! yet they are all different, for each writer manages the subject after his own fashion.
“But, for the present, you had better lay aside all great undertakings. You have striven long enough; it is time that you should enter into the cheerful period of life. Working out small subjects will help you most at present.”
During the conversation, we had been walking up and down the room. I could do nothing but assent to what he said, for I felt the truth of each word through my whole being. At each step I felt lighter and happier, for I must confess that various grand schemes, of which I had not as yet been able to take a clear view, had been oppressing me. I have now thrown them aside, and shall let them rest till I feel adequate to working out each part in. cheerfulness, as by study of the world I become more intimately acquainted with the interests it presents.
I feel, since these words of Goethe’s, as if I had gone forward several years in true wisdom, and in the very depths of my soul acknowledge my good fortune in having met With a true master. Its advantages are incalculable.
How much shall I learn from him this winter! how much shall I gain merely from living with him, even in times when he does not speak upon subjects of such importance! His personality, his mere presence, it seems to me, must tend to unfold my powers, even when he speaks not a word,
I came here yesterday from Jena, favored by most agreeable weather. Goethe welcomed me to Weimar, by sending me a season-ticket for the theatre. I passed yesterday in making my domestic arrangements; and the rather, as they were very busy at Goethe’s; for the French Ambassador from Frankfort, Count Reinhard, and the Prussian State Counsellor, Shultz, from Berlin, had come to visit him.
This forenoon I went again to Goethe, He was rejoiced to see me, and Will! every way kind and amiable. As I was about to take my leave, he said he wished first to make me acquainted with the State Counsellor, Shultz. He took me into the next room, where I found that gentleman busy in looking at the pictures, introduced me, and then left us together.
“I am very glad,” said Shultz, “that you are to stay m Weimar, and assist Goethe .in preparing his unpublished works for the press. He has been telling me how much profit he promises himself from your assistance, and that he now hopes to complete many new enterprises.”
I replied that I had no other aim in life except to aid the progress of German literature; and that, in the hope of being useful here, I had willingly laid aside, for the present, my own literary designs. I added, that I hoped the constant intercourse, thus induced with Goethe, would have a most favorable effect on my own culture. I hoped, by this means, to ripen much in few years, and thus, in the end, to adequately perform tasks for which I was at present but imperfectly prepared.
“Certainly,” replied Shultz, “the personal influence of so extraordinary a man and master as Goethe, must be invaluable. I have come hither solely to refresh myself once more from his great mind.”
He then inquired about the publication of my book; for Goethe had written to him Jut summer on that subject. I said that I hoped, in a few days, to receive the first copies from Jena, and would not fail to send him one.
We separated with a cordial shake of the hand.
This evening, I went for the first time to a large tea–party at Goethe’s house. I arrived first, and enjoyed the view of the brilliantly lighted suite of apartments, all thrown open to-night. In one of the farthest, I found Goethe, who came to meet me, with a cheerful air. He was dressed in black, and wore his star, which became him well. No guest having arrived, we walked together up and down the room, where the picture of the Aldobrandine Marriage, which was hung above the red couch, especially attracted my attention. The green curtains were now drawn aside from the picture; it was in a broad light, and I was delighted to have such n good opportunity for tranquil contemplation of its beauty.
“Yes,” said Goethe, “the ancients did not content themselves with great intentions merely; they knew also bow to carry them into effect. We moderns have also great intentions, but want the skill and power to bring them out, full and lifelike as we thought them.”
Now came Riemer, Meyer, Chancellor von Muller, and many other distinguished gentlemen and ladies of the court, Goethe’s son, and Frau von Goethe, with whom I was now, for the first time, made acquainted. The rooms filled gradually, and the scene became very animated. With some pretty youthful foreigners Goethe spoke French.
The society pleased me, all were so free and perfectly at their ease; each sat or stood, laughed, jested, and talked at pleasure. I had a lively conversation with the young Goethe about Houwald’s piece, which was given a few days since. We agreed entirely about it, and I was greatly pleased by the animation and refinement of hill criticisms.
Goethe made himself very agreeable. He went about from one to another, and seemed to prefer listening to talking. Frau von Goethe would often come and lean upon him, or caress him. I had lately said to him that. I enjoyed the theatre highly, but that I rather gave myself up to the impression of the piece than reflected upon it. This seemed to him the method best suited to my present state of mind.
He came to me with Frau von Goethe. “I believe,” said he, “you are not yet acquainted with my daughter in law. He is as much a child about the theatre as you, Ottilia!”
We exchanged congratulations upon this taste which we had in common. “My daughter,” continued he, “is never absent from the theatre an evening.” “That would be my way,” said I, “if there were always good pieces; but it is so tiresome to sit out the bad!” “But,” said Goethe, “it has a fine effect on you to be constrained to stay and hear what is bad. By this means, you are penetrated with the hatred for the bad, which gives you the clearest insight for the good. In reading, you have not this gain,—you throw aside the book, if it displeases you; but, at the theatre, you are forced to your own profit.” I could not refuse my assent, and thought how always the sage finds occasion, to say something good.
We now separated. Goethe went to the ladies, and I joined Riemer and Meyer, who had many things to relate of Italy. The assembly became very gay. At length Counsellor Schmidt seated himself at the piano, and gave us some of Beethoven’s music. These pieces, which were received with deep sympathy, led an intelligent lady to relate many interesting particulars of her acquaintance with the great composer. Ten o’clock came at last, and this, to me, extremely interesting evening ended.
To-day, I dined for the first time with Goethe. No one was present except Frau von Goethe, her sister, Fraulein Ulrica, and little Walter. Goethe appeared now solely as father of the family, offered all dishes, carved the poultry with great dexterity, not forgetting between whiles to fill the glasses. We had much lively chat about the theatre, young English people, and other topics of the day; especially was Fraulein Ulrica very lively and entertaining. Goethe was generally silent, only offering now and then some pertinent remark. He also read the newspapers, communicating to us now and then what he thought most important, especially about the Greek cause.
There was talk about my learning English, and Goethe earnestly advised me to do so, particularly on account of Lord Byron; saying, that such a being had never before appeared, and hardly would be reproduced. After dinner, Goethe showed me some experiments relating to his theory of colors. The whole subject was new to me; I neither understood the experiments, nor what he said about them. I could only hope that I should have leisure and opportunity to inquire further into the matter.
I went to see Goethe this evening. We talked of his “Pandora.” I asked him whether this poem might now be regarded as a whole, or whether we were to look for something farther. He said there was no more in existence, and, indeed, that the first part was on so large a scale, that, at a later period, he could do nothing to match it. And, as what was done might be regarded as a whole, he did not trouble himself. I said that I could not understand this difficult poem till I had read it so many times as almost to know it by heart. Goethe smiled, and said, “I can well believe that; for all its parts are, as one may say, wedged one within another.” I added, that I could not be perfectly satisfied with Schubarth’s remarks upon this poem, who found there united all which had been said separately in “Werther,” “Wilhelm.Meister,” and the “Elective Affinities” thus making the interpretation difficult, and almost impossible. Schubarth,” said Goethe, “sometimes goes a little too deep, but is a man of great abilities; and his words are always fraught with deep meaning.”
We spoke of Uhland, and Goethe said, “When I see great effects, I am apt to suppose great causes; and I think there must be a reason for popularity so extensive as that of Uhland. I took up his book with the best intentions, but fell immediately on so many weak and gloomy poems that I could not proceed. I then tried his ballads, where I really did find distinguished talent, and could see a basis for his celebrity.”
He was then led to speak of the ancient German architecture.
“We see in this architecture,” he said, “the flower of an extraordinary crisis. Who merely looks on such a flower will feel nothing but astonishment; while he who sees into the secret, inner life of the plant, into the stirring of its powers to unfold the flower, looks with other eyes, for he knows what he sees.
“I will take care that you have means this winter of inquiring into a subject so important, that when you visit the Rhine next summer, you may not see the Minster of Strasburg and the Cathedral of Cologne in vain.”
At twilight, I passed half an hour with Goethe. He eat in an elbow-chair before his desk. I found him in a singularly gentle mood, as one who has attained celestial peace, or who is recalling delicious hours, whose sweetness fills his soul as when they first were his. Stadelman gave me a seat near him. We talked of the theatre, which was, indeed, one of the topics uppermost in my mind all this winter. Our subject was a piece of Raupach’s, (Erdenacht,) which I had lately seen. I observed that the piece was not brought before us as it existed in the mind of the poet; that the Idea was too much for the Life; that it was rather lyric than dramatic; and that what was spun out through five acts might as well have been said in two or three.
I then spoke of those pieces of Kotzebue’s which I had seen. I praised the quick eye for common life, the dexterity at seizing its interesting side, and representing it with force, which I found in these pieces. Goethe agreed with me. “What has kept its place for twenty years in the hearts of the people,” said he, “is pretty sure to have substantial merit. When Kotzebue contented himself with his own sphere, he usually did well. ‘Twas the same with him as with Chodowiecky, who always struck off admirably the scenes of common citizens’ life, and as regularly failed when he attempted to paint Greek or Roman heroes.”
He named several good pieces of Kotzebue’s, praising most highly the two Klingsbergs. “And,” said he, “none can deny that Kotzebue has been in many varied scenes of life, and ever kept both eyes open.
“Intellect, and even poetry, cannot be denied to our modern composers of tragedy; but they do not give their subject the hues of life; they strive after something beyond their powers; and for that reason I have been led to think of them as, having forced talents;—their growth is not natural.” “I doubt,” said I, “whether such poets could write a prose work, and am of opinion that this would be the true test of their talents.” Goethe agreed with me, adding that versification not only enhanced, but often called out poetic feeling.
We then talked of his “Journey through Frankfort and Stuttgard to Switzerland,” which he had lying by him in sheets, and which he will send me, in order that I may examine it, and plan how these fragments shall be rounded into a whole. “You will see,” said he, “that it was all written out from the impulse of the moment; .there was no thought of plan or artistical harmony; it was like pouring water from a bucket.”
To-day, early, I was invited to a tea-party and concert, which were to be given at Goethe’s house this evening. The servant showed me the list of guests whom he was to invite, from which I saw that the company would be large and brilliant. He said a young Polish lady, who has lately arrived here, would play on the piano. I accepted the invitation gladly.
Afterwards, the bill for the theatre was brought, and I saw that the “Chess-machine” was the piece for the evening. I knew nothing of this piece; but my land lady was so lavish in praise of it, that I was seized with a great desire to attend. Besides, I was not at my best to-day, and felt more fit to pass my evening at an entertaining comedy than to play a part in good society.
An hour before the theatre opened I went to Goethe. All was in movement throughout the house. I heard them tuning the piano, as preparation for the musical entertainment.
I found Goethe alone in his chamber; he was already dressed. I seemed to him to have arrived at the right moment. “You shall stay with me,” he said, and we will entertain one another till our friends join us.” I thought, “Now shall I not be able to get away, and I am sorry; for, though it is very pleasant to be here with Goethe alone, yet, when the many to me unknown gentlemen and ladies come; I shall feel quite out of my element.”
I walked up and down with Goethe. Soon we were led to talk about the theatre, and I again remarked how great a pleasure it gave me; for, having seen scarce anything in early years, almost every piece made a fresh impression upon me. “Indeed,” added I, “I feel so much. about it, that I have scarcely to-day been able to resolve to give it up, even for your party,” “Well,” said Goethe, stopping short, and looking at me with an expression of mingled kindness and dignity, “do not constrain yourself; if the play this evening suits you best, harmonizes most perfectly with your mood, go there. You would have good music here, and will often again have opportunity to hear it at my house.” “Then,” said I, “I will go; for I think it may do me good to laugh.” “Stay with me, however,” said Goethe, “till six o’clock: we shall have time to say a word or two.”
Stadelman set two wax-lights on the table, and Goethe desired me to sit down, and he would give me something to read. And what should this be but his newest, dearest poem, his Elegy, from Marienbad!
I must here mention, that, after Goethe’s return from Marienbad, the report had been spread, that he had there made the acquaintance of a young lady equally charming in mind and person, and had shown for her an even passionate admiration. When her voice was heard in the Brunnen Allee, he always seized his hat, and hastened to join her. He was constantly in her society, and there passed happy days; he had not bid her farewell without great pain, and had, in this excited state, written a beautiful poem, which he looked upon as a consecrated thing, and kept hid from every eye.
I could easily believe all this, seeing, as I did, his youthful activity of body and mind, and the healthy freshness of his heart. I had had the most longing desire to see the poem which was now in my hands, but had never dared to speak to Goethe on the subject.
He had, with his own hand, copied these verses, in Roman characters, on fine vellum paper, and tied them with riband into a red morocco case; so that, from its garb, you might gather how decided was his preference for this poem,
I read it with great delight, and found that every line confirmed the common report. The first verse intimated that the acquaintance was not first made, but only renewed, at this time. The poem revolved constantly on its own axis, and seemed always to return to the point where it began. The close made a deep and singular impression.
As I finished, Goethe came to me again. “‘Well,” said he, “have I not shown you something good? But you shall tell me what you think a few days hence.” I was glad to be excused from saying any thing at that moment; for the impression was so new, and had been so hastily received, that I could not have made any appropriate criticism.
He promised to let me see it again in some tranquil hour. The time for the theatre had now arrived, and we separated with an affectionate pressure of the hand. The “Chess-machine” was, perhaps, a good piece, but I saw it not,—my thoughts were with Goethe.
As I went home, I passed by his house; it was all lighted up; I heard the music from within, and regretted that I did not stay there.
The next day, I was told that the Polish lady, Madame Szymanowska, in whose honor the party was given, had played on the piano in such a style of excellence as to enchant the whole society. I learned, also, that Goethe became acquainted with her the past summer at Marienbad, and that she had now come hither for the purpose of visiting him.
At noon, Goethe sent me a little manuscript, “Studies from Zauper,” in which I found many fine remarks. I sent him the poems I had written at Jena, and of which I had lately spoken to him.
This evening, I went to Goethe just as they were lighting the lamps, I found him in a very animated state of mind: his eyes sparkled in the torch-light; his whole expression was one of cheerfulness, youth, and power.
We walked up and down. He began immediately to speak of the poems which I sent him yesterday.
“I understand now,” said he, “why you thought, while at Jena, of writing a poem on the seasons. I now advise you to do so, and begin with Winter. You seem to have distinguished powers of observation for natural objects.
“Only two words would I say about your poems. You stand now at that point where you ought to break through to the really high and difficult part of art, that of seizing on what is individual in objects. You have talent, and have got a good way forward: your own will must do the rest. You were to-day at Tiefurt; that would afford a good subject for the attempt. You may perhaps observe Tiefurt for three or four visits, before you will win from it the characteristic side, and understand how to manage it; but spare not your toil; study it throughout, and then represent it. It is a worthy subject, and one which I should have used long since, but I could not; for I have lived through each event with it, and my being is so interwoven with its history, that details press upon me with over-great fulness. But you come as a stranger; let the keeper tell you all the history of that castle, and you will seize only what is prominent and significant at the present moment.”
I promised to try, but confessed that this subject seemed to me out of my way, and very difficult.
“I know well,” said he, “that it is difficult; but the apprehension and representation of the individual is the very life of art. Besides, while you content yourself in generalities, every one can imitate you; but, in the particular, no man can, because no man has lived exactly your life.
“And you need not fear lest what is peculiar should not meet with sympathy. Each character, however peculiar it may be, and each object which you can represent, from the stone up to man, bas generality; for there is repetition every where, and there is no thing to be found only once in the world. On this step of representing what is peculiar or individual begins what we call composition.”
This was not at once clear to me, though I refrained from questions. “Perhaps,” thought I, “he means the fusing of the Ideal with the Real,—the union or that which we must find without, with that which is inborn. But perhaps he means something else.” Goethe continued:—
“And be sure you put to each poem the date at which you wrote it.” I looked at him inquiringly. “Thus,” said he, “you will gain the best of journals. I have done it for many years, and can see its use.”
It was now time for the theatre. “So you are going to Finland?” called he, jestingly, after me;—for the piece was Johann von Finland, (“John of Finland,”) by Frau von Weissenthurn.
The piece had some effective passages, but was so overloaded with pathos, and design so obvious in every part, that, on the whole, it did not impress me favorably. The last act, however, pleased and reconciled me to the rest.
This piece suggested to me the following thoughts: Characters which have been imperfectly painted by the poet, gain on the stage, because the actor, as a living man, must impart to them some sort or life and of individuality. But the finely painted characters of the great poet, which already exhibit to us a sharply marked individuality, must lose on the stage, because the actor is not throughout adapted to his part, and very few of the tribe can lay aside their own individualities. And if the actor be not the counterpart of the character, and do not possess the power of laying aside his own personality, a mixture ensues and the character loses its harmony. Therefore, the play of a really great writer appears in its original brightness only in points; and, by seeing it merely, you can never be in a situation to do it justice.
I went to Goethe at five o’clock. I heard them, as I came up stairs, laughing and talking in the dining-room. The servant said that the Polish lady dined there to-day, and they had not yet left the table. I was going away, but he said his master had left orders that they should tell him when I came, and would, perhaps, be glad of an interruption, as it was now late. So I went into Goethe’s apartment, and he soon came to me in a very pleasant humor. He had wine brought, and filled for me and himself.
“Before I forget it,” said he, “let me give you this ticket. Me. Szymanowska gives, to-morrow evening, a public concert at the Stadthaus, and you must not fail to be there.” I replied that I certainly should not repeat my late folly, “Does she play remarkably well?” asked I. “Admirably.” “As well as Hummel?” “You must remember,” said Goethe, “that she is not only a fine performer, but a beautiful woman; and this lends a charm to all she does. But her execution is masterly,—astonishing indeed.” “And is there genuine power, as well as dexterity?” said I. “Yes,” said he, “genuine power; and that is what is most worthy of note, because, you so rarely find it in what women do.”
Secretary Kräuter came in to consult about the library. Goethe, when he left us, praised his fidelity and judgment.
We then talked of the papers relating to his journey into Switzerland in 1797. I spoke of his and Meyer’s reflections upon subjects of plastic art. “Ay,” said Goethe,” and what can be more important than the subject, and what is all the science of art, if that is wanting? It is because artists in modern times have no worthy subjects, that modern art so stumbles and blunders. From this cause we all suffer. I myself must pay the penalty of my modern date.
“Very few artists have clear notions on this point, or know the things which are for their peace. For instance, they take my ‘Fisherman’ as the subject of a picture, and never discover that what constitutes in merit cannot be painted. The ballad expresses the charm which the water in summer has for us when it tempts us to bathe; that is all,—and how can that be painted!”
I mentioned how pleased I was to see how various were the interests called into action by his journey; how he saw every thing; shape and situation of the mountains, their geology end mineralogy; earth, rivers, clouds, air, wind, and storm; then the cities, the history of their origin and growth, architecture, painting, theatre; police of cities, trades, economy, laying out of the streets, human race, manner or living, individual peculiarities; then again, politics, warlike adventures, and a hundred other things.
He answered, “But you find no word upon music, because that is not within my circle. Each traveller should know what he is fit to see, and what properly belongs to him, on his journey.”
The Herr Canzler came in for a few moments, and then went to the ladies. When he had left us, Goethe praised him, and said, “All these excellent men, with whom you are now placed in so pleasant a relation, make what I call a home,—a home to which one is always willing to return.”
I said that “I already perceived the beneficial effects or my present situation; for I found myself able to set aside my ideal and theoretic tendencies, and make use of the present moment more and more.”
“It would be pity,” said Goethe, “if it were not so. Only persist in your present view, and hold fast by the present. Each situation—nay, such moment—is of infinite worth; for each represents a whole eternity.”
After a short pause, I turned the conversation to the best mode of treating the subject he had proposed to me, that of Tiefurt. “This subject,” said I, “is complex; and it will be difficult to give it proper form. It seems to me it would be best treated in prose.”
“It is not in itself,” replied Goethe, “an object of sufficient significance for that. The didactic, descriptive form, would be the one I should choose; but even that is not perfectly appropriate. Perhaps you would do well to write ten or twelve little poems, in rhyme, but in various measures and forms, such as the various sides and views demand, on which light must be thrown to do justice to the subject.” This idea struck me favorably. “Why, indeed,” continued he, “should you not at once use dramatic means, and perhaps write a conversation with the gardener.” In this way you could easily bring out the various sides. A comprehensive, great whole, is so difficult, that he who attempts it, seldom brings any thing to bear.”
Goethe has been quite unwell for a few days past; he has a very bad cold. His cough seems to be very painfu1; for he has constantly his hand at his side.
I passed half an hour with him this evening, after the theatre. He sat in an arm chair, propped up by cushions, and seemed to speak with difficulty.
He gave me a poem intended for insertion in Kunst und Alterthum. I took the light, and sat down to read it, at a little distance from him.
This poem was singular in its character, and, though I did not fully understand it, very much affected me Oil the first reading. The Paria was its subject, to illustrate which, he had adopted the form of Trilogy. Its tone was that of another world, and the mode of representation such, that I found it very difficult to enter into it. Then I heard Goethe often cough or sigh, and could not forget that he was near me. I read the poem again and again, without being able to get completely engaged in it; but I found that it grew upon me with each new reading, and appeared to me more and more to indicate the highest grade of Art.
At last I spoke to Goethe, and he gave me much new light, both as to subject and treatment.
“Indeed,” said he, “the treatment is peculiar, and one who was not in good earnest, could not hope to penetrate the true meaning. It seems to me like a Damascene blade hammered out of steel wire. I have borne this subject about with me for forty years; so that it baa had time to get clear of every thing extraneous.”
“No doubt,” said I, “it will produce an effect on the public.”
“Ah, the public!” sighed Goethe. “Would it not be well,” said I; “to add such an explanation as we do to pictures, when we make the meaning obvious by describing the circumstances which led to the catastrophe?”
“I think not,” said he; “that is well for pictures, but, as a poem is already expressed in words, words of interpretation only annihilate its significancy.”
I thought Goethe was here very happy in pointing out the rock on which those who try to interpret poems are often wrecked. Still it may be questioned whether it be not possible to avoid th.is rock, and affix some explanatory words without injuring the delicacy of its inner-life.
When I went away, he asked me to take the poem with me, and read it again, and also the “Roses from the East” (Ostlichen Rosen) of Rückert, a poet whom he highly valued, and from whom he seemed to expect much.
Some days ago, as I was walking one tine afternoon towards Erfurt, I was joined by an elderly man, whom I supposed, from his appearance, to be some respectable citizen. We had not been together long, before the conversation turned upon Goethe. On my asking whether he knew Goethe,—“Do I know him?” said he, with vivacity; “I was his valet almost twenty years!” I begged to hear something of Goethe’s youth; and he gladly consented to gratify me.
“When I first lived with him,” said he, “he was very active in his habits, thin and elegant in his person. I could easily have carried him in my arms.” I asked whether Goethe, in that early part of his life here, was disposed to gayety. “Certainly,” replied he; “always gay with the gay, but never when they passed a certain limit; in that case he became grave. Always working and seeking; his mind always bent on art and science; that was the way with my master. The Duke often visited him at evening, and staid so late, conversing on literary topics, that I would get extremely tired, and long to have the Duke go away. Even then he had begun to be interested in Natural Philosophy and History. One time, he rang for me in the middle of the night. When I came up, I found he had rolled his iron trundle-bed to the window, and was lying there, looking out upon the heavens. ‘Have you seen nothing remarkable in the heavens?’ asked he; and, when I answered in the negative, bid me run and ask the same question of the watchman. He said he had not seen any thing remarkable. When I returned with this answer to my master, I found him in the same position in which I had left him, lying in his bed, and gazing upon the sky. ‘Listen,’ said he to me; ‘this is an important moment; there is now an earthquake, or one is just going to take place;’ then he made me sit down on the bed, and showed me by what signs he, knew this.”
I asked the good old man “what sort of weather it was.”
“A cloudy night,” he replied; “no air stirring; very still and sultry.” I asked if he believed there was an earthquake merely on Goethe’s word.
“Yes!” said he, “I believed it, for I always found things happened as he said they would. Next day, while he was relating his observations at Court, a lady whispered to her neighbor, ‘What visions are these of Goethe’s?’ But the Duke, and all the men present, believed Goethe, and the correctness of his observations was confirmed, in a few weeks; by the news that a part of Messina was on that night ruined by an earthquake.”
[Goethe sent for Eckermann this evening. He went, and found him very unwell. After some conversation of no interest to the general reader, they spoke of Schiller.]
“I have,” said I, “a peculiar feeling towards Schiller. Some scenes of his great dramas I read with genuine love and admiration; but presently I meet with something which violates the truth of nature, and then I can go no further. I feel this even in reading ‘Wallenstein,’ I cannot but think that Schiller’s turn for philosophy has injured his poetry, because this led him to prefer Ideas to Nature, indeed, almost to annihilate nature. What he could conceive must happen, whether it were in conformity with the law of nature or no.”
“It was sorrowful,” said Goethe, “to see how so highly gifted a man tormented himself with systems of philosophy which would no way profit him. Humboldt has shown me the letters which Schiller wrote to him in those unblest days of speculation. There we see how he plagued himself with the design of separating perfectly naïve from sentimental poetry. For such poetry be could find no proper groundwork, and from the attempt arose unspeakable confusion. As if,” continued he, smiling, “sentimental poetry could exist without the naïve ground in which it properly has its root.
“Schiller produced nothing instinctively or unconsciously; he must reflect upon every step; therefore he always wished to talk over his literary plans, and has conversed with me about all his later works, piece by piece, as he was writing them.
“On the other hand, it was contrary to my nature to talk over my poetic plans with any body; even with Schiller. I carried them about with me in silence, and usually said not a word to any one till the whole was completed. When I showed Schiller Hermann and Dorothea/ he was astonished because I had said not a syllable of any such plan.
“But I shall be anxious to hear what you will say of ‘Wallenstein’ to-morrow. You will see noble shapes, and the piece will probably make on you such an impression as you do not now dream of.”
In the evening, I for the first time saw “Wallenstein.” Goethe had not said too much; the piece made on me an impression which reached the very depths of my nature. The actors, who had almost all been under the personal influence of Schiller and Goethe, gave to the personages an individuality, and to the whole a significance, far beyond what I had found in reading it. I could not get it out of my head the whole night.
I went to see Goethe; found him in his elbow-chair, and still very weak. His first question was about “Wallenstein;” and he heard my account of the impression it had made upon me with visible satisfaction.
Herr Soret came in and brought from the Duke some gold medals. Looking at these and talking them over entertained Goethe very pleasantly for an hour. Then Herr Soret attended Frau von Goethe to Court, and I was left alone with Goethe.
I reminded him of his promise to show me again his Marienbad Elegy. He brought it, gave me a light, seated himself again, and left me to an undisturbed perusal of the piece.
After I had been reading awhile, I turned to say something to him, but he seemed to be asleep. I therefore used the favorable moment, and read the poem again and again with a rare delight. The youthful glow of love, tempered by the moral elevation of the spirit, seemed its pervading characteristic. Then I thought that emotion was move forcibly expressed than in Goethe’s other poems, and imputed this to the influence of. Byron—an opinion which Goethe did not reject.
“You see the product of a highly impassioned mood,” said he. “While I was in it, I would not for the world be without it, and now nothing would tempt me to be in it again.
“I wrote that poem immediately after leaving Marienbad, while the feeling of all I had experienced there was fresh. At eight in the morning, when we sopped first, I wrote down the first stanza; and so I went on composing them in the carriage, and writing them down when we stopped, so that by evening the whole was on paper. Thence it has a certain directness, and being all, as I may say, poured out at once, may have a better air as a whole.”
“It has,” said I, “a quite peculiar aspect, and recalls no other poem of yours.”
“That,” said he, “may be because I looked at the present moment as a man does upon a card on which he has staked a considerable sum, and sought to enhance its value as much as I could without exaggeration.” These words struck me much; they threw light on his conduct, and seemed to give a clew to the understanding of that many-sidedness which has excited so much wonder.
Stadelmann now come to apply to his side a plaster which the physician had prescribed. I turned to the window, but heard him lamenting to Stadelmann, that his illness was not lessening, but seemed to have assumed a character of permanence. When it was over, I sat down by him again. He observed that he had not slept for some nights, and had no appetite. “The winter,” said he, “will go, and I can do nothing, bring nothing to bear; my mind has no force.” I tried to soothe him, and represented, that, if he would not think too much of his plans at present, there was reason to hope he would soon be better. “Ah,” said he, “I am not impatient; I have lived through too many such situations, not to have learned to endure and to wait.”
I now rose to bid him good night. He was in his flannel gown, and said he should sit in his chair all night, for he should not sleep if he went to bed. I pressed his dear hand, and took leave.
Down stairs I found Stadelmann much agitated. He said he was much alarmed about his master, for “if he complains, that is a bad sign indeed! And his feet look thin, which have been a little swollen till lately! I shall go to the physician early in the morning, and tell him these bad signs.” I could not succeed in calming his fears.
When I entered the theatre this evening, many persons pressed towards me, asking anxiously, “How is Goethe?” I think his illness has been exaggerated in the town, but I felt depressed all the evening.
Yesterday, I was very anxious; for no one out of his family was admitted to see him.
But this evening he received me. He did not seem better in health than on Sunday,—yet cheerful.
He talked of Zauper, and the widely differing results which are seen to proceed from the study of ancient literature.
Goethe sent for me. To my great joy, I found him able to walk up and down in his chamber. He gave me a little book, “Gazelles,” by Count Platen. “I had intended,” said he, “to write a notice of this for, Kunst und Alterthum, for the poems deserve it. But, as my present state will not permit me, try what you can do, after reading it.” I promised to try.
“‘Gazelles,’” continued he, “have this peculiarity, that they demand great fulness of meaning. The constantly recurring similar rhymes must find a suitable provision of similar thoughts ready to meet them. Therefore, not every one succeeds in them; but I think they will please you.”
Saturday and Sunday, 1 studied the poems; this morning, I wrote down .my view of them, and sent it to Goethe; for I had heard that the physician wished he should see nobody, and bad forbidden him to talk,
However, he sent for me this evening. I found a chair placed for me near him; he gave me his hand, and seemed very affectionate and kind. He began immediately to speak of my little critique. “I was much pleased with it,” said he; “you have a fair gift, and I wish now to say to you, that, if proposals for the employment of your talents should be made to you from other quarters, I hope you will refuse them, or at least consult me before deciding upon them; for, since you are now so linked with me, I would not willingly see you enter on other new relations.”
I replied that I wished to belong to him alone, and had at present no reason to think of new connections. We then talked of the “Gazelles.” Goethe expressed his delight at the completeness of these poems, and that our present literature produced so much good fruit as it does.
“I wish,” said he, “to recommend rising talent to your observation. I wish you to examine whatever our literature brings forth worthy of note, and to place before me whatever is most meritorious, that I may take due notice of what is good, noble, and well executed, in Kunst und Alterthum. For, if I am ever so desirous, I cannot, at my age, and with my manifold duties, do this without aid from other minds.”
I said I would do as he desired, end was very glad to find that our late writers and poets were more interesting to him than I had supposed.
He sent me the latest literary periodicals to assist in the proposed task, I was not sent for, not did I go to him, for several days, as I heard his friend Zelter had come to make him a visit.
To-day, I was invited to dine with Goethe. I found Zelter with him. Both came to meet me, and gave me their hands. “Here,” said Goethe, “we have my friend Zelter. In him you make a valuable acquaintance. If I should send you soon to Berlin, you will see what excellent care he will take of you.” “Is Berlin a good place?” said I. “Yes,” replied Zeller, with a smile, “for there much may be learned, and much unlearned.” We sat down and talked on various subjects, I asked after Schubarth. “He visits me at the least every eight days,” said Zeller. He is married now, but has no appointment, because of what has passed between him and the philologists in Berlin,”
Zelter asked if I knew Immermann. I said I had often heard his name, but was not yet acquainted with his writings. “I made his acquaintance at Münster,” said Zelter; “he is a very hopeful young man, and it is a pity that his appointment leaves him so little time for his art.” Goethe also praised his talent. “But we must see,” said he, “how he comes out; whether he purifies his taste, and regulates his standard, according to the best models. His original strivings had their merit, but might easily be turned into a wrong direction.”
Little Walter now came jumping in, asking a thousand questions, both of Zeller and his grandfather. “When thou comest, uneasy spirit,” said Goethe, “all good conversation is spoiled.” However, he loves the boy, and was unwearied in satisfying his wishes.
Frau Yon Goethe, and her sister, Fraulein Ulrica, now came in, and with them, young Goethe, in his uniform and sword, ready for Court, We sat down to table. Fraulein Ulrica and Zeller were very gay, and exchanged many a pleasant jest during dinner. I was much pleased with Zelter’s appearance and manner. As a healthy, happy man, he could give himself up wholly to the influence of the moment, and always had the word fit for the occasion. Then he is very lively and kindly, and is so perfectly unconstrained, that he speaks out whatever is in his mind, and many a blunt, substantial saying with the rest. He imparts to others his own freedom of spirit, and all narrowing views are set aside by his presence. I silently thought how much I should like to live with him awhile. I am sure it would do me good. Zelter went away soon after dinner, for he was invited to visit the Grand Duchess that evening.
This morning, Secretary Kräuter brought me an invitation to dine with Goethe, at the same time intimating to me, by Goethe’s desire, that I had better present Zelter with a copy of my book. I carried the copy to him at his hotel. He, on his side, offered me Immermann’s poems. “I would give you this copy,” said he, “but, as you see, the author has dedicated it to me, and I must therefore keep and value it.”
Then, before dinner, I walked with Zeller through the park towards Upper Weimar. Many spots recalled to him anecdotes of former days, and he told me much of Schiller, Wieland, and Herder, with whom he had bees on terms of intimacy, and considered, this as one of the most valuable circumstances of his life.
He talked much of composition, and recited many of Goethe’s songs. “If I am to compose for a poem,” said he, “I try to get a clear understanding of all the Words, and to bring the situation before me ln the colors of life. I then read it aloud till I know it by heart, and afterwards, while I am reciting it, comes the melody of its own accord.”
Wind and rain obliged us to return sooner than we wished. I accompanied him to Goethe’s house, where he was going to sing before dinner with Frau von Goethe, left him there, and went home.
About two, I went there, and found Goethe and Zelter engaged in looking at engravings of Italian scenery. Frau von Goethe came in, and we eat down to dinner, Young Goethe and Fraulein Ulrica were out to-day.
At table, both Goethe and Zelter entertained us with many original anecdotes illustrative of the peculiarities of their common friend, Wolf of Berlin. Then they talked of the Nibelungen, and of Lord Byron, and the visit it was hoped he will make at Weimar, in which Frau von Goethe takes the greatest interest. The Rochus feast at Bingen was also a subject, at which Zelter had been much charmed by two maidens, whose loveliness he greatly extolled. Goethe’s song, Kriegsgluck, (“Fortune of War,”) was gayly talked over. Zelter was inexhaustible in anecdotes of wounded soldiers and fair women, in proof of the truth of this poem. Goethe said he had not far to go for his facts; he had seen the whole in Weimar. Frau von Goethe amused herself by opposing them, and maintaining that women were not at all such as that naughty poem represented them.
The hours passed very pleasantly in such chat.
When I was left alone with Goethe, he asked me how I liked Zelter. I remarked that his influence was very genial. “He may,” said Goethe, “on first acquaintance, seem blunt or even rough; but that is all in externals. I know scarce any one, whom, in reality, so delicate and tender. And then we must not forget that he has lived fifty years in Berlin. And the state of society there is such, that delicacy will not much avail you; and a man is forced to be vehement, and even rough, if he would keep his head above water.”
Goethe talked with me about the continuation of his memoirs, with which he is now busy, He observed, that this later period of his life would not be narrated with such minuteness as he had used in the Dichtung und Wahrheit.1 “I must,” said he, “treat this later period more in the fashion of annals, and content myself with detailing my outward actions, rather than depicting my inward life. Truly, the most important part of a man’s life is that of development, and mine is contained in the minute disclosures of the Dichtung und Wahrheit. Later begins the conflict with the world, and that is interesting only in its results. And then the life of a literary man here in Germany,—what is it? What was really good in mine cannot be communicated, and what can be communicated is not worth the trouble. And where are the hearers whom one could entertain with any satisfaction? When I look around, and see how few of the companions of earlier years are left to me, I think of a summer residence at a bathing-place. When you arrive, you fast become acquainted with those who have already been there some weeks, and who leave you in a few days. This separation is painful. Then you turn to the second generation, with which you live a good while, and become really intimate. But this goes also, and leaves us lonely with the third, which comes just as we are going away, and with which we have, properly, nothing to do.
“I have ever been esteemed one of Fortune’s chiefest favorites; nor can I complain of the course my life has taken. Yet, truly, there has been nothing but toil and care; and, in my seventy-fifth year, I may say, that I have never had four weeks of genuine pleasure. The stone was ever to be rolled up anew. My annals will testify to the truth of what I now say. The claims upon my activity, from within and without, were too numerous.
“What really made me happy was my poetic mind and creative power. And how was this disturbed, limited, and hindered, by the external circumstances of my condition! Had I been able to abstain from mingling in public business, I should have been happier, and, as a poet, should have accomplished much more. But, as it was, my Goetz and Werther verified for me that saying of the sage, If you do any thing for the advantage of the world, it will take good care that you shall not do it a second time.”
“A wide-spread celebrity, an elevated position in the world, are good things. But, for all my rank and celebrity, I am still obliged to be silent, lest I come into collision with the opinions of others.2 This would be but poor sport, if I did not by this means learn the thoughts of others without their being able to scrutinize mine.”
This morning, I found Goethe in excellent spirits. He was much pleased with a visit he had just received from a young Westphalian, named Meyer. “He has,” said he; “written poems of great promise. For the age of eighteen, he has made incredible progress. I am rejoiced,” continued he, smiling, “that I am not eighteen just now. When I was eighteen, Germany was no older, and something could be done; but now-a-days, so much is demanded, that every avenue seems barred,
“Germany has become so distinguished in every department, that we can scarce find time to become acquainted with what she has done; and yet we must be Greeks and Romans, French and English, beside. Not content with this, some must needs explore the East also; and is not such a state of things enough to confuse a young man’s head?
“I have shown him my colossal Juno, as a token that he had best seek repose among the Greeks. He is a fine young man, and, if he does not dissipate his energies on too many objects, will be sure to do well. However, as I said before, I thank Heaven that I am not young in this time and place. I could not stay here. And I fear I should find too broad daylight in America even, if I should take refuge there.”
Dined with Goethe and his son. The latter related some pleasant stories of the time when he was a student at Heidelberg.
After dinner, Goethe showed us some colored drawings of scenery in Northern Italy. We looked most at one representing the Lago Maggiore, with the Swiss mountains. The Borromean Isles were reflected in the water; near the shore were skiffs and fishing-tackle, which led Goethe to remark that this is the lake celebrated in the Wanderjahre. On the north-west, towards Monte Rosa, stood the hills which border the lake in black-blue heavy masses, as we are wont to see them soon after sunset.
I remarked that, to me, who had been born in the plain country, the gloomy sublimity of these masses only gave uneasiness; that I could not feel at home with them, nor did I desire to explore their wild recesses.
“That is natural,” said .Goethe. “Man can conform perfectly to that situation only, in which, and for which, he was born. He who is not led abroad by a great object is far happier at home. I was at first disturbed and confused by the impression which Switzerland produced on me. Only after repeated visits—only in after years; when I visited those mountains as a mineralogist merely—could I converse with them at my ease.”
We looked, afterwards, at many engravings, from pictures by modern French artists. These were so poor and weak in design, that, among forty, we barely found four or five good ones. These were a maiden with a love-letter; a woman in a house to let, which nobody will take; “catching fish;” and musicians before an image of the Madonna. A landscape, in imitation or Poussin, was tolerable; upon looking at which, Goethe said, “Such artists get a general idea of Poussin’s landscapes, and work upon that. We can neither style their pictures good nor bad: they are not bad, because, through every part, you catch glimpses of their excellent model. But you cannot call them good, because they wholly want what was most individual in Poussin. ‘Tis just so among poets. Look, for instance, at those who would imitate Shakspeare’s grand style.”
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1 Poetry and Truth out of my Life.
2 [The word verletzen may mean “to injure the feeling., hurt the character.” I am not sure that I take the truest sense.— TRANSL.]
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